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.

Putting the Garden to Bed

December 2023

I love to potter in the garden, especially on summer evenings when it’s light until nearly 11 o’clock.  Gardening in late autumn is another story. ‘Pottering’ has given way to hasty forays between torrential showers. Everything has to be done quickly, partly because it’s cold, partly because it’s about to rain again, and partly because the daylight ends so abruptly, just after 6.

That means that the big tasks proper to this time of year have to be accomplished in the least favourable conditions. I’m fortunate to have someone to call when they need doing: a splendid gardener whose schedule permits him to dedicate a few days each year to La Laguna. If my strong point is endurance (as in weeding, bent over, hour after hour), his is a breadth of horticultural knowledge, along with the strength to hold a motor-saw steady long enough to prune 180 large hydrangeas, 40 roses, a dozen shrubs, the lavender bed and the birch walk’s unruly growth, in a single November day. In April, he performs another Herculean feat by giving the 23 metre-wide labyrinth its annual trim, then transforming the abundant clippings into mulch.

Last week, on one of the few sunny days we’ve had since mid-October, between us we prepared the garden for winter – or, as the English say, ‘put it to bed’. All the end-of-season vegetables were finally harvested, and anti-weed mats spread over the plot where they had been. The long watering hoses now lie coiled in protective plastic under the terrace’s stone table. Pots of geraniums have been moved to shelter, bulbs planted, marigold and calendula seed collected, herbs hung to dry indoors. I also planted a ‘Camino de Santiago’ rose, bred by pilgrim and rose expert Norman Sinclair, and delivered here a few weeks ago by Norman himself: one of the many examples that he has presented to municipalities, religious communities and individuals along the Camino Francés. I’m delighted and proud that Norman considered this Quiet Garden a worthy recipient. Next year, I’ll hope to post a photo of it. Meanwhile, here is one showing the last roses of the year, in a jug made by my friend Elizabeth Block, of Toronto, many years ago.

Chestnuts

November 2023

Since mid-October, chestnuts have been dropping into the garden from a tree in my neighbours’ field across the lane. In principle, what falls in the field is of course theirs, but what falls in the lane, which is a public right of way, or into my garden, can be happily scavenged. The chestnut windfalls that end up in my kitchen are roasted on the top of the wood-stove (a Spanish-made, cast-iron one that came with the house) or boiled, to be eaten with milk and sugar in the local fashion.

Chestnuts are the mainstay of the vast wild area known as ‘O Courel’ that borders the Camino frances from O Cebreiro to Triacastela, and extends all the way to Quiroga and the river Sil to the south. Since time immemorial, these huge mixed forests have provided human and animal sustenance, but today, when the size and quality of the chestnuts they produce is recognised all over Europe, the careful management of chestnut plantations offers their owners a reliable cash crop. Autumn in the Courel sees whole families, old and young, grandparents and cousins, turn out to gather chestnuts, filling the sacks that are then sold at so-much per kilo to the agents of supermarkets and export companies. Some proprietors have taken to milling chestnut flour on a commercial basis, to supply the artisans whose cakes, breads and other baked goods can now be found in shops all over Galicia.

Years ago such luxury products were unknown: chestnut flour was a staple for the families lucky enough to own the trees, but it was the food of last resort for everyone else, especially in years when the rye and wheat harvests were poor.  A former resident of O Cebreiro once told me how, aged twelve, he’d accompanied his father and two other men on an expedition to buy chestnut flour at a time of great scarcity. Mounted on mules and entrusted with the combined funds of their neighbours, the four got as far as Leon before finding anyone who had flour to sell. The return journey was made along lesser-known byways, the theft of the precious commodity being a very real risk in such hard times. Arriving home marked a coming of age, as the flour was divided among the villagers, and appetites, the boy’s included, assuaged by chestnut soup, bread and filloas, or crepes. Everyone is prosperous now, and that ‘boy’ is nearly 80, but still can’t resist picking up any chestnuts he spies on his daily walks around a big city.

