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Recently we had the treat of visiting another garden. This one was attached to a castle which served as a wedding venue with bed and breakfast accommodation in the historic castle. We had been looking forward to visiting here for quite some time. I suppose without knowing it we had high hopes. We anticipated seeing landscaping and plants that would really blow us away and even inspire us on our own gardening journey. We even discussed ahead of time how we shouldn’t get too carried away by comparisons with another garden. This one would perhaps have a full staff team of gardeners resulting in a more professional and polished end product that could easily leave us with unrealistic impressions about what we should be achieving in our own humble context.

We hadn’t parked the car before the comparisons rolled in. “Ooh I like their gates” and “What animals are they keeping in there?!” By the time we reached the on site cafe and gift shop to buy our ticket into the garden, Jeremy had announced his desire to get peacocks and I had begged him to limit the amount of times I could say the phrase “We could do that!!”

The fact is, it was impossible for us to visit this place with a garden and old property without drawing comparisons. As surely as a doctor would be unable to visit a hospital without being acutely aware of the work going on behind the scenes. We found ourselves being rather nerdy about everything from the wiring used to construct the hen run to the weed control methods on the gravel pathways. Which leads us nicely onto the unexpected highlight of the garden visit. Weeds. Yes, weeds. Lots of them. In this ‘other’ garden, there were weeds. The bench we sat on in the rose garden was backed by a bank of nettles. The gravel beneath our feet had a grand smattering of green matter. Some self seeded wild geranium and trailing lobelia, but other more traditionally unwelcome guests appeared too. Indeed, more than noticing plants and shrubs and flowers to inspire our own planting scheme, we found ourselves wandering the garden triumphantly exclaiming to one another as we identified one weed after another. “Look at all those Dock!” and “Look, there under that tree, ooh that’s a particularly invasive one; ground elder!”

We were giddy with delight at the sight of these weeds. Sure, there were some beautiful plants to admire and inspire, but it was the weeds that stole our hearts that day. We could appreciate the work that had gone into the repair of old stone walls, the neatly manicured lawns, the careful planting of annuals. But the glory for us came from the weeds, the wilderness, the broken fences and the unfinished edges. We identified most deeply with these aspects of the garden. We were even a little bit over enthusiastic at the sight of a ripped polytunnel with haphazard makeshift bamboo trellis for a handful of tomatoes inside. I’ll admit, there wasn’t an absence of smug faces at points in our garden tour. There may also have been a question raised as to where the vegetable garden was, and more than a slight aspersion cast on the fact that none could be found.

Perhaps it was the fact that we were in the middle of a particularly arduous season of our own garden. A time when it felt impossible to keep on top of the plants and the weeds. A time when we were feeling the pressure of creating and maintaining and restoring gardens with both flowers and vegetables all at the same time. It felt impossible to manage, to control, to maintain and also to grow, to harvest, to create. So, it came as a glorious relief to find this other garden a haven of equally unfinished, weedy beauty. Suddenly the weeds in our own garden didn’t seem such a noxious threat to our identity as they had been the day before. We went home feeling vindicated.

This garden was well known, people pay money to come and walk here, to have their wedding day here, to stay here. This is a place that is seen, even shown off, and it does not try to hide its entire contents. There is no shame in its limitations and incompleteness. There is space for weeds. We could learn a lesson or two from this place.

And we could get peacocks.

I (Claire) grew up in the countryside all my life. I was aware of the changing seasons. The long stretch of the summer evenings playing rounders in the garden and the unbelievable darkness of a midwinter morning getting ready for school. The farm to some extent too shaped my experience of the seasons. The colours changing in the fields, the jobs required of us, the smells in the air, all gave rhythm and structure to life.

When I lived bang smack in Dublin City centre for a time later in life, I always sought out these signifiers. The sycamore tree below our window, rooted in asphalt and smattered with dust from buses blundering down the quays, shone like a lone star guiding me through the seasons. Nature seems even more stark, vital and visible to me in a city dwelling.

The cherry blossoms of Trinity college told me exams were coming. In the city Nature was persistent in sending messages, in forcing its rules and rhythms upon me.

Now, I am back on the farm where I grew up. Nature cradles me, and I am held in its rhythms of grace. 

It’s one thing to live in nature but another to work with it. Since starting the seasonal growing journey in Charis Garden, I have never felt more acutely aware of the subtle and stark transitions through Seasons. I have never before been so thankful for these rhythms of grace holding my life in their hands.

In the height of summer, when the garden has the needs and dependancy of a newborn baby, I am given bright nights to pop out in the quiet cool of the late evening and water our tunnels. Through October, as the garden has fostered a degree of independence, darkness folds in around our edges slowing us down, tucking us in earlier each evening and rising us later each morning.

