Moving On

When the time comes to move on from here, hopefully, if we stay fit and well there will be no reason why we can’t embark on a new life in a different location. We will find a new story.

It seems difficult to imagine this scenario at present because the garden is such an important part of our lives.

But the time will come – and until then it is essential to appreciate every moment here and then look forward with positivity and enthusiasm; not back with sadness and regret.

How dreadful it must be to get older and still wish you had tried things but find you have left it too late. We have always ‘ just gone for it’, sometimes in my case impulsively, but always with the hope and expectation of a positive outcome. This is not just in terms of our garden. The hard work, setbacks, worries and anxieties are worth the effort even when things don’t work out as you had planned.

We seized the opportunity to create this sanctuary. It has been a challenge and a dream. I have no regrets about it, only admiration for our foresight and determination from our first youthful and decisive impressions.

G and I have worked on this garden together, both in a practical and visionary sense. We have watched it grow and enjoyed the transformation. He has been my strength and his love has made it possible. I am ever grateful to him.

This journal is the closest we will get to seeking publicity or opening to the public. It is sufficient for us to have a record for ourselves and for anyone who is interested.

We did it for us.

THINGS I’LL MISS

SUMMER SUN, WINTER SNOW, AUTUMN MIST, SPRING PROMISE

Inviting our lovely neighbours round for an impromptu lunch on a sunny weekend. Home made pizza, salads from the garden, sausages and new potatoes. Pudding – strawberries they bought at the morning boot fair. A sunflower seed for each of us, potted up ready to compete for the tallest.
After lunch, rowing on the pond and hunting for fairies. Games in the caravan, hide and seek in the sunshine, long conversations. Relaxed and spontaneous.

Going into the Polytunnel on a bright June morning and picking a dozen different varieties of fresh baby salad leaves and herbs. Washing them gently in the sink and leaving them to dry until we’re ready to eat.

Watering on a summer evening. Taking time to enjoy what’s coming up and what is at its best.

All the wildlife. All shapes, sizes and varieties.

Dead heading that day’s spent blooms from the ever increasing day lily plantations. Emptying the bagful of greeny orange flowers onto the compost heap.

Three dogs sitting patiently facing the gate, waiting for the evening homecoming.

Dew and thistledown and cobwebs on wet grass.

Sharing ideas and plants with a special friend.

‘ Warm Welcome’ vermillion rose through lime green Catalpa.

Losing myself and the worries of life sitting hidden in the centre of a huge clump of giant Miscanthus

Bowls and boxes and colanders full of fruit to make into jam and chutney.

Brazen foxes feasting on scraps outside the back door by moonlight, and the honour of knowing them well enough to be able to recognise each one.

Wandering round the garden, journal book rested on my arm, being surprised and delighted each season by all the new things happening.

The luxury of filling two vintage caravans with all the kitsch that no one else wanted, and the pleasure of always being on the lookout for more.

Evening cruises in the boat with G. Wine, and the sun dancing on the water.

The purply bloom on warm figs for breakfast.

The Impossible Tree: a disjointed skeleton of birds in winter, a buzzing froth of pink in spring, a green umbrella of shade for summer lunchtimes, a yellow- gold carpet in autumn.

Seeing the benefits of our hard work and long vision over decades, and the luxury of the garden as a sanctuary, a therapy for our senses.

The memory of sharing the space with loved ones, and all the special friendships we’ll miss one day.

Time together.