Overcoming Nature
Rose is in bed again. Each time I go out to visit the old cottage lately she has been in bed. Her asthma is so bad this time that she is taking steroids simply to breathe; to stay alive. There is an oxygen cylinder beside her bed. Out in the country, beyond calling distance of any neighbours, she has this for company, and to help her breathe at night until a doctor or an ambulance comes if she manages to phone.
She is all smiles, as always. Her eyes are large and direct, and shine her welcome. Her face is as open and fresh as a child’s. She does not look ill at all, but as sunny and as bright as this late spring day. She asks many questions about what I’m doing, and who I’m seeing, and how I’m getting along, but she is stoic and philosophical about herself. She is accustomed to being barely able to breathe and has adapted to the limitation after so many years of labouring for air.
My viewing party arrive and we crawl all over the 400 year old cottage, poking into its nooks and crannies, opening and shutting cupboards and peering into the barns and sheds. Inside, the ancient cob walls hold the silence and all is still and peaceful. Outside, the children run about, disappear behind trees and amongst mature shrubs, and re-emerge laughing. Full blown roses hang heavy against the cottage walls: they haven’t been pruned in years, and everywhere we look there are flowers turning their faces to the sun, full buds almost at the point of bursting open, and leaves green and vibrant. The only sounds are birdsong and the laughter of the children exploring the domestic wilderness.
This place is such a rarity. Here we have three acres of grounds, stocked with just about any plant, shrub or tree you could name, most of them settled in for decades; seeds being sown, sap rising, fruits forming, then all dying back and resting before starting the cycle again. Very simply maintained, this is a garden in which to sit and dream, to fall into drowsy reverie, and maybe sleep. But there is also a sense of vigour, of energetic, unrelenting life, that force of nature which is exhausting should you try to control it.
Yet what do my second viewing party want to do? We walk the boundary and, as I point out the variety of stunning Azaleas and Rhododendron, and look up to admire the magnificent copper beech, there is strident talk about the need to pull out all sorts, to clear trees, and tidy it all up, to get a ride on mower and keep it all neat. I’m thinking people with this absence of soul should go and buy a golf course if that’s the kind of garden they want; a sanitized, regulated, organized piece of ground with as much character as a sheet of vinyl.
I’m glad that Rose won’t be there to see it happen.
Rose is in bed again. Each time I go out to visit the old cottage lately she has been in bed. Her asthma is so bad this time that she is taking steroids simply to breathe; to stay alive. There is an oxygen cylinder beside her bed. Out in the country, beyond calling distance of any neighbours, she has this for company, and to help her breathe at night until a doctor or an ambulance comes if she manages to phone.
She is all smiles, as always. Her eyes are large and direct, and shine her welcome. Her face is as open and fresh as a child’s. She does not look ill at all, but as sunny and as bright as this late spring day. She asks many questions about what I’m doing, and who I’m seeing, and how I’m getting along, but she is stoic and philosophical about herself. She is accustomed to being barely able to breathe and has adapted to the limitation after so many years of labouring for air.
My viewing party arrive and we crawl all over the 400 year old cottage, poking into its nooks and crannies, opening and shutting cupboards and peering into the barns and sheds. Inside, the ancient cob walls hold the silence and all is still and peaceful. Outside, the children run about, disappear behind trees and amongst mature shrubs, and re-emerge laughing. Full blown roses hang heavy against the cottage walls: they haven’t been pruned in years, and everywhere we look there are flowers turning their faces to the sun, full buds almost at the point of bursting open, and leaves green and vibrant. The only sounds are birdsong and the laughter of the children exploring the domestic wilderness.
This place is such a rarity. Here we have three acres of grounds, stocked with just about any plant, shrub or tree you could name, most of them settled in for decades; seeds being sown, sap rising, fruits forming, then all dying back and resting before starting the cycle again. Very simply maintained, this is a garden in which to sit and dream, to fall into drowsy reverie, and maybe sleep. But there is also a sense of vigour, of energetic, unrelenting life, that force of nature which is exhausting should you try to control it.
Yet what do my second viewing party want to do? We walk the boundary and, as I point out the variety of stunning Azaleas and Rhododendron, and look up to admire the magnificent copper beech, there is strident talk about the need to pull out all sorts, to clear trees, and tidy it all up, to get a ride on mower and keep it all neat. I’m thinking people with this absence of soul should go and buy a golf course if that’s the kind of garden they want; a sanitized, regulated, organized piece of ground with as much character as a sheet of vinyl.
I’m glad that Rose won’t be there to see it happen.
Comments