We are so grateful for these messages. They tell us who we are, where we are and what we are doing. We are so in need of this holding and shaping. We are so thankful to learn the steps and dance to these rhythms of grace.

I saw the first Swallow arriving today. Swallows I should say, for it is rare to see them alone. They are together and they have come all the way from Africa to find a home in my backyard. With my own travel restricted, there is a wild exoticism about Swallows this year. 

Knowing they have travelled so far makes me envious of the expanse that I long for. 

They dart and swoop across the sky of my yard. Their flight gloats to me of the vast shimmering bodies of ocean over which they have flown to build their nest with me in landlocked Laois. I look at them and see the desert sands of North Africa, I see rushing waterfalls and rainforest greenery. I see the kodak colours of a Morrocan bazaar. I see mountains meeting clouds in snowcapped surrender. I see everywhere but here. 

These tiny determined bodies brag of bold adventures without need for vaccination waiting or quarantine on arrival. Here they are, without even a hint of prior clearance or approval, catching their evening meal as the sun takes its time lowering in the sky of my backyard.

Last year we tried to prepare for their imminent arrival by rolling out chicken wire under our shed roof, where for generations swallows have checked in on arrival. We had moved in on their territory having started a small market gardening business. We had no way of applying to the swallows for a ‘change of usage’ of the shed space, so we pressed on clearing out the wood stores and removing old machinery to make space to prepare weekly veg boxes. In our first season it didn’t take long for us to realise that swallows nesting above and vegetables resting below was not a winning outcome for the vegetables.

A swallow solution was required. We settled on prevention being far better than wiping bird poop off vegetables.

In late Spring my husband and my father worked together to roll out the wire, wrestling and stapling it into place as they teetered on top of ladders and tables, while no doubt the swallows enjoyed the view somewhere over the Mediterranean.

At last, the flock arrived in earnest expectation of their usual nest building action beneath our shed roof. Not only was their homing instinct more powerful than our fumbling attempts with wire and staples, but their bodies were much slimmer than we had given them credit for. We searched for gaps in our wire work and tried to add another staple here and there. Yet still every other day there was the sound of frantic wings beating on wire as we walked towards our shed.

I looked up one day to this disturbing sound and watched with painful curiosity as these creatures navigated the obstacle we had created. Two swallows were caught above me, entrapped behind the wire mesh where they had hoped to find their seasonal welcome. I watched wide eyed wings flapping against their captivity. I winced as their bodies writhed and darted in panic seeking freedom. I exhaled in relief as I witnessed one escape. But not a moment later the freed swallow returned, flying in close to the wire again. Hovering, darting, landing. It dawned on me that he, or she, was communicating with fervor and patience.

The freed swallow persisted in this dance of companionship until at last their mate found a way out.

Clearly the wire was not working as we intended. Long sticks of bamboo were used with great remorse to poke down the early foundations of these travel weary birds’ persistent attempts to find rest, and toilet facilities, above our veg packing tables. 

Swallows are excruciatingly resilient and remarkably fast at building and our discouragement was no match for these tenacious travel savvy birds. In the busyness of our Summer gardening season gaining pace we missed one mud-ball of a swallow home in a far corner of the shed. My husband, ever on the side of St. Francis, climbed a ladder and stretched his arm up with phone in hand to survey the scene before I was permitted to go near with a pole. The bright glare image showed us a nest full of offspring. The nest would remain.

My husband watched the Swallow parents frequent their hard won nest as he washed carrots and bunched scallions below them. It wasn’t long before he took pity on their slim bodies squeezing through holes in the wire to reach their children. In an epic admission of defeat he got up once more on a ladder. This time with wire cutters in hand he cut the wire around the swallow nest peeling it back in an arc of acceptance of their rule in this kingdom of our yard shed.

[Read more…] about Here, again

In mid-March we watched in shock as the world began grinding to a halt in the marketplaces and structures of society. It didn’t take us long to see that while so much was slowing down or shutting down around us, the garden and our work in it continued. The garden was immune to the effects of a global pandemic. In fact, as others reported cessation of work or business activity, our productive season was picking up pace.

Never before were we so thankful for our decision to begin this garden. It gave us a work focus to continue throughout a time of strangeness and uncertainty. Those who had committed to receiving our weekly veg box were more delighted than ever to have fresh, locally grown produce delivered to their door without them having to set foot inside a supermarket with all the risks and rigamarole that involved.

