Garden holidays because garden makes us happy
“I wish I had …
I wish I was…
I wish I could…”
Holiday-time is the best of all times, unless you’ve caught the gardening bug. Then you’ll be all too aware of the annual dilemma. It’s the same drama every year:
Holidays at last. The family is all excited. Chaos descends days before departure. Who is taking what, where and how, and when to leave to ensure the greatest possible holiday experience. On the day, the car is crammed full of suitcases, holdalls, carrier bags. By the time the food for the journey is stowed away, cleaning wipes are within easy reach, bicycles are in their respective slots on the roof rack and cuddly toys and plastic animals are jammed into all available spaces, you know there’s no chance of leg movement until the first stop at a motorway service station. The children are strapped in and settle into their habitual whining. The driver programs the satnav, tears his hair out, supervises the loading of his vehicle, starts to throw fits and casts severe doubt upon the mental state of his loved ones who appear to be unable to conceive of a holiday without this veritable flood of stuff. All are getting into their customary best-time-of-the-year mood.
All, except for one: the lady gardener, the mother, the tormented one. She stands by the gate, aghast, turns to look at her garden one last time and surreptitiously wipes a salty tear from her cheek. Finally going on holiday, finally setting off, that’s great. Wonderful, in fact. But who will look after the garden?
And she begins to dream.
Wouldn’t it be lovely to walk out every morning across the dewy meadow, barefoot, still in a nightgown, holding a deliciously aromatic cup of coffee, to check on the roses. To fish the newspaper out of the letterbox and read it in comfort beneath the apple tree, lingering over the news, and then to take your first stroll around the garden to water the plants. To roll out your yoga mat in the shade and salute the sun surrounded by all this nature.
That would be amazing!