The Autumn Gardener

5 minute read + 6 minute listen

Do you have a hobby? Something you do purely because you are drawn to it out of love or a passion or a need to do a specific activity. Or maybe it’s a distraction - like the long, ugly scarf I once knitted all Winter long in a bid to stave off a heartache. I wore that scarf for years after - a reminder of my survival, a badge of honour. Having a hobby makes things better, it’s a real gift.

Some time last year, when myself and my husband were taking a look at our children’s reticence to join in any activity outside of school hours, a bit of a reassessment took place between us both. There is a massive pressure now for kids to do extracurricular activities and yet for many children, like ours who are on the introverted side, it can all feel a bit too much. In some ways, when we stepped back from our natural desire to help ensure our kids acquired new skills, made friends and fit in, we were left in agreement that what every person really needs, long term and to see them through the entirety of their life, are interests and hobbies.

So we decided we needed to change tack and to start modelling a bit of passion - the perfect excuse to indulge in something that is not necessarily for fitness, or improvement, or a certificate or financial gain. (Although, if your hobby brings you any of these, happy days).

I like to garden, which I will say in an almost whisper, as if my saying it out loud will be mistaken for a boast that I can actually garden well.

Because to me it feels a bit like the apprenticeship that never ends, something which involves unfathomable amounts of information - of names and species; preferences for pruning and positioning; colours and varieties; how to sow, when to sow; how much to water, what likes the shade. The fact that it is an interest which is pretty much boundless is part of its appeal. It’s a deep, deep hole you often trip into by becoming fond of a few plants you manage to keep alive on your flat windowsill. And from there, you may never really stop falling. Soon you’re managing a few pots of petunias outside the front door and to keep the geranium in that spectacular tone of coral-peach-red alive through the Winter and it’s like you’re hooked. Next thing you know you’re planting a few bulbs in the depths of Winter with an eye on Springtime and discussing slug-friendly ways to make your plants less slug friendly.

You find yourself jotting down the names of dahlias you aspire to planting for next Summer and becoming curious about other people’s gardens and how they manage a rockery that has some element of colour from May to September - what a feat! And what I really love is discovering somebody else shares your passion. A friend recently called to my house and admired my one pot of tomatoes which I had proudly grown from three tiny plants. We talked about feeding them and how best to prune, but best of all she shared in my delight at having produced some actual, real tomatoes (my pride and my joy this Summer). Fellow gardeners see the work, no matter how small - they recognise the love and attention.

Gardening can be so delightful.

So we find ourselves in October. And there really is something about Autumn, that winding down time. You might notice a slight nip in the air and begin to vaguely see your breath catching and hanging about on the colder air, for just a moment. You only need the slightest hint to get that big old green cardigan you like to wear pottering around the house in Winter - the one you wear when you get in the door and swap your shoes for slippers right before you put the kettle on. There’s that turning of the leaves from green to not-so-green to yellow, orange, red. Autumn is hunker down season, take a moment season.

In truth, everywhere becomes a garden in Autumn, such is the pervasiveness of leaves forming carpets under your feet and brambles (where have they been hiding all year?) offering the last of their black fruits from behind bus shelters, over the high walls of old convents and out of park ditches.

Where I live, in the Burren, crab apple trees take their place among the star performers next to the bountiful and gorgeously rusting hazel trees, their bases strewn with husks from feasting animals - the sloes drip like grapes from Italian vines and the rose hips appear proud and outstanding in their bright redness. It’s the last burst, the last hurrah.

In Autumn, I can take stock in my garden. There are a few bits and pieces still delivering bursts of colour - my reliable, regal pink rose bush still doing the business, the black-eyed Susan’s are gorgeous and the hydrangeas, those workhorses, are only coming into themselves, it seems. But for other bits and bobs, it’s time to thank them for all their Summer work and to let them go - to cut them back, tidy them away, add to the compost heap. The pressure to cut grass or stay on top of the worst of the weeds in amongst the flowers, subsides. I sit for coffee and scroll on Instagram for ideas for Spring. Maybe I’ll do some snowdrops for next year - can you imagine the joy they’ll bring? And some bluebells - always more bluebells and daffodils, just for the hope their green shoots will bring me, and the buzz of pointing them out to my children and saying; ‘Look! Spring is on its way’.

Whatever about gardening, whether or not you're into it, it’s the passion that matters - the creation of space for yourself, the permission to do something for the pure love of it. We are all worth that space and curiosity, it’s a life-long endeavour and something that will undoubtedly ebb and flow.

Sure, maybe next Spring I’ll be passing the green shoots of my upcoming bulbs on my way to my first hang gliding lesson! Wouldn’t that be fun.