Southland
Garden gnomes, I recently learned, mean something. They have substance and history that's real, as opposed to imagined.
Robert Guyton’s gone gnomic
Let me tell you what I learned. Long ago, in a land far, far away – England, to be precise, and during the 17th and 18th centuries to put a time to it – wealthy eccentrics who owned fine houses with extensive gardens sought to endear themselves of their peers by including in their sweeping vistas and carefully manicured grounds a random element that showed their sensitivity to the ways of the world and the human condition. They wanted to express their feeling for something the society of the time thought special and melancholy, and to do that, they employed a hermit.
Now, you might, at this point, be wondering how anyone might contact a hermit; they’d be unlikely to have a mobile phone or even a landline back in those far-off times, or a letterbox for that matter, being hermits and unlikely to be corresponding with anyone at all. The fact is, newspapers of the time carried advertisements for the position of decorative hermit and it wasn’t real hermits that answered those ads – more opportunists, looking for an easy way to earn a crust.
Living in a grand garden and playing the part of a decorative hermit wasn’t too demanding.
That is, so long as you didn’t mind doing nothing much at all.
A cave or folly was made available to shelter you from the weather, food and water were provided along with a book to read and an hourglass with which you could keep track of time’s passing, a small table to sit these necessities upon, and your duties explained: sit at your table and read, in a melancholic manner, and as often as you can bear, drift about the garden without interacting with any guests of the owner, and generally look hermetic.
Don’t, under any circumstances, cut your hair, beard or fingernails and forget about washing – you’re supposed to be a hermit, after all.
Many men tried out for the role and most failed to last the distance – seven years was the usual stipulation – and not surprisingly, gave up, often without being paid for their troubles.
As the centuries turned, chances of finding a willing decorative hermit decreased.
The grand garden owners found ways to create the impression that a hermit was in residence in their garden by setting out the accessories described – hourglass, book and such – as though the hermit might appear at any moment and make use of them.
This strategy worked successfully for a time, but fell into disuse for reasons I can’t fathom to be superseded by – wait for it – garden gnomes!
According to the radio report from which I learned of this interesting tale, the plaster cast, concrete and clay gnomes that we see in gardens throughout the Western world are the modern stand-ins for the historical decorative hermits!
I was amazed to learn this and not a little excited at the same time. I favour gnomes, as I’ve written before, and have constructed both cave and folly in my forest garden.
Could it be that I knew about these things at some deep level?
Could I have unconsciously drawn together the pieces needed to recreate the old practice, right here, in my Riverton garden? My wife hopes I’ll quickly forget about what I’ve heard and get on with growing cabbage, cauli and carrots – “real gardening,” she calls it – and leave the fanciful stuff for wealthy eccentrics in England. But I’ve a plan!
I’m not even considering advertising for a decorative hermit. That would be silly and in any case, I don’t want some shaggy chap wandering around smelling like a compost heap, frightening my daughters.
But I could set up a hermit table at the entrance to the cave I dug years ago, when I had the yearning for an on-site wine cellar.
That cave, dug deep into the clay and cool year-round, is now a grotto, having proved a little damper than expected, especially following heavy rain. But it looks like a hermit’s abode to the passing visitor, as several have already commented.
I could even sit at the table myself, every now and then, being bearded and a keen reader, and play the part, especially when groups of schoolchildren are touring the forest garden. That would give them something to write about when they get back to the classroom.
I could glower at them in a melancholy manner, knit my brows and mumble something in Latin or Gaelic that would certainly cause them to remember the experience forever.
The easiest option, and the one I'll most likely take, is to install a gnome.
It would go into an alcove carved into the rear wall of the grotto/ cave/cellar, and hidden from all those who didn’t make the effort to descend the steps leading down into the clammy gloom that was to keep my wine cool.
Those adventurous souls who do leave the light of day behind them and go underground will see the wee fellow, grinning inanely, as modern gnomes do, sporting a red hat, yellow jacket and blue trousers, as is expected by all gnomekind.
The experience will, in all likelihood, not be as unsettling or mystifying as seeing a genuine decorative hermit skulking about in the shrubbery would be. I know that. But really, in this day and age, we should be happy for any esoteric experiences we can have.