More About Hydrangeas

July 2026

Forgive me for picking up where last month's NQG left off, but there's simply no sense in writing about anything else when the garden is so dominated by one particular flowering plant.

There hasn't been an explosion of blooms like this for a decade. By mid-June every shrub had an abundance of small, tight flower heads, that - as I said a few weeks ago - only began to take on colour with Canada Day on the horizon. What happened to turbo-charge them between June and July is anybody's guess, but hundreds of them now exceed the size of Napoleon's head. Lots of sunshine has helped, of course, as has the occasional thunderstorm, but both are typical of July and don't explain this year's phenomenon. As far as I know, hydrangeas don't flower in cycles, and on the evidence of the ones that happily line the roadsides in much of Galicia, neither do they really demand pruning, despite the countless articles dedicated to that subject.

A mystery, then, but on the 'gift horse' principle, I'll just accept this year's exceptional display with thanks, and while it lasts, enjoy the delighted astonishment of visitors. (Yours too, so will keep this short and let the photos speak for themselves.)

At Last, Some Colour!

June 2026

The effects of climate change are now reported daily in press and media, but even were they not, those of us who garden would be well aware of them. Here in La Laguna, where gardening at 1200 metres presents its own challenges, what used to pass for normal conditions are subtly altering.  I've kept a Gardening Journal since I moved here in 2010. It's lovely, of course, to read about the golden Novembers, but positively scary to recall the June frost of 2017 that decimated everything - not just here, but in the entire region.

These were singular events, but I now reread the journal with a view to trends. On the evidence of my notes on late frosts, the dates when the roses and hydrangeas flowered, and those of the first and last vegetable harvests, I conclude that what I'd once have called 'Spring' is arriving later, and 'Autumn' lasting longer, than either did 15 years ago. In 2011, for instance, I sowed the veggie patch in the first week of May. This year, given that May was so cold and wet, no seeds went into the ground until early June. Similarly, in earlier years the hydrangeas were in full bloom by mid-June, whereas this year, again because of cold, wet conditions, the nascent pale green flowerheads are only now taking on colour, as the month draws to a close.

Be all that as it may be, it's a joy to see the variety of hues now emerging. After such a long and arduous introduction to the growing season, many of this year's flowers are quite small, but their ability to gladden the eye is undiminished. Visitors sometimes ask 'what I give them' to influence their colours, and the answer is 'nothing'. The hydrangeas - like the roses, the strawberries and the garden veg - each receive a handful of granular fertiliser based on chicken manure as soon as the weather allows, but nothing more. Whatever colours they present to the world are achieved without any further input from me. Even stranger is the change in some groups of them between one year and the next, again without any chemical intervention. In one particular area, many that were once pink are now deep blue. In another spot, some that were blue are now mauve or fuschia. Whatever is going on in the soil to produce these variations can have nothing to do with climate change, and I am at a loss to explain them. All in all, the hydrangeas 'en masse' (there are 180 of them) present a display that may not be predictable or even explicable, but which always announces the arrival of Summer.

A Gift for the Garden

May 2026

Year after year, some of my best intentions get pushed aside by the variables inherent in gardening at 1200 metres. This year, despite a late, frigid, rainy spring, something completely different happened. I was invited to turn my resolve to start composting into a real project - provided I could put together the components of what was said to be a light-weight, portable compost bin. It was free, the gift of the municipality next to mine to anyone who wanted one. A friend who lives there had gone along to her town hall and been given two: would I like one?  It was French, and EU-approved: the photo even made it look rather elegant. I needed no persuading.

It arrived as a flat-pack: four dark-green panels, a handful of long rods, a lid, a stirring device and a thermometer on a metal stake. Oh, and a small, lidded container in which to collect kitchen scraps. There was also a helpful brochure in five languages, with diagrams that even I could deconstruct. I had the bin together in half an hour, then walked it over to the unobtrusive spot I'd chosen for it - the angle formed by two walls, next to the fountain.

And there it sits, having been given its bottom layer of twigs and torn-up cardboard, then a layer of leaf-mold and grass clippings, and then, after a few days, the contents of the little kitchen bin, to which I'd dutifully consigned crushed eggshells, chopped banana peels, vegetable parings and the like. The idea is to layer regularly with 'brown' and 'green' ingredients, stir and take the interior temperature of the bin's contents every few weeks, and have patience. 'In time', says the helpful brochure (a footnote adding that this means anywhere between 6 months and a year), it will all be transformed into 'black gold': better soil than any I could buy, and more natural than most fertilisers. I generate very little kitchen waste, but even so, I like the idea of turning the little I do produce into something that benefits the garden. These are early days, but with attention and luck, 'black gold' is in the making. Watch this space.

