It was an arboretum day filled with the brightest sunshine that beamed down between dense, top-lit clouds. To my foreground amongst grassy blades clothing two falling lawns, dozens of grape hyacinths were enjoying their moment, each with clusters of flowers no bigger than my thumb nail and shaded top to bottom with the lightest powder blue almost to black.
The Japanese style resting house under whose roof I sat, looked out over those flowers and a larger expanse of mown lawn that continued to fall gently away, eventually connecting to a wide and spectacular
The last difficult goodbye was just like the one before, and the one before that: quick, cheery, almost effortless. Words spoken at my last goodbye rolled off my tongue because they had to, and that’s taken years of practice.
Going back a few years, I would most often whisper the words “bye for now,” which somehow seemed softer and less permanent, but I really knew that anything I said wouldn’t erase the twelve sleeps that would pass before we could be together again. So with a sinking chest and
It was the beach that drew us on a particular Thursday, whilst staying at Grandma’s house during school’s half term break. A trip out to keep two energetic boys occupied, to busy their minds, to stretch their legs, and to offer respite. Just a week before their Granda had passed away, an immense loss that they, all of us in fact, were still processing. Yet there they were, immersed in a week which on the surface looked like just another holiday week staying over at their grandparent’s house. Except that it wasn’t a normal week at all.
In the background adults were grieving, tearing up at the oddest of moments, and pausing mid conversation, falling deep into thought. We were being especially strong for the boys though,
A little while ago whilst staying away from home, and with a need for some fresh air, I carried myself and the little ones off to Herrington Park, Sunderland. On the surface, I simply wanted to experience some of the bracing wind, some casual walking and, I hoped, some late February sunshine. There was also an ulterior motive to get the kids away from their screens and outdoors for a while.
Landscaped over twenty years ago, Herrington Park features machine-sculpted hills and hollows and is dressed with hedgerows, trees and shrub-filled thickets. These plantations are busy and mature, now bringing life to the park with
Stepping carefully through frozen leaves so not to squish snowdrops, I ventured through vegetation to the river’s edge until a boathouse appeared across the water. I merely sought another perspective and to understand why such a boathouse there, and built in such an unusual way?
Visible mostly by the crisp outlines of a tiled roof perched upon hefty, stripped bark pillars, the recently restored boathouse was a subtle,
It was good to be there, enjoying the winter glow, and to be amongst the cooing, spilling, driving noise. Refreshing it was to be on my time and be out amongst people who also chose that park, that day. I drew comfort from seeing folks like me, and not like me, strolling and wheeling between the trees, benches, bins.
Cold may have tickled my exposed neck but the sun’s glow washed my face with warmth, and the chilly metal park bench grounded me to that place. Under the lumpy holly oak I sat with the brightest sun blaring through its low swaying branches, light flashing across waves of that choppy pond, transforming waterfowl into silhouettes.
Geese honked and gulls flapped wildly into the air towards anyone likely to scatter food, hoping morsels would fall within striking distance. At my feet speculative pigeons trod a winding route, also hoping for free food to arrive, styling it away when nothing appeared.
Noise from bustling nearby traffic was drowned, literally, by thick ribbons of water rising and falling from six fountains in the pond, each descending stream creating a disk of white water turbulence birds wisely avoided. Sights, smells, sounds; the whole embracing scene wrapped around me.
As I record those moments to read again, I know that I can be carried there again quicker than a glint on that water. When days to come grip me indoors or in traffic, these memories will loosen the grasp and revive me. ‘Twas a rest day, a peace day, a sit in the sun and take it all in day and you, like I can hold days like those in your heart.
Today, I embarked on an early morning school run thanks to a school bus that didn’t arrive. Despite the bright sunshine, temperatures were sub-zero, which encouraged a hasty car window de-icing session, followed by the hurried delivery of two youngsters, so Dad’s taxi could save the day. Thankfully, the frantic one way dash was followed by a steadier return trip across the hills as I headed back home, when I could at least have more time to take in the frozen panoramic landscape.
Descending the hill from the Fosseway in a car which had finally warmed, I emerged from a heavily wooded hillside to reveal a familiar view of my home village spread left to right, across a flat and very cold land. It was almost a scene from a Victorian Christmas card, where everyone was awakening from another chilly December night; icy rooftops and chimney stacks faced this way and that, occasional trees peeked above, and all was shrouded in the finest mist that faded as it rose high to a wide pastel blue sky.
Also, sat in the sky above the village, I was delighted to see December’s Cold Moon, which held a full and dominant if subtle position up high. I’m fascinated by the moon, and have been frustrated not to have spent more time across the last few nights taking in its full glory, especially as it’s the last full moon of the year. I was glad then, on this frosty morn, to still see my old friend who had hung around for breakfast before bidding farewell.
