‘Our garden’: The parks keeping us sane in Covid
During the pandemic – and irrespective of the weather – public gardens have become hubs for what little human interaction is still allowed. In Hampshire, Mark Drummon meets the locals holding on to the little joys in their park
It is a bitterly cold winter’s afternoon, with hardly any sunlight breaking through the thick cloud cover, and yet Alton Public Gardens is teeming with human life. Every corner of this small park is occupied by people in long parkas or colourful down jackets, topped off with woolly hats and scarves. All the age groups are represented: young people drink takeaway cappuccinos, elderly friends share a bench, couples walk their
dogs, mothers and fathers chat with other parents while their children play on the swings and climbing frames, and teenagers stand in clusters on the lawn and in the bandstand, bantering, laughing. Normally the park would be almost empty at this time of year, especially in weather this unappealing. And there is something else odd about this scene – everybody is standing just a little further apart than is natural, and the interactions feel stilted. But this isn’t your average gloomy, frigid midwinter’s day. It is January 2021 and much of Europe is in lockdown as new, aggressive strains of Covid-19 rage out of control.
Most winters, these people would be socialising in pubs, restaurants, libraries, community centres and cafes. But with all those currently shuttered, and with people instinctively craving company, an alternative is required. And it seems that this green space has now become the epicentre of the social scene in Alton, a north Hampshire market town with a population of 18,000. The public gardens are the new hub for what little human interaction is currently permitted. Bring your own coffee and maybe a mask, and come well wrapped up and prepared to keep your distance, for this is how we socialise in year two of the coronavirus.
Clearly, there is a degree of rule flouting – and even illegality – to all this. But if people are going to ignore the guidelines in order to socialise, and many do, this way feels like it will cause the least amount of harm. For the advantage of being outside in a park during the pandemic is twofold: you are less likely to catch Covid while spending some socially distanced time in the company of a couple of friends than if you were to do the same indoors; and you are less likely to lose your mind.
“Outdoor transmission of SARS-CoV-2 and other respiratory viruses is possible, but the odds are much lower than indoor transmission, according to a recent study,” Healio, an industry website serving healthcare professionals, concluded on 8 December 2020. The studies cited in the article (transmission of respiratory illnesses outdoors “definitely happens” but less than indoors) found that less than 10 per cent of reported global coronavirus infections occurred outside, and that the likelihood of indoor transmission was nearly 19 times higher. But of course wearing a mask and social distancing when outside is still necessary.
The benefits to mental health of being in a natural environment are well known, but during a pandemic, when we are isolated for long periods, access to green spaces feels all the more important. “Although we should be careful to keep at least two metres apart from anyone outside our household when we are out, making an effort to visit a local open green space for our daily exercise can have healing benefits on our physical and mental health,” says NHS Forest, a charity on a mission to plant trees on NHS land. “Nature helps improve our overall mood and reduces stress and anxiety levels.” So if we accept that spending time in parks and gardens is good for our mental wellbeing and an invaluable source of succour for many during a pandemic, then we must ensure that civic green spaces are not imperilled in the post-pandemic austerity that will surely come in the years ahead.
residence (Mark Drummon) Back in 2018, Fields In Trust, a charity headed by the Duke of Cambridge, published a report titled Revaluing Parks and Green Spaces. “Parks and green spaces in the UK are under threat and it is up to all of us to stem this cycle of disappearance and decline,” it said. “We believe that everyone, irrespective of who they are and where they live should have the right to enjoy and benefit from local parks and green spaces.” And that was then, in the days before an economy-damaging hard Brexit and a national debt-ballooning pandemic. Will local authorities remain committed, or indeed be able, to continue funding and maintaining their parks and gardens amid budgetary cuts, I ask Alton Town councillor Pam Jones, who is chair of the Open Spaces Committee?
“We are very committed,” says the 73-year-old, a veteran of the local council and a former mayor. “In fact we are about to take on two new sites as part of two new developments. They both come with commuted sums of money.”
Three years ago, public spending watchdog the National Audit Office published a report (Financial Sustainability of Local Authorities) warning that more than two dozen councils were in danger of receiving section 114 notices, a measure prohibiting new expenditure for authorities that have failed to balance their books. “It may be out of your hands,” I suggest to Jones. Might the council have no choice but to cut services and sell land to raise funds? “During the pandemic, with careful budgeting, we have come out with a positive balance at the end of the year,” she replies. “While we have lost revenue on some of our open spaces like football and rugby pitches, we are only too well aware that the people have benefitted greatly from having open spaces on their doorsteps.” That’s good news for Alton, and we must hope other town councils are doing equally well, because Jones is right: people do benefit greatly from having access to greenery. Talk to any of the many braving the winter temperatures in Alton Public Gardens, and they quickly let you know how important the space is to them.