Alarm in the Labyrinth

April 2026

Spring doesn't usually begin so dramatically as it did this year, with a phone call from a visitor to the garden telling me that she thought the labyrinth had box blight. The very words strike terror in the heart of anyone with a box hedge or a much loved piece of topiary, and I am no exception. The labyrinth, some 24 metres in diameter, consists of 1800 boxwood plants belonging to two varieties: buxus sempervirens suffruticosa and  buxus microphylla falkneriana. 'No point staying rooted to the spot' I told myself as I shoved the phone back in my pocket: 'get out there and have a look'.

As luck would have it after such a bombshell, it was a chill, rainy day. Out I went, picking up a flashlight on the way, even though it was only noon. What I hoped not to see were the telltale spores and discolouring of fungal box disease, or the white larval webs of the dreaded box caterpillar. The former can be controlled by repeated chemical spraying, but an infestation of the latter can kill a box hedge in a matter of days. So far Galicia has suffered  relatively little from these pests, but incidence in this mountain area has grown with climate change and I'd recently heard of a case only a few kilometres away.

My caller hadn't mentioned where she'd seen whatever had prompted her to call me, so I relied on guesswork. The land where the labyrinth is slopes very gently from west-northwest to east-southeast, so I headed for the lowest point on the labyrinth's outermost circle as the area most open to the prevailing winds, and the most likely, I thought, to reveal any traces of disease. The view across the valley from there is usually spectacular, but on this particular day it was shrouded by mist. I turned my back on it and bent to look closely at the hedges in front of me.

Everything needs tidying after a hard winter

A few bedding plants - and who can live without basil?

I saw no discolouring or wispy webs, but there was, indeed, a spot in an adjacent row of hedging that was bare of leaves, and another a few metres away. I spotted a third one a few rows in - but they were bare, I suddenly recalled, because growth in the winter of 2024 been so exuberant that the whole labyrinth had needed a drastic trim, with the result that some small areas had been all but shaved to keep the path widths even. I hadn't been happy about them, but now, as I peered at the base of the nearest bald spot, I saw that leaves were sprouting, fresh and vibrant. I climbed over the hedge to look closely at the other places where the plants' twiggy interiors lay exposed to view. At the base of each, the bright green of new growth affirmed health and vigour. I drew a deep breath of relief: what my caller had taken to be damage caused by blight or predatory bugs had been made by my occasional gardener's electric saw, and the labyrinth itself was repairing it.

Back in the kichen, I hung up my wet coat. Even after a false alarm, it won't do to be complacent, so I took out my phone to order some insecticide containing bacillus thuringiensis, the best antidote to box diseases and predators yet devised. I've also vowed to be more vigilant.

The wisteria at its best, a week after Easter

Feliz Navidad

Best wishes for Christmas and for 2026.
May this season of rest renew gardens everywhere.

Laurie

Rest and Renewal

November 2025

November is a stormy month almost everywhere, but this year, and here in La Laguna, it has outdone itself in gusting winds and torrential downpours. Since there's been no frost to speak of, the deciduous forests all around are mostly still in leaf, but leaden skies have unleashed endless water, and with it, a dank and penetrating chill.

Even in the rain, evergreens and deciduous trees provide autumn colour

A few days ago, with the end of the month almost upon us, the two rainless days needed to 'put the garden to bed' were still to come. I asked myself what I'd do if they didn't come - but they did. A sudden rise in temperature brought two sunny afternoons when the roses were pruned, leaves bagged for compost, the vegetable plot cleared, dug over and covered, and enough logs stashed to keep the kitchen warm until the days start lengthening again. There are still lots of small jobs to do in spare half-hours here and there, but the major tasks are done.

Holly at its best in a rare bout of sunshine

This last, rainy phase of the gardening year sets in motion the work of soil renewal brought about by frosts, precipitation and natural fertilisers like wood-ash and manure, and so prepares the ground for planting when the days lengthen and temperatures rise. It has taken me years of living here to understand and embrace the cycle of the seasons this way, and as with so much else I've learned from the garden, I find peace and 'renewal' in affirming, rather than resisting it.