Globally we could see a wave of acknowledgement and appreciation for access to locally produced food. We felt privileged to be a part of the story of redeeming our world’s engagement with the earth and all it grows.

We also felt the stretch of the hungry gap as we kicked off mid-April, a time when most other growers are either importing or holding off until June to begin supply. With our desire to maintain local and seasonal produce, we supplemented what we were growing ourselves with mushrooms from Portarlington and potatoes, parsnips and leeks from another organic grower in Kilcullen.

  

 

Beginning so early in the season, when crop yields are still meagre, was a steep learning curve for us. Alongside getting our heads around growing for over twenty households, we were also undertaking some ambitious infrastructural tasks to improve our garden space. The lockdown meant we couldn’t get the same work party together that we had envisioned to assist with erecting a new polytunnel, but we managed to get it up and covered with some help from Claire’s Dad.  We also expanded our packing area to create space for the increased number of boxes we would be preparing this season.

 

 

As the drought of April and May began taking its toll on our crops, we noticed our salads were succumbing to a root aphid outbreak. Seeing our beautiful salad leaves failing was a real hit on morale and on our weekly garden output. In mid-May we took another unexpected hit as Jeremy fell from the roof of our house and received a deep wound that required surgery on his upper left arm. Amazingly, although his lacerated triceps would require six weeks of careful healing, there was no other lasting damage. The accident sent shockwaves through us. The aftermath was a time to take stock and think about how to develop healthier, more sustainable rhythms of work and rest.

Although the global pandemic had not ground us to a halt, the roof fall made us remember we are not at all unstoppable. As Jeremy arrived home from hospital still groggy from anaesthetic and shock, we had to pause and draw breath and decide where to go from here. Once again, we realised that the garden continues, even if we would wish it to pause with us a moment.

There were weeds rapidly raising their heads in the beds and paths. There were trays full of pea seedlings becoming entangled with eachother’s eager tendrils. There were courgette and squash plants bursting out of their pots.

   

There were twenty two box customers still expecting their weekly delivery of produce. The garden continued. We pressed on with our one-armed head gardener and a whole lot of community and family love and support. Friends arrived to pitch in with a few hours of weeding and neighbours delivered meals: we were now recipients of the grace we wanted this garden to be all about. This grace is about knowing that we are not at the centre. This allows us to stop, even when the weeds continue to grow and customers await vegetables. In June we took the radical decision to reduce and then, for one week, completely pause our veg box output. This allowed us to refocus, to await more growth and create space for people to visit and connect with the garden (more on that in the next blog!).

The garden continues, and we continue but only in a rhythm of grace; for ourselves as well as others.

 

 

 

 

“Spring is for those who are willing to risk growing again” 

I first heard this quote in the context of my Dramatherapy training. An apt metaphor for an emerging season of healing and hope when a winter of darkness has taken hold of life. 

In the garden however, winter has been a time of rest, relief and reflection. Signs of Spring bring a skittish feeling of excitement and nerves at embarking on a second season of growing and sharing crops. February brings a ‘this time last year’ mentality of nostalgia, satisfaction and realistic growth plans. A photo of the garden in mid February last year shows a barren wasteland without bed or polytunnel.

When Jeremy sows the first seeds of 2020 on February 7th, he recalls that this action is completed exactly a month earlier than last year. It feels like such momentous progress to be starting so much ‘ahead’ of ourselves this time round. 

Yet the newness of Spring brings fears alongside hopes. Growth shunts us out of Winter rest and reflective ideas into questioning and action. Are we ready? Have we done enough? Will the harvest be plentiful? Growth breeds questions. 

We watch the snowdrops raise their white heads in January grass. The defiant blades of daffodil follow up with the call of Spring. Their bulbs burgeoning with anticipation until they can’t hold their yellow glory inside any longer. 

It has come. 

 

Reports from the garden of seeds germinating. Each seed on a journey through dark soil towards light. Each one heralding a story of future food.

As we look at the array of green shoots popping up in trays we receive replies from those interested in sharing in the garden crop this year. These tender sprouts will become food for families, nourishing and inspiring connections around kitchen tables. 

At the end of January, our own kitchen table expands as we welcome a family from Germany with two young children to come live and work with us at Charis Garden for one month.

This invites the risk and growth associated with Spring. Sharing space and time with another family has real challenges and new joys. Thankfully the Schön family are true to the meaning of their name and fill the space with beauty and grace…along with hard work and the scent of freshly baked sourdough bread. As always when we open this space to people we see something of the vision we hope to create here reflected back to us. As Nadine scrapes moss in the yard she comments; “It is so good for us to be here, working with our hands, it feels so good to do physical work like this!”