It’s early February, early in the afternoon, and I’m back in the public gardens. It snowed lightly overnight, leaving the place dusted. And it is cold; not Scottish Highlands cold, but chilly enough for us Hampshire folk. At intervals, the sun is finding gaps in the cloudy sky, and if you can handle the temperature, the park is a nice place to be today. As I wander around I come across Margaret Ongley, an elderly lady wrapped up in a green overcoat, a red scarf and a fawn-coloured hat that looks like something a Russian might wear on a cold Siberian night. She is seated on a bench and I remain on my feet, standing a couple of metres away. “I come here near enough every day,” she says. Mrs Ongley is 91 and she visits the park as part of a daily exercise regime that includes a walk through the town centre. She lives in Ladyplace, a nearby sheltered housing residence. “This is our garden,” she adds, smiling. She’s been observing the park for decades, and she’s never known it to be this popular in winter. “The lockdown has definitely attracted more people.” I ask her what she gets out of the park. “Fresh air, green space, and sometimes you get to talk to someone, which is nice when you’re on your own.” She’s been widowed for 25 years.
Does she know anyone who’s had the coronavirus? “I lost a good friend to it,” she says. “A blind man in his forties.” Mrs Ongley has age-related macular degeneration, and the two of them were on a committee for people with visual impairment. But she doesn’t seem fearful of the virus, and is determined to make the most of life. “Do it while you can is my motto,” she tells me. Clouds part briefly and sun shines down on Alton. “This park is lovely when the sun’s out,” she notes. She seems fond of it even when the sun isn’t out, I note. It’s now time for her daily walk through town. The nonagenarian gets to her feet, stands bolt upright, and is off, clocking up the miles, and the years, refusing to be cowed by Covid.
Parks and green spaces in the UK are under threat and it is up to all of us to stem this cycle of disappearance and decline. We believe that everyone, irrespective of who they are and where they live should have the
Alton Public Gardens occupies 4.5 acres of land right in the middle of the town. It takes no more than a minute to walk from the entrance gate to the high street. Adjacent are a carpark with a public toilet and two retirement homes that overlook the gardens. Inside the park, there’s a bandstand with a raised platform, as well as a gazebo. There’s also an enclosed playground with climbing frames, swings and picnic tables. There are lawns, trees, shrubs and flowerbeds. One path runs through the middle of the park while another navigates the periphery. Fenced off from the park, but within the perimeter, is a private bowling green and clubhouse. Occupying spots at opposite ends off the gardens are two marble busts of nobody in particular. Taking up a more central position is a polished granite drinking fountain that was donated to the town by a Miss Eliza Bell back in 1880. And then there are the benches, 24 of them, most of which bear a dedication to a departed loved one. These benches are particularly important to the friends and family members of the deceased, and are often central to remembrance rituals. I remember witnessing one such instance 18 months ago, towards the end of our last pandemic-free summer.
On a pleasant September’s day in 2019, I was sat on a bench, having my lunch, when a couple approached and tied a white carnation to the beam of the backrest. The man apologised for interrupting my meal while the woman kissed her fingers and touched the bronze plaque, which read: “In loving memory of Mel Riddle (nee Mitton), ‘Popey’ [sic], 1955 – 2013.” Soon after the couple left, the wind blew the flower sideways, but it hung on, refusing to be swept away. When I walked through the park some hours later, the piece of reed used to hold the carnation to the backrest had broken, and the flower had fallen onto the seat below. But the breezes had not been able to blow it away. The carnation was hanging on, still honouring Popey into the evening.
Only three of the benches in Alton Public Gardens are without a memorial plaque. Many of the epigraphs include a reference to how much the deceased enjoyed spending time in the park, such as, “In memory of Peter James Longhurst who loved his daily walk through these gardens”, underscoring the importance of green spaces to people’s lives even in normal times.
The midwinter cold doesn’t deter the good folk of Alton from flocking to the public gardens to socialise (at a safe distance)… but rain does. In a rare break from recently established tradition, the park is almost empty today: intermittent showers and persistent gusts of wind have temporarily rendered it too inhospitable for most. A few hardy mums are present though, braving the elements as their offspring run around and jump in puddles (when children want to play, no amount of bad weather can stop them), but they are the only human presence on this rainy afternoon. (I’m also struck by the gender of the parents currently on display.
