NOW WE’RE TALKING

Tales from The Catlins, where Diana Noonan lives on an 800sqm section, from which she sources 70% of her food.

Do you talk to your plants? It’s not the easiest subject to discuss, as HRH Prince Charles found out to his detriment when, in a 1986 interview, he admitted talking to every plant he meets.

“I just come and talk to plants, really,” he famously said, going on to explain that it was very important to do so, and that they inevitably responded.

More latterly, he told the British public that he likes to gently shake the branches of a newly planted tree to wish it well in life. Unfortunately, such admissions have only encouraged the view that, where gardens are concerned, the prince definitely has crossed the line.

But if HRH is bonkers over plants, so are many of us. I know, because just the other day, when Karen and Jenny

(two neighbours) showed up unexpectedly for morning coffee, I took the bull by the horns and conducted a small, informal survey.

“I don’t need to ask you if you talk to plants,” I said to my husband, who was (rather too slowly, I felt) grinding the beans for our espressos. “You’re a hardened tree-whisperer.”

“No, I’m not,” he said. “I never speak to plants.”

“You may not speak aloud to them,” I said, “but I know for a fact that every time you jog past that huge tōtara on the bush track, you stop to give it a hug. And you’re always growling at the coffee beans for being poorly roasted.”

“Coffee beans aren’t a plant.” “Do you speak to your plants, Karen?” I asked, ignoring this splitting of hairs.

“I wouldn’t say I speak to them as such,” she said, uncomfortably. “I mean, I have been known to threaten an untidy shrub with the chop.

And I once congratulated a mint for livening up my gin and tonic. But, surely, that’s pretty harmless.”

We concurred that, probably, it was. Jenny, on the other hand, said that although she didn’t actually address her plants, she did have the feeling that her cyclamen was talking to her, begging her not to overwater it. She had also once apologised (although only in her head) to a cactus she had thrown in the rubbish bin.

There was a short silence after that, and then I was called on to account for my own thoughts on the subject.

“I admit I do talk to my plants,” I said. “But by no means all of them.”

Whether it was the comfort of the coffee (which finally arrived) or the warmth of the morning fire, I cannot say – but I found myself relaxing into what, I now admit, was probably too full an explanation.

“I mean,” I began, “I wouldn’t dream of addressing my celery. Or my cabbages or broccoli, for that matter. And I’ve never really said anything to my peas. Climbing beans, on the other hand, have a personality which invites conversation.”

I paused, for effect, because what I was about to say deserved everyone’s attention.

“But do I think,” I said, “that it’s asking for trouble not to have a personal relationship with an apple tree? After all, look what they do for us – and what they put up with! Take Mrs Peasgood, for example – I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s begged me to protect her from those ghastly possums that come onto the property. And how could anyone stand by and watch half a dozen bees assaulting one of her immaculate blossoms without offering a word of sympathy?”

I noticed the others were looking into their coffee cups, but by then, there was no stopping me.

“And if you walk by a scented rhododendron in full bloom – or a philadelphus in flower – without speaking to it, then you have only yourself to blame if either turns up its toes and dies on you.”

No one said a word, but very hastily, I noticed the subject of conversation was changed to that of the weather.

“Do you think I’m as bonkers as Charles?” I asked my husband, when the others had gone and he was gathering up the coffee cups.

“Because you talk to plants, or because of your other eccentricities?” he asked.

“What other eccentricities?” I demanded.

“Carrying a carrot in your handbag in case you get hungry? Demanding the neighbours hand over their kitchen scraps instead of binning them? Composting your pyjamas...”

“But they were threadbare and made of organic cotton!” I insisted.

Nevertheless, I was feeling decidedly uneasy after the morning conversation. So much so that, later in the day, I texted my son.

“When it’s time for me to go into a rest home,” I tapped, “especially if it’s one with a garden, would you please explain to the staff that I’ve always talked to plants – it’s not a sign of developing dementia.”

“Of course,” came back the reply. “It will be one of a long list of ‘it’s nothing new’ quirks I will provide them with.”

I did not reply.