Some of my earliest memories are of helping my grandfather in the garden, dead heading sweet smelling pinks or picking diseased leaves from the redcurrant bush. In summer there were masses of raspberries for my grandmother to make into pies, strawberries to be searched for beneath overhanging leaves and great sticks of sour rhubarb to dip into a saucer of Tate and Lisle white sugar, to eat raw. This garden was, and in my mind, still remains a paradise. Even better were the two parallel frames of fragrant sweet peas.
His garden stood out for the profusion and variety of flowers, many of which would be cut for the house. I never questioned why he grew no vegetables. There was a row of lettuces, and some mint, but mainly he grew flowers. Now I think that this was his escape and his refuge. Filling the earth with flowers must have been very therapeutic after the destruction and carnage he saw in France and his traumatic experiences as a POW .
There was a front garden bordered by a privet hedge. This was immaculately clipped, with shears. There were a few pairs of these and I often helped him. I was taught how to use these safely. A few steps, then a path led down to the front door past big clumps of marguerites, bright yellow kingcups, tiger lilies, cornflowers, snapdragons…
The back garden had more of all of these, mixed with peonies, the sweet peas and some roses. There were colourful dahlias and maybe a chrysanthemum. Beneath the living room window was a tiny lawn, with a birdhouse he’d made himself. Then there was an area of rockery with alpines. I don’t remember any trees, though there was a lilac in a neighbouring garden.
A crazy paving path led from the back door all the way to the bottom , where the raspberries and a single loganberry grew. Once a year we would take each stone and liberally sprinkle DDT to kill off all the wood lice that lived there.
The garden was my grandfather’s domain, so it’s unusual to find my grandmother there. Yet this photo shows more of the flower filled garden than any other.
His garden stood out for the profusion and variety of flowers, many of which would be cut for the house. I never questioned why he grew no vegetables. There was a row of lettuces, and some mint, but mainly he grew flowers. Now I think that this was his escape and his refuge. Filling the earth with flowers must have been very therapeutic after the destruction and carnage he saw in France and his traumatic experiences as a POW .
There was a front garden bordered by a privet hedge. This was immaculately clipped, with shears. There were a few pairs of these and I often helped him. I was taught how to use these safely. A few steps, then a path led down to the front door past big clumps of marguerites, bright yellow kingcups, tiger lilies, cornflowers, snapdragons…
The back garden had more of all of these, mixed with peonies, the sweet peas and some roses. There were colourful dahlias and maybe a chrysanthemum. Beneath the living room window was a tiny lawn, with a birdhouse he’d made himself. Then there was an area of rockery with alpines. I don’t remember any trees, though there was a lilac in a neighbouring garden.
A crazy paving path led from the back door all the way to the bottom , where the raspberries and a single loganberry grew. Once a year we would take each stone and liberally sprinkle DDT to kill off all the wood lice that lived there.
The garden was my grandfather’s domain, so it’s unusual to find my grandmother there. Yet this photo shows more of the flower filled garden than any other.