Recently, I’ve seen a lot of dads out with their kids; but not today. The men seem to have vanished at the first sign of rainfall, and have delegated parental duties for the day to their wives.) Still, this sudden drop in human traffic through the park has allowed a grey squirrel to get some housekeeping done. I watch it dash about the place with a real sense of urgency, collecting twigs between its teeth. Once it has accumulated a considerable number in its mouth, it carries the bundle to the top of a tree, where he or she (which sex takes responsibility for construction work in the squirrel kingdom?) is building a drey.
The wind and the rain, though not especially strong or heavy, are annoying me now. And in an act of solidarity with the precipitation-shy fathers of Alton, I shuffle out of the park, leaving it to stoical women, children and squirrels.
It’s now mid-February. After a grim morning of constant rain and wind, the afternoon is suddenly bright and inviting, and the park has become busy all at once. Two NHS nurses, Tracy and Katherine, are watching the proceedings disapprovingly. “I wouldn’t bring my grandchildren here,” says Tracy. “There’s too many people in the playground and nobody’s wearing masks.” Tracy works at the town’s hospital and is a couple of years away from retirement. She’s wrapped up tightly in an olive green Barbour and a blue scarf; her grey hair is cut in a bob, and she has a mischievous smile. Katherine has slightly longer hair and is a little larger than her friend; she’s wearing a thick light-grey cardigan over many layers. Katherine works in Winchester and will retire in a matter of months. They are sharing a bench at the top of the park and are sipping Costa coffees.
“How bad did it get?” I ask, referring to their experiences of the pandemic in the NHS.
“Bad,” says Tracy. “Big psychological impact. It’s been constant.”
“People’s resilience has dropped,” chips in Katherine.
“Don’t know about that,” says Tracy.
“People don’t clap for the NHS anymore,” says Katherine.
“I don’t mind that,” says Tracy.
They argue among themselves over this point.
“Pandemic fatigue?” I interject.
“You can call it that, I suppose,” says Katherine.
“People don’t see what’s going on in an acute hospital,” says Tracy.
“I wouldn’t want to live in any other country for the pandemic,” says Katherine.
Why weren’t we doing virtual appointments before? Why would we bring an 80-year-old into Basingstoke to sit in a waiting room for 30 minutes?
Katherine’s last remark feels like a non sequitur. I change tack and ask about the government’s handling of the crisis. “Overall, this country has done really well,” says Katherine. She fixes me with a glare. “The media has been appalling, putting pressure on Boris Johnson,” she continues. “You find the stupidest person you can and put them in front of a camera, and it creates panic.” I’m not entirely sure what point she is trying to make. “Well you can’t accuse me of doing that today,” I say, smiling. They both laugh. “Not sure about that,” says Tracy, looking hard at Katherine. They are like a comedy double act, feeding off each other, teeing the other up for the comedic payoff. But they have serious points to make, and grievances to air.
Katherine feels media coverage has exacerbated the situation, amplified the public’s fear, and put pressure on the government and the NHS. She’s a fan of the prime minister. “He’s doing the best he can… it’s you lot that make it harder for him to make good decisions.” I start to weigh up how to respond to that, but before I can, the two of them are off on another riff.
“Always had the right PPE and support from our leaders,” says Katherine.
“TB is on the rise,” says Tracy. “Especially in the immigrant community.”
“We’re going to have to live with coronavirus,” says Katherine, or maybe it was Tracy.
“This won’t be the last pandemic,” says one.
“It’s going to happen again,” agrees the other. “You know that don’t you?”
I nod, not looking up from my notebook. Sentences are coming at me thick and fast now, in two streams of consciousness. I scribble away furiously, trying to keep up. But I can’t. My shorthand isn’t up to it.
“Statistics are like bikinis,” says Katherine. “The bits that are hidden are the most interesting.”
“There’s your quote,” says Tracy, laughing. “Make sure you say she said that, not me.”
“No, no, they are someone else’s words [American economist Aaron Levenstein’s]. Not mine,” protests Katherine. “Google it, you’ll see,” she adds, looking at me.
“If anything comes out of this, I hope it’s that the NHS gets the investment it needs,” says Tracy.
“It’s bought the best out of us,” says Katherine. “The bulldog spirit.”
“We work with equipment that’s held together by sticky tape,” says Tracy.
“Why did it take a pandemic to make us get the great brains together?” asks Katherine. Rhetorical questions begin to fly. I lose track of who said what.
“Why didn’t we invest in ventilators before?”
“Why do prices go up when the NHS bids for something?”
