Working the Garden
On effort, maintenance, and the quiet labour of keeping things alive.
Gardens are often described as peaceful places, but most of the time they are places of work. My first weekend job was for a horticultural grower, and at one point I even had my own gardening round. But in our own gardens, the decisions about what is to be done next are often slightly overdue, and the garden begins to move whether we’re ready or not.
There is always something to be done.
The new season of Gardeners’ World has just started (although I do take umbrage that they’ve done away with the theme tune. No gentle settling in, just straight to business). It’s a wonderful inspiration for weekends of gardening, or dreaming about gardening, with Monty dishing out jobs for the week. Somehow, I’m more likely to do them when he tells me to than off my own back.
The Spring Equinox passed here in North Wales in warm sunshine - a whole weekend that felt made for being outside. And still, there is always something waiting.
This year, the apple tree hasn’t been pruned.
Two years ago we cut it back to just a couple of feet which was drastic, and a little galling. Now it has returned with enthusiasm. At its tallest point it’s already over three metres high, reaching back into the space we had briefly claimed.
Cutting something back always feels like more than just a task.
But we haven’t neglected it. The remnants of last year’s apples are now firmly mushed into the earth below (and passers-by on the other side of the fence would have detected more than a hint of something cidery in the air). Instead, we’ve cleared the space around it completely, pulling back the honeysuckle from its sprawling scramble, lifting the grass, chervil, ubiquitous valerian and poppy seedlings.
And now, it seems the tree can breathe.
The Bathsheba climbing rose a few feet away has its own space again, no longer crowded out by long grass and seedheads - the ghosts of last summer. It feels right. In this case, less is definitely more.
We stood back to look.
There’s always a moment, after a job like this, where the garden seems to pause with you. The lines are clearer. The air moves differently through the space. For a short while, everything feels held.
I imagined a cushion and a blanket beneath the apple tree on a summer afternoon.
And then a blackbird appeared.
She moved quickly, gathering material for her nest, and attempted to wash in the slimy green of the bird bath, which I took as my cue to empty and refill it. On her next visit she managed to displace most of the water again, but I didn’t mind at all.
The garden had already begun to use the space we’d made.
Even now, there are things waiting, held in that familiar state of slightly overdue patience.
The apple tree still needs pruning. The roses will need cutting back and tying in. New growth is already pushing through the soil we’ve just cleared, as if nothing has happened. And then there’s the quiet proliferation of pots, seedlings waiting, plans deferred, small intentions lined up along the edges.
For every job completed, another quietly takes its place.
It doesn’t take long before the edges begin to blur again.
New shoots appear where the soil has been cleared. The space we’ve made starts to fill, almost imperceptibly at first. What felt like an achievement a few days ago becomes simply part of the garden again, absorbed into its ongoing rhythm.
I think gardens give their gardeners the illusion of control. We choose where to cut, what to clear, what to leave. But the garden moves at its own pace, folding our decisions back into itself almost as soon as they are made.
And yet, what a place this is to be - with a garden, and the ability to garden. There is no right or wrong here, only a series of edits, negotiations, and quiet decisions made over time.
With aching knees, the tools are scraped clean, the boots are thrown off, and the tea is drunk. The seedlings in the conservatory demand attention, but not quite yet.
First, the pen draws a line through a few items on the list.
For now, that seems enough.