Without its leaves, this Siberian dogwood is a cheery match for my little car, ‘Vinito’.

A Simple but Inspiring Idea

October 2025

Perhaps there's no better theme for this month than Quiet Gardens themselves, given that the founder of today's worldwide association of them died just a few weeks ago, on 27 August.

Back in 1992, the Reverend Philip Roderick was an Anglican priest working in the diocese of Oxford. In his varied contacts with people on every social level, he observed that few seemed to have access to places where they could experience the silence and stillness of the natural world - something he viewed as essential to mental and spiritual well being. As he put it,

'We live in a world where we are swamped by methods of communication and yet we find ourselves unable to communicate. Silence is the missing and vital ingredient. Even as little as five minutes can be restorative and healing.'

One day, while enjoying the peace of his own garden, he realised that all that was needed for this simple ministry was a host with a home and a garden. The first Quiet Garden belonged to two of his parishioners, living in Stoke Poges in Buckinghamshire. Since then, more than 250 Quiet Gardens have opened in the UK and internationally, loosely associated under the umbrella of the non-profit Quiet Gardens Trust, Christian in origin but universal in its openness to all faiths and traditions.

Quiet Gardens are private spaces whose owners open them to others for contemplation, prayer and the enjoyment of nature. They can be large or small, set in the countryside or havens of peace in bustling cities. Most belong to individuals, but today they can also be found  in the grounds of churches, schools, hospitals, prisons and  retreat centres. If those who visit Quiet Gardens benefit from their experience, I can testify that seeing people enjoy 'El Jardin del Laberinto' here in La Laguna is also very satisfying. This was Spain's first Quiet Garden when it opened in 2015, but there are now three, which is encouraging, as are the many queries I receive from visitors for whom the concept is new. For those who wish to know more, there's a lot online about them, and about Philip Roderick, whose simple idea continues to inspire.

Beautiful Bounty, Bountiful Beauty

September 2025

September is the month of natural abundance in this mountain area of Lugo. Our growing season begins later, and is a few weeks shorter, than that of the geographical bowl called El Bierzo to the south-east, or the gently undulating Vale of Sarria to the west.

Even so, our seeds and plug-plants have a way of catching up once they're in the ground, so that the size and quantity of what they produce is often comparable to the harvests from places lower down. This always strikes me as miraculous, as does the quality and variety of what experienced growers like my neighbours can raise . One produces glorious globe artichokes in a sheltered corner, another has installed a walk-in tunnel made of heavy plastic on a steel frame (a glass greenhouse would't last long up here) so that her family can have fresh lettuce all year round.

None the less, there are things that simply will not grow at this altitude, though for the past several  years, the local shops have begun offering items that were once unknown, such as avocados and aubergines, from El Bierzo and other parts of Spain.

Whether I buy these 'exotica', or whether I pick my own,  I'm always entranced by the beauty of their colours and shapes. Arranging them on platters or in bowls, I am moved to look at them with attention.  In doing so, I find myself gently taken over by wonder, then by gratitude - two of life's priceless and weightless gifts. Kitchen reveries aside, how astonishing it is that a dish of figs, a tray of tomatoes or an array of grapes can distill our attention into a force that stirs the soul!

Sounds of a Summer Night

August 2025

This has been a seemingly endless summer in La Laguna, with more suppers on the terrace during August than in some entire summers. What a pleasure it has been on these sunny, warm evenings to linger over the table, chatting and tracking shooting stars and the last flight to Madrid, which passes directly overhead.

Once it has gone, someone inevitably comments on how silent the night here is. What they mean is that there is no noise of traffic, no ongoing sounds, as there so often are in urban spaces. It is never completely silent, though. When I’m on my own, I sometimes sit outside of an evening and note all the sounds I can hear when I really listen. The list is surprisingly varied, from the sound of birds settling for the night and the insect chorus of crickets and cicadas, to cattle shuffling in their stalls, a door slamming, the wind rustling through the trees or a dog’s bark from across the valley. If I wake in the small hours, it is usually because La Laguna’s own dogs have detected some nocturnal visitor, like a fox or a weasel, or because the moon is full. On many summer nights I hear the cries of owls, though I can only guess at which varieties they are, since I never see them.