This cold snap, I might as well add, is all down to the moon, although I have little scientific evidence to prove it. Indeed I’d convinced myself as the moon waxed across the last few days, that the climate had gradually settled and calmed; at least it had across my locality. The depth and sharpness of the frost had increased, yes, but aside from that, the soothing effects were to be seen around as the moon made its presence felt.
Could I be imagining the moon’s impact, am I way off the mark, I ask myself? I’m not sure, but it often pays to keep an open mind I find. It’s just I seem to notice that whenever the full moon arrives and departs, the weather often seems to change. I really should start recording to test it out.
If you know me, you’ll know that I try hard in every situation to connect with the environment around me, although when I’m at home, in my ‘sanctuary’ as it were, I admit that my outlook is somewhat curtailed. There are no distance views from my windows to leafy landscapes or rolling hills, there are no woodlands or mountains, and I could hardly be more land-locked in this country if I tried – so sea views are way out of bounds. Not to be outdone however, when I am at home, I’m drawn, beyond the detail of my own garden to look up. I look up to the sky, and the perplexing universe beyond; up there has become the go-to place for my mind and curiosity to wander free.
Up there of course, beyond those cloud formations and viewed amongst the stars, the moon and its cycle never fails to draw my focus, not just for its scale, but for its impact on the earth and ourselves. It definitely affects my sleep although I’m not sure why, and is known to impact the environment too, something I’m attempting to get to grips with and understand. All things considered therefore, I confess here to being completely under the moon’s spell, and I’m happy, rightly or wrongly, to put the cool brilliance of the last few days firmly down to the moon.
Whatever the weather, and whatever the cause, this morning’s rushed road trip turned out to have a silvery lining after all. For one, it put me out amongst that village view, even if it were in a toasty car, and for two, it pushed me to consider more carefully the sugared fields and frozen hedgerows, the tufty roadside grass and even an obelisk’s bay leaves beside my parking space at home, which were frosted perfectly around their margins. Indeed, I was conjuring up words even before I sat down to write.
After all is said and done, the youngsters made their first lessons, the moon bid its goodbye, I paused to notice, and this little piece appeared to sit as a memory on my blog. Thanks for reading. Regards, Gary
Recently on a cool, rain threatened autumnal day, I met with some colleagues at a local arboretum; a venue chosen specially for being away from our own regular haunts and much trodden garden workplaces. The group was essentially made up of gardens, parks and tree managers, who all held the simple aim of meeting, reconnecting and talking.
There’s nothing quite like a trip out to compare and contrast, and so for this gathering, there were plenty of visual treats to prompt discussion. Incredible foliage colours, new tree varieties to discover, unusual growth forms and fungi to puzzle over. We also made time, naturally, to test the recently refurbished café – why ever would we not?!
Placed in the fading days of autumn, the subdued light on that particularly overcast day set a calm, mellow tone that seemed perfect for an end-of-a-very-long-year stroll. Furthermore, being the last productive day of the week, there was an additional need for the day to be topped and tailed with emails and business as usual. Some were noticeably responding to issues back at base throughout the day.
The pointiest oak we ever did see….
At the foot of the day though, any melancholic moods were quickly swept away. Firstly as my lift arrived and we jumped straight into a much needed business catchup. Secondly, as we bumped into another colleague on arriving in the car park; the giggles started in earnest at that point. Then lastly, as the three of us were warmly greeted by the others already gathered around two tables in the cosy café.
Now, as casual as these gatherings might appear, something that always grips me is the blend and makeup of the individual folks within the group. All present had pretty much devoted their working lives to the horticultural world, as have I, but all are so completely different, working as they do in unique situations. There are some traits though that common to all, if existing in varying degrees: a love for plants; conservation minded; creative thinkers; entrepreneurial, heritage focused, nature protective and so on. They’re also, I must add: leaders of people, motivators, critical thinkers, strategists and much more.
I could easily expand those lists, but if further recognition is needed I can also confirm that between them, they hold some of the most prestigious horticultural positions in public heritage gardens, across three south midlands counties. Indeed, should we have to pay for the combined gardens management experience around that table, we wouldn’t get much change out of 250 years for the several who were present.
Needless to say, there was plenty to talk about. Nevertheless, whilst the conversation flowed across and around the table, I couldn’t help but picture each of their garden plots; knowing them very well having visited privately and professionally for more years than I dare remember. To that end, being conscious of not wanting to merely write this as minutes from an informal meeting, I thought it might be interesting to verbally paint their gardens for you; so do brace yourself for a swift garden time travelling experience!
