Let’s get ready to ramble
Iwas a teenager when I read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but even then I recognised a kindred spirit in its author, Douglas Adams. ‘‘I love deadlines,’’ he quipped. ‘‘I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.’’
Legend has it that Adams was so bad at meeting deadlines that one of his editors locked him in a hotel room for three weeks until he’d finished his manuscript. A novel solution, perhaps, but locking me indoors would have been counter-productive this spring.
Six months ago, a committee of charitable local ladies asked me to open my garden for next weekend’s Franklin Hospice Garden Ramble.
‘‘Of course,’’ I said, like a fool, for only the foolish (and fashion designers) think it wise to make rash spring promises in autumn. How was I to know that, rather than whooshing past, that deadline would approach like a slow-motion trainwreck, splattering, and squelching through the wettest spring we’ve ever had?
Here in the foothills of Auckland’s Hunua Ranges, spring can usually be relied upon. My country garden reliably lets rip in a domino effect of fulsome blossom and fluorescent lime foliage. Think oak trees resplendent in chartreuse ballgowns, virginal verdigris waterfalls of weeping willow, wildflower meadows, clouds of apple and pear blossom, heritage roses coming hither over lichened fence posts, trellis festooned with fragrant old-fashioned sweet peas, froths of cottage florals, and tidy rows of potatoes – their leafy tops promising a feast of waxy tubers come Christmas.
But not this spring. This spring has been so wet that my seed potatoes rotted in their beds, leaving only spudsized sinkholes in the waterlogged soil. My wildflower seeds refused to sprout. My sweet peas drowned. Our sodden lawn was cannibalised by creeping buttercup and clover before some fool got the trailer stuck in the middle of it, gouging deep tracks through the mud. Meanwhile, emboldened bunnies ate all my runner beans, lemon bergamot, and exotic lilies.
As the days washed away, I fretted through Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’ five stages of garden ramble grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. And now, one week out, I’ve accepted that next weekend they’re coming, ready or not. All that can be done has been done, save the fun stuff – the pimping and preening, fussing and frippery. There’s vintage bunting to hang. Sandwich boards to paint. Floral tablecloths to sew. Raffle prizes to smother in cellophane and picnic blankets to fling casually over the bald patches on our lawn.
There’s also one last chance to quote Douglas Adams in a shameless bout of self-promotion. Not only is 42 the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything (and my age), here are 42 reasons why, if you live within cooee of the Franklin district and find yourself at a loose end next weekend with a spare tenner in your pocket, you should visit my garden at Foggydale Farm.
Scones. With whipped cream. And fresh strawberry jam. Paeonies in bud! A specialist plant market. You can critique my husband’s hornbeam hedge clipping. Stock up on heirloom seeds. Viburnums. Rhododendrons. Calycanthus. Lush ligularias. The lizard-leafed peculiarity of Podophyllum ‘Kaleidoscope’. See how fat free-range kunekune pigs can get. Pat a pet lamb. Garden sculpture. Stroll our serpentine boardwalk. See petunias a-plenty. A potato parterre. Secondhand books for sale. Take a street art selfie standing in front of the graffiti mural on our hipster hay barn. Organic orchard know-how. Flying fox! Check out our children’s funky tree hut. Hit me up for free gardening advice. Smell the roses. Fill your pantry with seasonal preserves. Shop up a storm in the pop-up vintage store in our stables. Admire my petite flower farm. Say ‘‘hosta la vista’’ to our new hosta walk (horticultural jokes never grow old). Grow some barley. Hit your Fitbit’s 10,000 step target with a few fast-paced circuits of my potager. Relax in the bric-a-brac shack. Plus there are 10 other gorgeous gardens, from pretty to posh, to visit on this rural ramble.
The Franklin Hospice Garden Ramble, November 12-13. Tickets and maps available at franklinhospicegardenramble.org.nz
lynda.hallinan@fairfaxmedia.co.nz
This spring has been so wet that my seed potatoes rotted in their beds, leaving only spud-sized sinkholes in the waterlogged soil. My wildflower seeds refused to sprout. My sweet peas drowned.