I have only once experienced a period of total silence here, and that took place on April 28 this year, when Spain’s national grid was knocked out, together with those of most of Europe. Indoors, candles and flashlights allowed normal activities to go on, but after sunset, complete darkness reigned outside. That was unsettling, but I concluded that the strangest aspect of those few hours was that no living creature, large or small, tame or wild, stirred or made a sound. The silence was as absolute as the darkness.

The lights came back on during the night, and by morning, the birds were singing again.

Bounty, Bees, Butterflies, and Other Surprises

July 2025

Mid-way through the summer, and the talk of La Laguna is not just how good this year’s weather is, compared with last, but the sheer quantity of ‘green stuff’’ being produced by all-day sunshine and the odd night shower. This is turning out to be the best summer in years, the only challenge being what to do with so many flawless marrows, lettuces, peppers and cabbages. We neighbours swap them, of course, but even so, we are all but overwhelmed. If only there were a way of sending this bounty to where it’s needed!

(Top) The French call them courgettes, the Italians call them zucchini. Here, they’re calabacines,  (Left) White-tailed bumblebee,   (Right) Gatekeeper butterfly                   

Ultimately, of course, it’s pollinators we have to thank. Weeding the herb-bed the other day, I shared space with bees and butterflies of various kinds. They flitted about so busily that it was hard to photograph them, but here are two that obliged me by resting for a moment on some oregano.

Surprises are never lacking in a garden, and one of mine was discovering that a plant I’d thought had died over the winter was very much alive. Here is my Balloon Flower, or Platycoton. It apparently comes in white and pink as well as this wonderful blue, but the fact that it survives winter at 1200 metres is what really makes it welcome.

The Evolving Labyrinth

June 2025

June has been largely spent trying to catch up, after a late start to the season. There’s no point sowing vegetable seed before the ground warms up, so my rows of would-be peas, beans, squash, carrots and leaf lettuce were sown in mid-June and are only now emerging.

Similarly, the labyrinth’s annual trim took place only a week ago, rather than at the usual time in April. For this task, I rely on the steady hand and eye of Paco Garcia, who played a major role in creating it back in  2013, and whose skill with an electric hedge-clipper enables him to tidy and shape the whole thing in a matter of hours. In its early years, a gentle shave along the top of the hedge kept it even, while the same ‘gentle shave’ along its sides left the path between the rows wide enough to allow two people to walk side by side.

Like so many other things, that changed with the pandemic. In 2020, when no trimming at all could be done, the hedge invaded the path to such a degree that cutting back two years’ growth the following year would have exposed the underlying twig structure. Now that the hedge is well-established and grows so vigorously, keeping the path wide enough for one person is a more realistic aim.

The Rose is called The Lark Ascending.

The real challenge now is what to do with the clippings, once modest in amount, but now seemingly destined to eternal increase. They make good mulch, and so are generously strewn over the rose-bed and under the hydrangeas. Wheelbarrows-full are trundled along the lane for my neighbours.  This uses up only half of what we sweep up after the trim, so we stuff them into garden refuse sacks and leave these next to the municipal collection bins (no such thing as recycling here!). A few more bagsful, which Paco will use for compost, go into the back of his van. Trying to dispose of the clippings little by little reminds me of the POWs in ‘The Great Escape’ getting rid of earth from the tunnels via their trouser-pockets. I have until next year to come up with some equally ingenious solution, but for now, the labyrinth looks splendid.

Mountain Springtime

May 2025

One of the joys of the Galician countryside in Spring is its variety of wild flowering plants, shrubs and trees. The first to emerge are the green hellebores in February, closely followed by the tiny wild narcisi that line the country lanes and last into April. By then the primulas are out, particularly in damp areas like the grassy verges around La Laguna’s two cattle troughs, and the fields are strewn with buttercups and tiny daisies, as far as the eye can see. By May it’s the turn of huge tufts of cistus, bright yellow and white, and of heathers that turn the hillsides mauve-pink with their abundance. From nearly any vantage point, blossoming plum, crabapple, rowan and chestnut trees can be seen, marking out the old strip field system still so common in this area. On the verges of any really rural road, you can spot twenty culinary herbs in as many paces, as if Culpeper’s famous herbal had come to life.