Amongst the venues then, are those where their original development spanned the entire eighteenth century, with one particularly fine example fixed, as it were, in the formal early years of the period where refined formality and rigid geometry won the day. The tightest of tending and most careful preening greets me when I visit there but set amongst bee-pitted clay walls, smooth bowling lawns and flowery wilderness walks, it feels entirely appropriate and correct. We can stroll along gravelled walkways, touch real citrus fruits grown in a real orangery, focus on individual flowers in their rich glory, and even bowl on a green just like the historical sketches – tricorns optional of course.
Other plots from that same pivotal gardening century and represented in our gathering offer, both historically and now, a beautiful contradiction to that early century playground. These feature large serpentine lakes, wilderness walks for strolling amongst berries and shrubberies overhung with exotic trees. These garden plots, with at least two classic venues represented at our gathering, are altogether more discreet in their make up, and vast too, with blurred boundaries that leave people debating where the garden ends and its park begins; God bless the ha-ha.
But then, with those Georgian masterpieces often taking top billing, I bring balance, with two gardens represented whose glow from either side of the glorious eighteenth century try valiantly to steal the limelight. Between them, medieval stew ponds, time served topiary and extravagant terraces are juxtaposed with flowing flower borders, hidden corners and woodland walks. Rockeries, kitchen gardens, evocative sculptures, bog gardens and mirror pools are also perfectly posed between lime mortared walls speckled with time served vine eyes.
A mighty beech, but did it get a hug…?
These gardens, even with their vast parklands and countryside views where an imagination can wander, are intimate, protective, and atmospheric. Whilst their houses generally hold a moment in time, their gardens are positively alive and kicking, their borders continue growing, and their nature broadens. They offer countless places to pause, be it to sit in peace and let worries float away, to lean on a wall and breathe fresh air, or to simply stick your nose amongst the flowers. These gardens are much loved too.
Another garden, I have to say, challenges the very idea of a garden. That place offers long walks, and then some. There are vast lakes with islands, grottoes, ever-growing shrubberies and carefully composed vistas. Temples placed here and there, almost everywhere, hold hidden meanings. Many structures are still in active use, giving purpose and a destination to each garden spaces, whilst some are merely shells, each with a hauntingly beautiful character.
That place I have to say is vast, immense and hard to comprehend. It does though, despite its grandeur and obvious place in another time, hold something for the now. Like the others, it can transport you to a specific date in the past or the set of a period drama, but it’s also perfectly ready for the now. Whether for exercise or inspiration, for room to spread your wings, or to find one of countless spaces for reflection, this venue holds these in horse-drawn cart loads.
But there’s one more garden, the last I’ll mention for now, which holds all of those gardening periods in its grasp. If you were to peer through a time focussed virtual reality headset, if it were to exist, you would see Edwardian, Victorian, Georgian and Elizabethan layers woven tightly together. But importantly you would see striking interventions, modern designs if you will, that confidently land this garden in the twenty first century too.
This last garden has seen some hard times, I think it’s fair to say, but has been held together by care, devotion and continued focus. Some of its trees and land forms stretch back over four hundred years to a time when the river-side plot would hardly be considered a garden at all. Formality arrived in a huge way at one stage with raised walkways, fish ponds and pavilions which vied for space with farmed animals and flower pots. This of course, was largely swept away though and fashionably tamed for a while, in an attempt to restore a more natural setting. But, as is the way, that garden endured much change again when the flower favouring gardeners arrived and swished their brushes.
To think all of the gardens mentioned above represent but a small slice of the larger gardens cake available, and regardless of what triggers every visit, what is not lost to everyone involved in our gathering, is that all these places offer somewhere safe to connect, to engage, to be nurtured. What is not lost to me also, is that for each garden mentioned above there’s an incredible person who as well as being an expert in their field, is connected, engaged, and nurturing too.
I have and will always have a huge respect for the knowledge and experience that people like this hold. They’re managers and leaders, yes, but they are care-takers too, of places, heritage, the environment and of people. To them, every fingerprinted brick, carved walling stone, and every verdigris garden door hinge matters. Every garden apprentice who offers new hope and a safer future, matters. Every trained gardener interested to learn more, matters, and every volunteer and visitor, matters.
Walking and talking…
For me then, that day when we walked and talked amongst the trees, laughed and learnt amongst the yellowing leaves, was a delight. To be with these influential people and listen as they put an incredibly challenging year into perspective, was an education.
Whatever each of those folks took away from the gathering I dare not assume, but connecting, throwing ideas around, sharing experiences, was for me worth every minute – even the machinery chat! So whilst the rain threatened, it never actually fell, and whilst the year slowly rolls to a close, these gardening types are busy planning; not just for next year, but genuinely planning for the future generations who will visit and work in the places they hold so close.