“Why weren’t we doing virtual appointments before? Why would we bring an 80-year-old into Basingstoke to sit in a waiting room for 30 minutes?”
“If I budgeted like the NHS does, I’d be broke,” says Tracy.
“We are like lemmings on a cliff edge,” says Katherine. “This is our opportunity to really do things differently.”
Suddenly they are both onto the subject of the US, and Trump, and how badly he handled the pandemic. Now Katherine is talking about American individualism and gun ownership, and Tracy is agreeing, though perhaps not wholeheartedly. I wait for a pause, and then thank them for talking to me. They laugh. They can see they’ve run me ragged. “Sorry, we talk too much,” says Tracy. “We are two grumpy old women,” adds
Katherine. And I move on in search of less taxing park users to transcribe. Sylvia Whitlock and Sophie Ryan are sat on a bench beneath a tree, drinking coffee, helping keep the cafes of Alton in business. They are mother and daughter, but they don’t live together: Sophie is married and lives with her husband. The park is where mum and daughter meet to catch up, to see each other in the flesh. “We come here two or three times a week,” says Sylvia.
“We’re definitely using the park more during the pandemic,” adds Sophie. “Last summer, when we had the ‘rule of six’, the whole family would come down,” says Sylvia. “We’d bring our own chairs and set up on the lawn there,” she adds, pointing to a part of the park. Sophie is employed at a dental practice in town. “Everyone who works at the surgery thinks they’ve had Covid.” Luckily the cases were mild or asymptomatic. Sophie is on her lunch break and must now head back to the clinic, and I too make my exit, leaving Sylvia to finish her latte alone.
In another part of the gardens, Beth and Mary are sharing a bench, their takeaway coffees resting on the area between them. Beth is fresh-faced with long brown hair and she looks like she’s in her early twenties; Mary looks older and speaks with a fading Irish accent. There seems to be a slight resemblance between them. I ask if they are mother and daughter. They aren’t, and Mary’s eyes say she isn’t thrilled with the question. On second glance I realise that Mary is probably only a decade or so older than Beth, and I’m mortified by my faux pas. I sheepishly move the conversation on, and discover that they are former colleagues of Treloar College, an education facility for disabled young people. The pair have driven into Alton from nearby villages, Medstead and Holybourne respectively, in order to spend the afternoon together. Under normal circumstances they would have had gone somewhere for lunch, or met in a cafe. Under the current circumstances, sitting at opposite ends of a park bench is the only (semi) legal option. They have never been to the park before, but are impressed. “It’s nice to get out and see a bit of greenery,” says Beth. “And it’s lovely to be able to meet people.” Mary nods in agreement. They say they’ll come again if the weather holds.
Nearby, sitting at one end of a bench, is Carolyn, a white-haired retiree. She visits the park almost every day. It is where she met Fernande, who is seated at the other end of the bench. They have become friends, hanging out together when they find themselves in the gardens at the same time. Fernande is a Frenchwoman who married an Englishman when the two of them were working for tyre-maker Michelin, at the firm’s management training centre in Clermont, France. They moved to Alton when her husband got a job at Nova Tyres. “Cheap imported tyres from Asia killed off that company many years ago,” she says. Fernande and Carolyn aren’t using the park any more frequently during the lockdown as they’ve always used it on a daily basis, but they agree that others are. I ask if they’ve had any run-ins with coronavirus. “Some of my family in France have had it,” says Fernande. “But it was like a mild flu.” Fernande doesn’t seem terribly worried about coronavirus, but then the octogenarian has seen a lot… lived through a lot.
Fernande was born in 1935 in the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes region of France. She grew up on a farm in the village of Allevier, near the town of Brioude, where she went to school. She has memories of the war and occupation. “I remember the Germans marching into the town,” she says. “I watched them burn part of town because the Maquis [rural bands of the French Resistance] had hurt some soldiers. A lot of people lost their shops and businesses. They [the Germans] were really ruthless.” She looks reflective. “It wasn’t a good time.” She remembers the Wehrmacht turning up at her family’s farm. “They would just roll in and take what they wanted.” Suddenly images are flashing through her mind. She tells me about her uncle, who, she says, became a prisoner of war and was sent to Auschwitz. He wasn’t Jewish and I’m not sure how or why he ended up at that most notorious of concentration camps. “By the end they were sending everybody there,” she says. I’m not convinced Fernande can recall all the details accurately, but she does have one enduring image of him that she can’t shake from her memory. “I remember him frightening me when he turned up at our house [at the end of the war]. He was so skinny. He scared me. But that’s just a child’s
reaction. These are the things in your childhood you don’t forget.” When you’ve lived through all that, and survived, then perhaps this last year doesn’t seem as extraordinary as it does to the rest of us.
