If you’d asked me a week ago what the most common accident is amongst gardeners, I’d have probably said something to do with secateurs. Or maybe ladders? But if you asked me now, I’d say it was a poke in the eye. This I now know from experience.
It was lovely coming back to Martinborough after the unexpected fun and games of the last four months and more. None of us had anticipated that we’d see each other again so soon (it had been six years previously), so it was a lovely, giggly, global-pandemic-necessitated, what-on-earth, kind of reunion. But despite the good ‘coming home’ feelings, I knew I’d have to find something to do with my days that would give me some structure and a sense of purpose. ‘What am I doing here?’, sometimes becomes, ‘No really, what am I doing here?’ And I’m often so completely confused by life these days. So I suggested to Jimmy that he take me to work with him.
Jimmy is a gardener and for two days each week, he works at a huge estate here in Martinborough. He’s part of a team of four, sometimes five, who maintain the vast and beautiful grounds at a place called Tablelands. Jimmy says he’s not in charge, that he’s not Head Gardener, but he is. I’d never really gardened before but had fond memories of shelling broad beans, planting and pulling carrots and radishes, munching on the leaves of home-grown artichokes, and generally messing around in the dirt with grandparents on both sides when I was a child. So now Jimmy has a side-kick. And I love it.
Although, if I’m completely honest, that first morning wasn’t particularly joyful. I’d been instructed to put on my warmest, scruffiest clothes and be ready to leave by 7:30am. But despite my over-stuffed bag, I had nothing that quite cut it for wet, winter gardening. So I spent most of the morning in the old wool shed painting a million white fence posts that were meant for the cricket green. By the time I had finished, although I was dry, I could no longer feel my fingers or toes.
Eventually, the rain began to ease, and I was tasked with clearing fallen leaves from the beds around The Great Lawn. I scrambled around under the cherry trees and in between the hellebores and box hedges, on my hands and knees mostly, filling barrow after barrow. You couldn’t stop me. Except for a cheese and pickle sandwich at lunch-time and a date scone for tea. I was having a ball.
That night, I slept the sleep of the dead and the next morning woke up to the beginnings of a beautiful sunny day and a generous covering of frost on just about everything. It was one degree below zero. Once we’d had our first cup of tea of the day, I was back to clearing leaves and happy for it. I was going to get that job done. As the day wore on, the temperature rose and many of the warm and now scruffy layers were shed. Yesterday, I was down to only one pair of socks and one layer for an hour or two after lunch. It was lovely.
I’ve since learned what are weeds and what are foxgloves (digitalis purpurea) and I have cut back and cleared great swathes of dead flax leaves. I have had fun with a leaf-blower and been poked in the eye on numerous occasions by branches and stems. But it’s so much better than that. I’m completely exhausted by the end of each day and I’ve exercised muscles I’d forgotten I had. I’m happy with my tiredness. I really had no idea that gardening would be such satisfying work. It really is therapeutic. Like art-making, it’s an activity that gives your mind the chance to wander whilst engaging in something productive. Something creative. When it comes to winter maintenance, the results are immediate and obvious. And being outdoors all day, especially in the sun, is a tonic in itself.
So, messing around in the dirt is keeping me present. Although in between, I’m afraid I do still find myself wrestling with what comes next. I have all but given up hope that Australia will open its borders before the end of year. So a hop over there to wait it out in the sunshine, and diving, is more or less out of the question. There are noises in Bali about opening borders come mid-September. And then there are rumbles related to the Pacific Islands and New Zealand creating a bubble. But really, who knows? I’m just not at all sure that I want to go home. Not yet.
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