To summarise our autumnal gathering, I’ll close by saying that whether it was over coffee, whilst strolling around the arboretum and especially during lunch, we talked. We chewed the fat, put it out there and aired some linen as we walked. Then, when all was said and done, we took away some seasonal nuggets of wisdom, and a renewed sense of belonging; or maybe that was just me…
I carried myself away for some rest and recuperation to an old English garden where, as I wandered with camera in hand, a flat-topped bench beckoned me to perch for a while. Each of the seat’s timbers were gently ridged along the grain, and within every little furrow a hint of green algae could be seen.
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Previously for an hour or so I’d been zigzagging around a glorious garden that was falling radiantly towards winter. Yet as lovely as it was, I’d left the garden for a while and was heading for more natural spaces. The bench I happened across wasn’t the first, but it did seem to call me, so it would have been rude to walk on by.
So there I found myself positioned midway down a long and very straight path, the tips of my boots grounding me below the bench. What an exposed position I first thought, with a steep bank falling away behind me towards sheep nibbled fields and to my front, a large open pool stretching wide and long.
As I settled down I studied the scene more closely. To my foreground and beyond the grey gravel path a grassy margin softened and underlined the view, and beyond that the pool. Beyond that again at a comfortable distance from all humankind, squawking waterfowl filled the space with noise that carried across the water. Floating and flapping, flying about to escape pecking and skid-landing, they animated and enlivened the place.
Cool to say the least, was an early November breeze that repeatedly stroked the back of my neck. To the front though, broken occasionally with long shadows cast from passers by, the sun warmed me through. I could feel the heat of those rays on my face, the backs of my hands and legs, and it was super welcome.
After a few minutes, there was a long pause in people walking by, and I felt safe closing my eyes for a while in order to tune in to my breathing and the sounds around. When I surfaced a little while later, I noticed more clearly than before the brightness levels, a freshness to the breeze, and real warmth. That light and heat would vanish periodically as clouds swooshed by, changing the atmosphere in every second, yet out in that park at that time, I knew I had the right seat. Not one those cold metal benches back amongst the flower garden, as pretty as they were, but there on solid wood, in that place and in that moment. Simplicity, for me, often wins the day.
Speaking of that place around me, it held a picture wherever I turned my head. Some scenes were still full of foliage and vitality, some were dull, muddy and middling, whilst some displayed drama with trees baring their branches and readying for winter. All scenes however were intricate, offering depth, character, detail and presence, and were riddled with history and intrigue.
A stone’s throw away and growing in the grassy verge were butter yellow, pencil thick stems which had exploded months ago from a stooled willow shrub. To the rear and left of me, a large candy floss sized cluster of blood red leaves shivered in the midst of a head high mountain ash sapling, and much further away bronze leaves on a stressed parkland oak glowed, backlit by sunshine.
I am fortunate, I realise, in knowing that it was one of many landscape scenes that has filled my eyes over the years, they’re seemingly here, there and everywhere. Yet in our increasingly unstable world, I now feel that I may just have taken them for granted, for too long. As I sat there in that moment however, I realised that I couldn’t be more thankful.
I understood that the twisted trees that decorated the view would not be everlasting, and despite dropping acorns by the thousand this mast year, those oaks would not regenerate easily without help. Even the stout ash trees that lined the pool side walk were visibly failing with disease.
So whilst I sat there processing thoughts and minding my business, I couldn’t help but wonder if cupping my hand over my eyes was intended to screen sunshine in my eyes, or to momentarily block some of the issues that stared in my face. The landscape’s threats, be they to flora and fauna, or the historic fabric of the place itself, were inescapable.
Nevertheless, whilst I sat there absorbing that cleverly laid out picturesque scene, I realised that ‘having the moment’ was the very reason I’d ventured there in the first place. In real-time I understood the tension and frailty that existed in each of the three-sixty degrees around me, yet I knew that really, all was as well as could be.
On a personal note, what mattered then as I sat on that bench and matters still as I reflect, is the fact that those moments happened at all: the sun’s heat warming my skin, the chilly breeze, the cawing crows, quacking ducks, rattling leaves, crunchy gravel and clanging gates at the end of the path. Even muffled but violent engines of ascending passenger planes and cars in the distance.
The place, despite its historic pedigree and legal protections, aside from funding challenges and changing management; will continually change, adapt and evolve. The birds I watched playing, the mowing sheep and growing trees, even us people who occupied the space between; we shall all move on. It is all fine as we’re all just passing through, so we might as well pause awhile, grab a seat, take notice, and make the best of each moment.
Everywhere I listened, everywhere I sniffed and looked, I felt a professional connection, but more than that, I felt a personal, almost spiritual connection. Be it the soggy soil, the murky pool or the silvery clouds up over; I had made time to see, to smell and listen, and I feel every bit as connected now as a write these words as I did whilst rooted to that bench.
Today or tomorrow or maybe next week, you might find a place to connect too, and I wish you the the very best. 🌿
Gardening Ways 