Why change?
We frequently hear in everyday discussions about gardens, that they ‘evolve’. What I imagine when I hear that word in this context is that a garden’s appearance alters over time as a consequence of gradual change in plant growth, death, and replacement. I suspect, however, that what most people mean is that gardens change mostly according to their owner’s desires…and failures. Frankly, I think the word evolve is wildly misused. “I’ve evolved as a person”, is another example of this. But individuals, like gardens, cannot evolve. Evolution is change that happens to species over successive generations. More apt words for individual humans and gardens would be ‘change’ or ‘develop’. Be that as it may, as Australians have become more affluent, our suburban gardens — or parts thereof — are all too easily dug up and replaced with something akin to the latest style or fashion. When living in Melbourne in the 90s, for example, I knew of a perfectly maintained Edna Walling garden in Toorak (or was it South Yarra?) that was knowingly replaced in favour of a garden created in the style of those made by Paul Bangay.
Another word often used in relation to gardens developing over time is ‘makeover’. Rarely does an episode of any TV garden show pass by without presentation of one. Such visual transformations are fodder for the medium because in pos-production editing makes it all look so effortless, quick, and achievable. What just might prompt a makeover is an observation — also not so unusual — that a garden is ‘looking tired’. What I imagine when hear someone describe their garden with those words is the owner being tired of either the effort needed to maintain it, or its style — or quite possibly both. On the other hand, if someone describes another’s garden as tired, odds are they’re slighting its style, and by extension, the owner’s taste.
Because gardens are now another fashion item, it’s almost impossible for many of us to imagine growing old with a garden which barely changes in design or structure. Even if our gardens aren’t altered in any significant or meaningful way, we still manage to avoid growing old alongside them because our population is so highly mobile — we change our address at the drop of a hat! In fact, more than forty percent of the population changes their address at least every five years. My adult life has been no exception in that regard. I’ve lived in five of Australia’s six states, some more than once, and lived for short periods of time overseas. So frequently have I moved house, my mother would mock my peripatetic tendencies with a wisecrack about me having ‘gypsy blood’. I understood her point however inelegantly expressed. Recalling her words during my road-trip to Townsville, at one point I tallied the number of times I could recall having changed my address. It’s twenty-five [insert wide-eyed surprise emoji here].
Before completing an undergraduate degree, I had the pleasure of becoming familiar with my paternal grandparents’ garden. Not intentionally — our families were close, and we visited often. During that time their garden didn’t undergo much in the way of change to its layout or structure. Certainly there was nothing significant enough to mention. The last time I visited their garden was about thirty years ago, before their property was sold after Granny May (my sister and I were the only grandchildren who referred to my grandmother by that name) had ‘gone into care’ — an expression I despise. Yet the garden’s layout and position of almost all its plants, right down to where my grandfather, Joe (again, only my sister and I ever referred to him by his given name) grew his carrots and climber-beans, remains as crisp in my mind as had I visited there yesterday. Every so often I dream of walking through their garden — an intimacy of sorts that has outlasted the garden (and them) by several decades.
Granny May and Joe’s modest garden was a place of discovery and wonder where I learned that cactus flowers remain open for less than twenty-four hours and often at night; liverworts were a thing; hyacinth and dianthus oozed deep heady fragrances; moss could quickly rehydrate from almost complete desiccation; and hydrangeas needed additional shade to survive Adelaide’s punishing summers. In their garden I picked and gorged on juicy, sweet Satsuma plums (with a hint of sharpness, there is, in my opinion, no better), nectarines, and apricots; popped fuchsia buds; and learned that fresh chicken manure needs curing before working its wonders with orange trees. Incidentally, Joe tended the food crops and Granny May the ornamental section of their garden. It was not an unusual division of labour at the time — one that has not entirely fallen from fashion.
From a design and aesthetic perspective, their garden was unexceptional, being mostly utilitarian. There was nothing fancy about it, but it was tended to with loving attention. And for a small boy growing into a young man there became a solidity, permanence, and reliability about it, and a timelessness too. Its layout didn’t reflect any fashion other than the convention that fruit and vegetables be grown in the backyard. My hope is to create a suburban garden at the base of Townsville’s Castle Hill that can instil in me as much a sense of permanency and intimacy as did theirs. It won’t resemble it in any way, but that’s not the point. What matters most about my garden will be what it makes me feel…that sense of intimacy, not to mention a connection with the broader landscape (hence my choice of mostly local plant species).
The only real change my grandparents’ garden underwent was seasonal — nectarine, plum, and apricot spring blossoms, followed quickly by fresh green leaves, then sun-ripened plump summer fruit, all-too-brief autumn colour, and bare winter limbs. There was also an early springtime splash of King Alfred daffodils, and the practically narcotic scent of orange-blossom from two orange trees. My garden in Townsville will also accentuate seasonal change. Some trees will discard their leaves during the dry, and other plants will flower in response to the wet. Some will disappear completely from sight only to regrow from their subterranean corms and rhizomes when conditions prove right. There’ll also be fruit, though nothing quite like apricots, nectarines, and plums. And there’ll be fresh leafy growth too. The varieties, types, and forms of its plants will differ markedly from those of my grandparents’ and the countless other private and public gardens in Australia’s temperate zones where I’ve grown accustomed to being as either visitor or worker. That’s the type of climate where I’ve lived most of my life, but now I’ve much to learn about gardening in the dry tropics, not least of which is the timing and character of its unfamiliar seasons.
Sometime last year — I don’t exactly remember and it really doesn’t matter — Monty Don, the lead presenter of the BBC’s Gardeners’ World, was inspired to describe a section of his garden at the height of spring as ‘operatic’! Well, we’re all given to exaggeration every so often, and I’m also partial to some odd expressions, not to mention a dose of flowery drama every now and then (but not too often). The section of my garden that will most reflect that impulse will be the front garden with seasonal blushes of red courtesy of two Flame trees (Brachychiton acerifolius), a ‘meadow’ (for want of a better word) of Scarlet bloodroot (Haemodorum coccineum), and enclosing low hedges of Ixora and Ehretia microphylla (the Fukien tea tree). In contrast, the forest garden behind the house will mirror what might more accurately be described as my core self — a love of nature, a desire for intimacy, and a sense of permanency. And since both gardens reflect different aspects of my being, surely the two express my true self? Apropos of my earlier mention of Soseki Musō, if he were alive today I wonder what he’d make of it?
To be continued…
