The Parish
Page 16
In Boston, when they were implementing a huge redesign of the entire city, it was christened the Big Dig; it went on for years. Starting out on my own Big Dig, I hoped it would be short term. As a one-digger outfit, I could work all the hours that God gave.
There is nothing more therapeutic than digging: we are deeply connected with the earth, and working with it soothes our inner being. When I began my Big Dig, I was deeply grieving the loss of Gabriel, and those long hours spent digging in the garden were better than tranquilisers or counselling. There is no way to explain this because it has to be experienced to understand the concept. It is as if in some way the bleeding wound of amputation that is death soaks down into the brown earth and the earth draws out the festering wound of grief. Then the earth becomes a poultice for the wound. All this happens while you are occupied doing something else. I was busy redoing the garden and the dogs were in heaven because I was with them every day.
I soon discovered that more than the appearance of the garden had changed. Prior to dogs, gardening gloves could be dropped and trowels left in every corner, and there they remained. Now Kate and Lolly had tugs of war with my gardening gloves, and my pruners developed chewed handles. The price of keeping things safe from them was eternal vigilance. I hid pruners up trees and promptly forgot where I had put them; I tucked gloves into the elbows of branches where they were discovered weeks later. When I confessed this to a neighbour who was keeping an eye on my progress, he told me, “You’re a member of CRAFT”, and when I asked what that meant, I was told: “Can’t Remember A Fecking Thing.” I certainly qualified for membership.
As I dug up the green sod and turned over its brown underbelly, the garden changed slowly from green to brown. Some of my neighbours watched the transformation in dismay. The dogs, however, were delighted with all the activity, racing across the brown sods of earth, breaking them up more effectively than two rotovators. Every night, they were covered with earth, which on wet days converted to mud, and their coats changed from black to brown.
Following my plan, I laid out curving paths and edged them with large stones. I love working with stones; though these were so heavy that they nearly crippled me. After several hours of wrestling with them, I was a physical wreck, but mentally I was in heaven. My creative juices massaged my tired muscles. Flower beds that had previously surrounded the lawns I now extended out to the paths. The main path led from the gate to the statue of St Joseph, from which others curved off into different parts of the garden including “around the canal turn”. I thinned out overcrowded beds and became expert at shifting into new homes reluctant residents who found themselves uprooted. After their initial protestations, they settled down happily because they now had more leg-room and light. Even temperamental plants know when they are better off and stop complaining once they readjust. Despite a lot of replanting, some extra plants were needed to fill these extended beds, but whereas on previous visits to Barry Shanahan’s nursery in Clonakilty the yardstick for plant buying was all about scent and colour, now it was all about toughness and the ability to survive.
Despite careful choosing, some poor plants still suffered: a mature Acer palmatum Osakazuki got its ears chewed, and a delicate golden Robinia pseudoacacia frisia that was to be my last tree planting had a close shave with destruction. There really was no room for another tree in my garden but, having seen its beautiful golden foliage, I thought that no garden could be complete without this elegant creature. The temptation proved too strong, and the tree was delivered on a very wet, windy day. It stood against the wall waiting to be planted the following day, but that night the wind blew it sideways and, when my two smart dogs were let out for their nightly run, they came on my poor tree and chewed the head right off it. The following morning, the dogs themselves were lucky not to be beheaded.
Steve had given me a rose called Dawn Chorus, a lovely apricot rose that flowered all summer until the first frost. It proved very healthy, and one day out in Hosford’s Garden Centre I came across half a dozen of them and was just delighted to bring them home. I planted them above the garden gate on either side of the path and had visions of a soft sea of pale apricot wafting a delicate aroma to welcome us into the garden. As it is a thorny rose, I thought it would be safe from the dogs; I could not believe my eyes when, a day later, Kate came out the gate with a Dawn Chorus between her jaws. We had a running battle for a few days but she won because she chewed up two more rose bushes, which left me with four. Now three roses stand at one side of the path and one on its own at the other side—not good garden design! Gardening with dogs is an ongoing battle, but despite all the upheavals the garden is now beginning to take shape and develop a whole new look.
A garden, like life, is a constant challenge. In order to cope with the changing times, I had had to redesign my garden. I had been reluctant to start but the task proved to be both challenging and rewarding. Our parish, too, has been going through changing times. Much new planting and transplanting has gone on, and continues. But the old residents, like Uncle Jack’s mature trees, provide the shelter-belt for the new planting. Those who occupy the apartments that have sprung up in the village are like bedding plants—probably most of them here on a short-term basis. Some new householders, like the freshly planted shrubs, may take a while to settle in and will have to invest energy in their new soil before they take root. Some old residents, like the mature shrubs, may be feeling a bit overcrowded and may have to prune back a little to give space to the new plantation The farming community runs like a sheltering hedge through our parish and, if too much of our farmland disappears under concrete developments, the soul of rural Ireland will be damaged. The big question is: can we recreate a new supportive community within our changed landscape and extended boundaries? All in all, challenging times.
Also by Alice Taylor
Memoirs
To School Through the Fields
Quench the Lamp
The Village
Country Days
The Night Before Christmas
Poetry
The Way We Are
Close to the Earth
Going to the Well
Fiction
The Woman of the House
Across the River
House of Memories
Essays
A Country Miscellany
Diary
An Irish Country Diary
Children’s
The Secrets of the Oak
Copyright
This eBook edition first published 2014 by Brandon,
an imprint of The O’Brien Press Ltd,
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Tel: +353 1 4923333; Fax: +353 1 4922777
E-mail: books@obrien.ie
Website: www.obrien.ie
First published 2008 by Brandon
Copyright © Alice Taylor 2008
The author has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
eBook ISBN: 978–1–84717–593–9
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