Planting my flower garden

WHEN I was a child, my mother looked after our local church in west Mayo. That involved keeping it clean and arranging fresh flowers for the altar every Saturday afternoon. Back then, the only flowers we ever saw, were growing in neighbours’ gardens. At our house, the only flowers we had were hydrangeas and daffodils.

Like many men of that era, my father always worked away, either in London or

Dublin, and only came home at Christmas, Easter, and two weeks in August. That meant that Mam had to run our farm, care for us, and initially, she took care of her elderly mother as well. That left no time for the ‘frivolity’ of growing flowers.

Every Saturday lunch time, I was sent off on our bicycle to collect, or ask for flowers from the neighbours. Mum would have known when the different flowers were in bloom, so knew exactly where to send me.

Sometimes people would come to her at Mass and tell her they might have suitable flowers for the altar. Spring bulb types, tulips, narcissus varieties and daffodils were flowering at different points during spring.

Most of our neighbours had typical cottage gardens, they grew flowers like the sweet-smelling Phlox,

Sweet William and, of course, the magnificent Trumpet Lily, which were all blooming in mid-summer. Later in the summer there were lots of dahlias.

It being a time of deep religious belief, most flower growers were delighted, even honoured to have their flowers on the altar.

My mother had very symmetrical taste when arranging flowers, both sides had always to match exactly. When we were sent to the nearby shop we were always told to go into the church and pick up any petals that may have fallen on to the altar.

Mam felt honoured when the curate got special flowers for the Confirmation ceremony, and he considered her good enough to arrange them.

The people with the best flowers were of course the gentry, who lived in big, posh, houses, or castles, had gardeners, lawnmowers, and landscaped gardens and though generally of a different religious persuasion, I have no doubt they would have happily given me flowers – but – they also had a bunch of red setters!

SEEING ALL the lovely blooms in other people’s gardens, was my inspiration to try to grow my own flowers. I figured it would also save me from going to people’s houses who all had at least one dog of which I was afraid. My eleven-year-old head didn’t consider the pitfalls, like digging the ground, or where I’d get the bulbs from.

Thankfully both were solved, my older sisters who were made of sterner stuff than me dug up the clumps of long grass, weeds, and tough ground. The neighbours that I got the church flowers from were very encouraging and gave me bulbs and roots of dahlias, daffodils, tulips, and narcissus, as well as rose bush cuttings.

One lady, Annie, gave me a peony rose, no thorns, already potted. I thought it so beautiful and was excited and delighted with it. She said it had got very dry and to soak it in water for a few hours. We had no running water in those days, and to me it seemed like the ideal solution to leave it sitting overnight in a shallow spot in the river. The heavens opened before morning and one very big flood happened. I was heartbroken. For weeks I kept looking in the river, peering under banks, hoping that by some magic it was still caught somewhere, but no such luck.

I never had enough courage to tell Annie what happened to her lovely gift.

Eventually, I had a round circle in our front garden ready for planting. I gathered lots of nice round stones from the river and from anywhere else I could find them and used them to enclose the planting area before proceeding to whitewash them.

I planted everything I was given. I remember lots of dahlias, in particular. I wed, raked, and fussed over my precious circle. It never provided enough for the church altar, so didn’t help with my ‘dog dodging’ plan.

Within a couple of years my entire family moved to London. The first summer we came back on holiday, my precious circle was in full bloom and with some careful weeding, it looked great for the duration of our visit.

The winter of 1962/63 is remembered as the coldest winter on record since 1740. My precious bulbs all succumbed to the ice, snow, and blizzard conditions. When we returned in the summer of 1963, all that remained peeping through the long grass was my little whitewashed stone circle. ÷