life on the hill (II)

I always knew I wanted a garden. More than that, some space to plant trees. And box hedges.

The smell of box and fresh water on granite has been with me since, as a child, I spent whole days playing with boats (made of cork, with chicken and duck feathers for sails, and shaped tin plates for keels and rudders – brilliant) on the pond at Grandmother’s house.

I have a very early memory of slowly bending over the water and laying my cheek against the surface, trying not to disturb the absolutely clear reflection of the boats and the trees and the house on the absolutely still water. And staying like that for a while, just breathing in the smells. If I were asked for some definition of pure happiness I might well pick this – trees are in it (a great big ash providing a caressing, flickering shade); boats are in it; a beloved house is in it; close family is in it.

So I have long known of the spell of gardens. But even then I was unprepared for how much the first years of pottering around the Hill have provided a sense of peacefulness and perspective to life in these troubled times.

I would not claim to be engaging in contemplation – fools and contemplation make uneasy bedfellows. And it is hard to be contemplative when finding oneself on hands and knees, clawing at the parched earth in search of a lost drip-watering pipe, with brambles dragging at one’s feet and lethal pine needles reaching for one’s eyes.

But – in the time-honoured fashion of old men and fools – I do often find myself talking to myself. The great attraction of this is not, of course, that momentous debates are engaged in, or a solution to the problems of the world addressed, let alone arrived at.

No, the attraction is that no such conversation is ever subject to misunderstanding; or immediate contradiction; or turns from a simple talk to a heated argument at the drop of a hat, leaving one wondering at where the hat was dropped. Rather it’s made of frequent mutual pats on the back, and “what a clever man we are, my dear Fool”, and “I couldn’t agree more”, and “you make me laugh”, and “we must do this more often”.

That, and hard manual labour, and, by necessity, a life much more closely attuned to the seasons and the weather – I am forever praying for rain –, have all made a contribution that cannot be overestimated towards restoring a sense of peace (that word again) and of the truly important things in life.

Sometimes I just feel like lying back under a tree on top of the hill and going to sleep. I have only refrained from doing so for fear of attracting the vultures. Or frightening the other Hill dwellers.