At the end of 2020, I gave my garden a thoroughly good soak, shovelled out a truckload of mulch, deadheaded the dahlias and rabbit-fenced my new rose garden. Then I locked the front gate behind me and took my family to the beach for a month.
For the first time in many years, I have decided not to open my country garden at Foggydale Farm, in the foothills of the Hunua Ranges southeast of Auckland, for any summer events or garden festivals. There was no need to stay at home, lugging the hose around parched plants and panicking over page-long “to do” lists. Instead, I packed my two sons and our two dogs into the car and set off for the Coromandel Peninsula, where we stayed for most of the school holidays.
Sitting with a group of friends on Ocean Beach at Tairua one afternoon, nattering about nothing in particular, one of them – a psychologist who runs mindfulness clinics for corporates and carers – asked me what I like about gardening. “Can you sum it up in a single sentence?” she said.
I’m rarely lost for words, but her casual question caught me on the hop. What is it about gardening that appeals to me? Why have I spent ( ), having first gained fluency in French, or indeed any second language other than botanical Latin.