Winter sustenance for birds

Trees and Mushrooms

October 2023

Most of the trees in the garden here were planted by the previous owners, and it is they who created the arrangement of saplings that I’ve come to call ‘the Birch Walk’.  Birches grow everywhere in this area, so tiny ones were easy to uproot and replant, but it was the vision of how they would look 30 years later that determined the lovely feature that I’ve inherited. The parallel paths between the three rows of trees remind me of a classical academy, where learning took place in the course of  walking, or an open-air cloister: you stroll down one path, then back along the other, absorbed in the moment. In dappled sunshine, when bars of light slant through the leaves overhead, it’s the perfect space for silent, solitary thought, or companionable conversation.

Copper beech with green companion

At this time of year, I’m grateful too that my predecessors sought out trees that bring fresh colour to the garden just as much of it is fading. The deep garnet foliage of two smoke bushes, modest in size when I arrived 13 years ago, now provides a focal point at the far end. Four red Japanese maples, the silvery undersides of their leaves upturned by every passing breeze, alternate with the autumnal orange of three liquid-ambers. Beeches are common here, but copper beeches are not, so I suspect the ones in this garden were bought and planted strategically to provide contrast. One copper beech, in fact, has a green compatriot growing right in front of it: a particularly happy pairing. Inspiration guided the choice of a linden, a hazel, two laurels and two flowering cherries.

And then there are the mushrooms that pop up unbidden all over the place, but especially along the Birch Walk. The ones that appear in the grass around the labyrinth are Macrolepiota excoriata and are edible, as long as they are big enough (the small ones are best avoided). Those that spring up among the birches tend to be Xerocomus chrysenteron, colloquially called a ‘boletus’ in these parts. These are technically edible but not very appealing, either in appearance or when compared to the true boletus: Boletus edulis, aestivalis, or penicola, commonly found growing under conifers. For visual charm it’s hard to beat Amanita muscaria - red with white spots, like something from a fairytale - but since it is poisonous, I leave it to its own capricious devices. In some years the Birch Walk is home to many of them, while in others, few – or only one.  (Et in arcadia, ego….)

Japanese maples

Differing Views of Nature’s Bounty

September 2023

Our mountain September brings slightly shorter days and cooler nights, mists in the small hours and morning dew. Watering can now be sporadic if I have other things to do, whereas a month ago it was a matter of life or death for anything planted in a free-standing pot or tub. It’s still summer, but the signs of its ending are there, for all that we may choose not to acknowledge them.

One such sign is the appearance in the garden of autumn crocus. Between one day and the next, hundreds of bright pink buds push through the grass and open to the sun. Their stamens are covered with golden powder, and there are people around here who claim to have collected it and used it in cooking, believing it to be proper saffron. Others are adamant that the stuff is deadly. I’ve never bothered about it either way – I just enjoy the sight of the flowers. Besides, I’d have to collect something like 3000 of them to obtain half an ounce of ‘saffron’, if that indeed is what it is, and though there may be hundreds in the garden, there are certainly not thousands.

September also sees my several rowan trees (known in North America as mountain ash) decked with bunches of orange berries, and consequently, full of feasting birds. My neighbour is shocked when I tell her I once made jelly from these ‘poisonous’ berries and gave the jars away (perfectly true: I collected the berries from trees in a London square, and the jelly recipients are still alive and well). Country folk often believe that abundant berries on rowans and hollies herald a hard winter ahead, illogical as it may seem to give trees the power of prediction. Surely, I say, the berries are the fruits of last winter’s severity? But such observations are met with a silent, downward look, and an unspoken ‘you’ll see…’. Similarly, my enthusiasm for including elderberries in jams and desserts goes against the conviction that elder-anything is poisonous. ‘Not the flowers’ I reply (thinking of elderflower cordial), ‘or the berries when cooked’, and joke that attaining my current age has included many apple and elderberry crumbles along the way. Still, the downward glance is eloquent, and though I observe that everyone is out blackberrying on these sunny afternoons, I’ve yet to see anyone else collecting elderberries.