Having been away for much of this year’s Spring, I’ve caught only the tail-end of all this, and have come back to a garden in which everything needs cutting back, trimming and tidying. The absence of late frosts has meant that everything is burgeoning, from the tiny dog-tooth violets that have spread everywhere, to the wisteria that covers parts of two walls - a splendid flowering, in contrast to last year’s all but negligible showing. Irises and lilacs are still in full bloom, and the herb-bed now boasts the purple pom-poms of spring onions and a McConnell’s Blue rosemary, living up to its name.

The fact that the grass is well over a foot high will not induce me to cut it this week, though.  I like to give at least a nod to ‘no mow May’, so mowing can wait until the wild-flowers die back. Thanks to their presence and variety, butterflies and bees abound - though I was glad to see that a swarm of bees attempting to find entry to the roof eventually gave up. Wonder where it came from, and where it found a new home?

Late Autumn in La Laguna

November 2024

The penultimate month of the year is always one of contrasts. Chill, foggy mornings, when drops of water falling into dead leaves provide the only sound, are often followed by afternoons when the cows amble past in the sunshine as if it were still August. There are calm nights that invite star-gazing, and others when the lights flicker and the wind howls with such ferocity that I fear for the chimneys.

Thanks to all that noise, I’m often awake in the small hours, mentally listing all the things to be done to prepare for winter. Reviewing this year’e erratic weather and its effects, I’ve concluded that the way forward for the garden lies, not in trying to outwit climate change, but in improving the quality of the soil, so that everything - hydrangeas, roses, vegetable plot, labyrinth and plants in a variety of containers - acquires greater resilience. Luckily the means for doing that lie close at hand. Fallen leaves are everywhere, cow manure is a free gift, collected in a pail from the road in front of the house. Mixed with earth and some grass cuttings, these ingredients promise an ample supply of compost within a few months. I refrain from adding food scraps to the pile, since I have no wish to encourage the rodents that my neighbours strive to eliminate from their barns.

In a space containing so many trees and shrubs, another task has been collecting all the branches broken off by the gales, and breaking these up for fire-lighting material. So far I’ve filled four huge sacks of ‘small stuff’ for the kitchen wood-stove and the fire-place, with more to be had after every gusty night. And then there’s pruning: not a job I could do alone, with 180 hydrangeas and 40 roses, so once most of their leaves had fallen, I asked the ever-helpful Paco Garcia to take his electric saw to anything overgrown or unhealthy. Cut hydrangea stalks dry quickly, and they too make wonderful fire-lighters.

Finally, it’s been fun to fill jars and the freezer with autumn’s bounty, collected in the wild or given by friends who simply have too much of the item concerned. Apple sauce made from windfalls, pears in red wine syrup, walnuts in honey and red pepper jam are this year’s efforts, all of them nice to give back to the donors, but just as nice to have on hand. Despite all the wild weather this year, it’s been a good one for chestnuts, so in the run-up to Christmas I’m going to try to make ‘marrons glaces’ from the big ones. I’ll let you know in the Spring how they turned out.

Calendula

October 2024

Was there every a cheerier, more resilient plant than the bright orange, daisy-like calendula? A member of the marigold family, it self-seeds and flowers throughout the year, prolific and hardy even in the darkest days of winter. Some people no doubt consider it invasive, but I am glad to find it still popping up in random corners of the garden as the days grow chillier and shorter. For that, I have to thank one of my neighbours here in La Laguna, who gave me a single plant some years ago from which all the others descend.

The calendula, or ‘pot marigold’, is often recommended for children to sow, since its seeds are all but guaranteed to come up and produce a display. The flowers are edible: safe for curious wee ones and pets to ingest, as well offering free bounty to the cake decorator and those who like to experiment with salads. Herbalists and homeopaths extol its wide variety of medicinal uses. Though I’ve never tried making it, I’ve often seen calendula hand-balm for sale, but I did once make calendula oil (steeping the dried flowers in almond oil for about 10 days) as a remedy for sunburn, and it worked very well.

More than any of its other qualities, though, I prize the calendula’s joyful colour and direct appeal. As with the varied hues of autumn gourds, pumpkins chief among them, that prompt us to give thanks for this season of maturity and harvest, the warm orange of the calendula suggests good cheer and good company, in whatever ‘random corners’ we are blessed to find them.

Weird Weather and Wacky Wisteria

September 2024

If it were not for Weird Weather back in the Spring, I wouldn’t be calling my wisteria ‘wacky’, but that’s the word that comes to mind when I see new leaves bursting forth - and new flowers, too - in the month of September.

