An Englishman's Garden is his Castle

Somehow it’s August 2021 and we’re in the supposed heights of the “Great British Summer.” After a year and a half of suspended animation July 19th was meant to signify a return to pre-corona times but with infection rates rising, celebrations feel misplaced, if not foolish. Nervously many of us are trying to make something out the summer holidays, but at the moment, the weather is almost as prohibitive as corona.

In a perfect example of pathetic fallacy, the skies have been as bipolar as our temperaments - radiant sunshine alternates with thunderstorms. Hospitals are flooded, and not just in metaphor this time. So amidst all this sturm and drang, what’s to be done? What can two landlocked Londoners do whilst awaiting freedom of travel and a long overdue escape to the continent?

The answer lies in the great outdoors - at least that’s what everyone has been telling me. Those lucky friends who had time during the various waves of lockdown, swore by the healing nature of gardening. Whilst I could only stretch to overwatering supermarket herbs on my window ledge, those with more resources drank Pimms in their gardens and welcomed over friends for al fresco dining. I try not to sound too bitter.

After a year of cabin fever in a small flat, one room of which had been converted into a home office (not mine, I add) we decided to upsize. On my list of must-haves for the new property was a garden.

“But why do you want a garden?” said Philippe, my partner, as if this was the most obscure request in the world.

"Um, for the same reason you do - to drink Pimms outdoors and have people round for al fresco dinners!”

“I don’t drink Pimms."

Philippe’s reticence had more to it than disliking Pimms. His main objection was that he would be left doing the majority of gardening. Seeing as he already spent much of his free time attempting to clean the chaos of our home, adding a small plot of land into the mix might prove too much for the man.

battling the weeds (under careful supervision)

“You won’t have to do a thing,” I promised. “I’ll do all the work.”

Cut to two months later and my parents come for the first sanctioned visit.

The house was immaculate: floors swept, books ordered and even a risotto bubbling on the stove. The rooms couldn’t be faulted, but as we settled into our seats to enjoy the meal, my mother’s gaze turned to the view through the patio doors. We may as well have been in Jumanji.

Ivy suckered its way up all three walls of the garden, kissing the dead weeds that listed from the unreachable upper terrace. Due to the intermittent storms, snails ran (well, oozed) riot, trailing their way across the glass of the windows with their insides on show for all to see. It looked wonderfully wild and utterly inhospitable. I confess, since moving to the new home I had rarely been outdoors.

We barely made it through dinner before my mother, a keen gardener, ordered us out to clear up the garden. My father attacked the weeds with shears, Philippe scraped the ivy off and my mother directed us all from her vantage point. I danced around with the broom, squealing, as bugs, undisturbed for what could be decades, were ousted from their homes. Everyone agreed, I was pathetic.

But as the afternoon went on the garden revealed its treasures. Underneath the ivy the ghostly fresco of a flower appeared and behind the brambles a bush of apple mint flourished. A tiny frog, no bigger than my thumbnail hopped away from the uprooted weeds and even my usual arachnophobia was neutralised by seeing giant spiders in their natural habitat. Everything came in colours of greeny brown and all smelt of fresh rain and wet earth. All in all, it was wonderful.

My parents left later that day, wondering just how a housewarming dinner turned into two hours of unpaid manual labour. I have reaped the fruits of their labour since then. The patio is clear and I can enjoy a cup of tea outdoors without worrying some well-established arthropod is going to punish me for invading their space.

I am under strict orders to maintain the garden until my parents next come and I almost found myself crouching down to weed today. Thank heavens, the Great British Summer prevailed and the downpour drove me indoors.