Muddy toil?

Last week  a friend said to me, “I’d love to grow homegrown vegetables, but the thing is I don’t much like gardening.’ Well this set me thinking. Yes it is fantastic to have veg newly dug from the ground but the fact of the matter is that the gardening is the thing. ‘why don’t  you just go to the supermarket and buy organic veg,’ say other friends mystified as to why I bother with the muddy toil as they see it. Now when most people ask what it is about the appeal of allotmenteering I usually trot out my mantra about how delicious and fresh the produce is – how you couldn’t possibly buy such quality…Oh and the fresh taste etc etc . Absolutely all true, but for me and I suspect for many fellow gardeners the produce is only part of it and for some almost a by product of an enjoyable activity – in fact a few gardeners I know give away most of their produce.

Since my friend’s comments I’ve been trying to tease out what makes gardening so satisfying and just darned  good fun. Well there is much sensual pleasure to be had  ‘No, no not the bodice-ripping, pass the smelling salts, Edith’ type of pleasure but something much quieter.  Each sense comes into play when gardening. There is the  musky smell of the earth after a rain shower, the sharp fragrance of a tomato vine, the sweet scent of broad bean flowers and even the hot vegetative smell of the compost. Marilyn Monroe when asked what she wore in bed said ‘just  a dab of Chanel number 5’, well for me I’d bottle all those gardening fragrances and dab that behind my ears … well maybe. I’m not sure eau de allotment has the same allure – even worn by Marilyn. Our sense of sight, of course, affords us many gaudy pleasures but often it is the unexpected glimpse that can be joyful: a ray of evening sun glimmering through the bean poles catching a perfect cobweb in its sights or the sparkle of a raindrop cradled in a leaf. The soundtrack to all this is the hum of insects, the metallic rattle of a distant jackdaw and  often the chatter of my fellow allotmenteers.  I don’t wear gardening gloves and my hands and nails are testament to that, but I like the crumble of the earth under my fingers, the feel of fronds of carrots and the soft, furriness of leaves like  well worn suede trousers. We are often only half aware of this rich sensual experience, but imagine gardening without it ?

Thoughout history we’ve created gardens – not so much to tame nature but to create havens – an escape from day to day life. For me  gardening is  meditation with thoughts and anxieties seeping away while I occupy myself with some repetitive activity – weeding, digging, sowing. I suppose that is what Japanese zen gardens are all about but I have to say the appeal of endlessly raking stones to achieve inner peace is not quite my cup of green tea . Sometimes though I think we are all searching for our own Secret Gardens where we step into another world and find solace there. It is interesting that so many of history’s powerful and ruthless rulers created sumptuous gardens where they could drift of an evening after a gruelling day’s looting, sacking and burning. Think of the wonderful gardens of the Alhambra Palace where Moslem sultans would glide after hard battles with the Christians of Southern Spain – and who doesn’t wish that they could have just one glimpse of the fabled Hanging Gardens of Babylon with its terraces and lush waterfalls. Mind you I do wonder if any of these mighty rulers – creators of these wondrous gardens actually got their hands dirty? I imagine a horde of slaves and eunuchs were dragooned to do the dirty work and then make themselves scarce before the pampered princes and princesses wafted through to pick a perfect blossom. Ah ha that may well be the solution to all that muddy toil and to my friend’s dilemma – all we have to do is find a willing eunuch or two. Any offers?