Wisteria is by definition an unusual plant, in that it flowers before it comes into leaf. It’s a true harbinger of Spring, especially here in the mountains where March can sometimes seem like January. The flowers emerge as racimes: tight little garlands that gradually go from bronzy-green to mauve, pink or white, depending on the variety, as they grow. In late March and early April, my wisteria usually produces an  enchanting display of lavender-coloured blooms that nod cheerily with every passing breeze. Only when the flowers are past their best do the hand-shaped bunches of leaves appear,

What happened here last March - and April, and May - was a Spring so frigid and windy that the ‘little garlands‘ were frozen solid on three occasions, then blown right off their stems. Through chilly June the wisteria remained stark and bare, as if expressing its displeasure at such an unwarranted buffeting.  Only in July did an abundant showing of leaves and a few racimes of blossom appear.  Then…in August! …there were stirrings of vitality, wiith waving tendrils seeking a grip on the roof-tiles and multiple sproutings of new bronze-tinged leaves. And now, in September, new leaves are bursting forth as if the year were still full of promise, and emerging flower bunches nod in the autumn sunshine. What is going on here? Six months late, is this an adaptation to climate change, or merely a wacky one-off: a ‘now-or-never’ performance as Summer ends? The answer may depend on next year’s weather.

Rosa Peregrina

August 2024

A year ago, I promised to write about the ‘Camino de Santiago’ rose that I’d been given for the garden, once I found out a bit more about it. Mine is still very small, but I now have my chance – and the first thing I have to say is that I was mistaken about its name. There is already a very handsome rose called ‘Camino de Santiago’, a coral-coloured hybrid-T, as anyone curious about it can see online. The rose delivered here is quite different. Its official name is ‘Castell d’Alaquàs’, a floribunda, but it has come to be known as the Rosa peregrina, (‘Pilgrim Rose’) on the Camino, and brings with it an interesting story (greatly condensed here, but see the article, in English, for June 18, 2023, at  www.fundacionjacobea.org).

The man behind it is Norman Sinclair, a retired doctor, veteran pilgrim, flower-shop owner and rose afficionado, who lives near Munster in Germany. Years ago, after walking various Caminos, he happened to visit a rose nursery near Valencia belonging to Mathilde Ferrer, the president of the Spanish Rose Growers’ Association. There he spotted the Castell D’Alaquàs rose, and was utterly charmed by it. He liked its bright carmine colour and golden stamens, but was even more admiring when he learned that it was hardy, resistant to disease, and bred to flower repeatedly in the dry climatic conditions of the Valencia region.

Back home in Germany, Norman Sinclair mulled over how he might express his gratitude for his experiences as a pilgrim. Recalling the rose, the idea came to him of planting it in significant places along the Caminos, but first he tested its resilience by marking parts of a Santiago route and the European Peace Path near his home with roses from the Ferrer nursery. Seeing them flourish, despite comparative neglect, was a green light. He planted two examples of the Castell d’Alaquàs rose in O Cebreiro, next to the monument to Elias Valiña, then 100 more in towns all the way to Monte del Gozo and Santiago. Later expeditions have seen the rose planted at the pilgrim towns across the meseta and through the Bierzo. Future ones will extend its presence to the Caminos del Norte, the Via Kunig and the Camino de Liebana in Cantabria. Norman’s dream is to plant them at all the monasteries on the pilgrim roads, and then to link the routes in Spain with those back in Germany. Thanks to his ever-increasing group of friends and helpers, this rose ‘travels’, slowly but surely, towards Compostela – and so deserves its ‘unofficial’ name of ‘Rosa peregrina’.

Summer Bounty

July 2024

Contrary to all predictions, a cold, late, rainy Spring has been followed by a verdant, burgeoning Summer. Planting everything so late is often a recipe for a meagre harvest, but this year even the veggies grown from seed are promising ‘feast’ rather than ‘famine’.

What did I plant, on a chilly, blowy day back in mid-June? Left to right, low growing ‘Contender’ and pole-climbing ‘Helda’ beans, rocket (arugula to North American readers)), long Italian sweet peppers, Galicia’s much-loved pimientos de Padron, ‘Rosa’ and ‘Corazon de Buey’ tomatoes, leeks, onions, ‘Nantes’ carrots, and ‘Petit Provence’ peas. No beets, broccoli or cauliflower this year: the weather was simply prohibitive. At this altitude, one grows what will do well with the growing season available, and no fuss. To my surprise, the tomato plants are waist-high, the peas are almost ready to harvest. Good thing I cleared the freezer.