Hydrangeas

August 2023      

Back in the 90s, when I was living in London, a guest brought me a potted white hydrangea. When it outgrew the pot, I planted it in the garden, where it promptly died. This was my sole experience of hydrangeas before I moved to La Laguna in 2010.

The hydrangea beds here were the pride of the previous owners, whose buying expeditions had taken them all over northern Spain. Since the earth in much of the garden is so shallow, they’d also had to truck in tons of soil to create the beds in the first place. After fifteen years they had a collection of some 180 waist-high shrubs that produced a sea of blossom in a dozen colours. On the summer day when I first saw them, they were at their peak, a mix of flower-heads the size of cabbages, interspersed with delicate flat lacy ones and leaves that ranged from bright green to deep burgundy.

Captivated, I ransacked the internet for guidance on fertilising, pruning and dead-heading, spraying, watering and propagating. Much of what I read focussed on  ways of getting the hydrangeas to change colour, but since I liked their existing colours, I just concentrated on keeping them vigorous and pest-free. This proved to be less of a challenge than I’d feared: indeed, now that we are so used to one another, I can honestly say that for much of the year they almost take care of themselves. They seem to have no predators, since the spiders that create enormous, intricate webs among their leaves do them no harm.  There’s a drip-feed watering system in place, but the hydrangeas seldom need it, since their leaf canopies conserve water admirably. Most importantly, they can resist almost anything our unpredictable mountain weather throws at them.

Everything, that is, except a late spring freeze. Two of these, in 2017 and 2019, wrought terrible damage, requiring wholesale cutting-back to about 20” above the ground. Even the pandemic, which prevented me from employing any help for two years, was less devastating. In 2022 the hydrangeas began their sporadic recovery and are now taller than ever, but this year is really the first that rivals the splendid floral displays of the years before 2017. One new development (in contradiction to all the lore about giving them copper or aluminium or some other mineral) is that a long line of formerly pink hydrangeas has turned intensely blue without any interference from anyone. Perhaps they’ll turn back again? It wouldn’t surprise me.

Roses

July 2023

What else does it make sense to write about in the month of June, when I have something like 40 roses in full bloom? Each has its own particular beauty, whether of form, colour or scent – while some ‘have it all’, and leave the viewer – usually me, but sometimes friends as well – temporarily speechless.

They’re a fleeting joy, though. This spring’s abundant rain battered the flowers when they first opened, so that they aren’t lasting as long as I recall them doing in previous years. There’s also another, more positive, change: they remain free of the dreaded ‘black spot’, which usually begins to blight them around now. I put this down to having used the box clippings from the labyrinth’s annual trim as a fairly dense layer of mulch. The aim was to deter weeds, but perhaps in addition we have buried the black spot spores. If so, it’s all to the good.

The previous owners planted most of these roses, buying them bare-root from the David Austin nursery in England. Alas, they didn’t leave a list of what they planted, and I’ve been able to identify only about half of them with any confidence. Even I, with the aid of the Austin catalogue, can put a name to ‘Summer Song’, ‘The Lark Ascending’, ‘Gertrude Jekyll’, ‘The Times Rose’, and ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’, but others, especially in the mid-pink range so clearly loved by my predecessors, are too alike on the printed page to be identifiable in situ.

A few I recall from childhood, such as ‘Margaret Merrill’, and the vigorous example of ‘Peace’ that links the memory of my parents’ garden to the reality of this one and millions of others around the world. If you don’t know the stirring tale of how ‘Peace’ came to be the most popular rose ever grown, do look it up. Rose-growing is not usually thought of as adventurous, but the saga of ‘Peace’  may change your mind. How it got its name is uplifting, too. It would have been named for Field-Marshall Alanbrooke, had he not declined the honour, suggesting that ‘Peace’ was the message the world most needed, and would continue to need, long after his own name had been forgotten.