The other item ‘burgeoning’ at the moment (besides a large red currant bush) is the lavender on either side of the path leading into the labyrinth. From the back door it appears as a long, deep purple strip, over which butterflies hover in their dozens. From a seat on the bench two metres away, I can hear the low rumbling sound of bees at work. If I walk over to the lavender I can see that there are hundreds of them. If I then run my hands through the stalks, a delightful scent rises, but the bees remain calm, taking no notice of me, as if aware that I welcome their presence. In a few months’ time I’ll buy honey from the man who owns the hives these bees come from - and very good it is, too.

Calming Presence All Its Own

However warm and sunny it’s been on Galicia’s coasts since Easter, here in the mountainous interior it’s been one of the wettest and coldest Springs on record. In the Quiet Garden, high winds and three May frosts have left scorched leaves. Rereading the gardening journal I’ve kept since moving here, I note that everything is at least a month later than what I’d come to consider ‘usual’.

Only one feature of the garden actually thrives in such conditions, and that is the labyrinth. The tiny plants set out along the lines chalked on the ground eleven years ago now form a resplendant box hedge that grows most happily in winter. Since the box is a minature variety, it will never grow higher than knee-level. The exuberant little spikes it sends out need only light trimming with an electric saw once a year, mainly to keep the paths between the hedges wide enough to permit easy walking.  Whatever the weather, the Chartres design, seen from afar or in the photos taken by drones, makes an immediate impact. The whole thing is now a solid fixture, dense and vibrantly green after so much rain: a gigantic outdoor sculpture with a calming presence all its own.

Having appeared on everything from the municipal calendar to TV documentaries, the labyrinth now receives a fair number of visitors. Labyrinths are intended to promote contemplation, so it’s natural that many of those who walk it do so slowly and purposefully. Others, however, appreciate the whimsy inherent in the twists and turns and backtracking. Some adults (usually couples) compete to see who can get to the centre and out again the fastest, while children often bring a subversive sense of fun to the exercise by jumping the hedges. I worry more about the dreaded box beetle or fungus hitching a ride on someone’s shoe than I do about hedge-jumping, but so far the labyrinth has been lucky, and I hope it always will be.

Beginning, Again

April 2024

Whatever the erratic weather of late, I know that Spring has finally arrived because when I opened the door this morning, not only did the sunshine pour in, but I also heard a cuckoo.

In England, it’s said that there are few cuckoos left, and the cheery medieval song ‘Sumer Is I’Cumin In, Loud Sing Cuckoo!’ has not reflected reality in living memory. Here in the Galician countryside, the cuckoo is often to be heard, even before -to us - the weather feels warm enough for nesting. The question is: whose nest? Cuckoos are disliked for their habit of introducing an egg of their own into the nests of other birds, where eventually the huge cuckoo fledgling displaces the rightful occupants.  No-one can deny the appeal of the cuckoo’s distinctive call, however, especially at the end of a chilly month. They are true harbingers of better days to come, even if they are also parasites.

So, with the cuckoo making music from a few fields away, it’s time to get out in the garden and begin again. This year I’ll start with the herb bed. Since last autumn was torrentially rainy, much remained to be done when the garden was finally ‘put to bed’ for the winter. Now there’s even more than usual to do - but where to start? How does one manage two square metres of sage, nearly as much oregano, parsley and lemon balm popping up all over the place, and multiple clumps of ‘cebolito’, or spring onion?

A certain amount, of course, can be given away, If this were Italy, the sage would be snapped up in a flash. Since it’s not, I’ve started by dividing some of those clumps of spring onion and potting them up. The first re-potted clump has a destination even before it leaves La Laguna: the already well-stocked herb garden at Refugio Gaucelmo in Rabanal del Camino, which apparently lacks spring onions. There, this pot of them can multiply at will, and will add welcome flavour to many pilgrim suppers.

Happy New Year

As 2023 draws, to a close, I’d like to wish readers a very happy 2024.

This monthly bulletin will resume in the Spring, as the Garden reawakens.

Until then, it is, of course, open to visitors, whether they be neighbours, pilgrims or people just passing through the area who have heard about it somehow.

Should you be one of them, may the time you spend there bring you the quiet joy of being surrounded by nature, and inner peace for your onward journey.