The temperature has changed significantly. The weather isn’t great today, with little sun and occasional drizzle, but it is very mild now as we approach the end of February. I catch Libby and Emma sheltering beneath a tree during a light shower. The two friends quite often spend time in the park. “I couldn’t imagine it not being here,” says Emma. “I used to come here when I was younger,” adds 14-year-old Libby. “It’s one of those places that you can socially distance and still be with someone,” continues Emma, who’s a year younger than her friend. The rains stops and they return to their bench, drying the wood with tissues before sitting down.
On the circular metal bench of the gazebo, beneath an octagonal roof, two 23-year-olds are in conversation. Ellie Boll and Amy White meet in the park a couple of times a week. “We’d be sitting inside in a cafe under normal circumstances,” says Ellie. “It’s nice to be somewhere where there are people,” says Amy. I ask them about their experiences during the pandemic. Amy was in her final term at university when the virus hit. It disrupted her exams, but she’s glad that it was only the final few months that were affected. She feels for students who’ve had their first year ruined. Amy has been fortunate in another way too: she found a job during the pandemic as others were losing theirs, securing a marketing position in Alton. She had hoped to get a job that would take her away from her hometown but she realises she’s been lucky to buck the trend and get work in these testing times. Ellie too feels fortunate. She has an online business selling second-hand clothes, and it is doing okay.
On a bench in front of the bandstand, Liz and Adrian Webb are sitting side by side. The married couple regularly walk through the park but seldom stop to sit. However, today they are taking their time and taking in the view. “It’s just a lovely relaxing place to sit and watch the world go by, such as it is,” says Liz. They are 61 and 62 years old respectively and both got their Covid jabs the previous day. I’m a little surprised as they look in excellent health. I ask if they have underlying health conditions. They don’t, they say, but both take blood pressure-reducing tablets. The three of us wonder if perhaps there is an element of postcode lottery as to who gets the jab when.
Behind the Webbs, sat on the elevated platform of the bandstand, are Eligh and Page, both 15. A few school books are spread out on the floor in front of them, and they have earphones in. They say they are using the park quite often these days. “It’s a nice place to hang out,” says Page, removing her earphones. “It’s a way of getting out of the house at the moment, otherwise you’re stuck in your home doing nothing.” Eligh and Page no longer attend the same school. Page has transferred to Amery Hill after being bullied at her previous one, Eggar’s, where Eligh still studies. The park is the place the two meet to catch up. I ask if anyone they know has had Covid. “My nan had it,” says Page. “And actually I’ve had it too.” What was that
like? “Definitely difficult. Not the nicest thing to have.”
Over in the playground, Joe Shepherd is keeping a watchful eye on his two young children, a boy and a girl. Joe lives nearby and brings his kids here twice a week. “Definitely using the park a bit more [during the lockdown],” says the youthful-looking father, with coiffed dark hair, a neatly cropped beard and an affable manner. “If it wasn’t for this being here, within walking distance, we’d be a little bit stuffed.” As we talk, his well-behaved children run over to ask permission to use a piece of playground apparatus. I leave him to his parenting duties.
At the centre of the park is an enormous old tree, like something out of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Big branches twist and turn and contort, creating psychedelic patterns. It is a wellingtonia and over 30 metres tall. Sitting beneath it during a sunburst is Samantha Grace. From this central spot she has a panoramic view of the park, allowing her to observe her eight-year-old daughter, Emily, as she plays. “We come here at least twice a week, in between home-schooling,” says the 30-year-old mum. “So that my daughter can have a bit of normality. Somewhere she can roam free.” Just then Emily whizzes past on a pink bicycle, grinning, clearly enjoying having been let loose in this green space. I ask Samantha about her pandemic experience. “My mum’s shielding because she has a respiratory problem, so I’ve not seen her for the majority of the lockdown,” she says. “My daughter has asthma but her school, St Lawrence, has set up good protocols. I’m very proud of how they’ve handled it.” Samantha has a book on her lap and a coffee by her side. She seems to be enjoying her time in the park as much as Emily, who again whizzes by in a blur of movement, her little legs pedalling for all they are worth. I leave both in the ephemeral sunshine, enjoying this green space, and perhaps enjoying a moment that feels almost normal.
It’s the first day of March, the sun is out and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. It’s mild and there is unmistakeable evidence that spring is on the way. Crocuses are budding on the park’s lawns and bumblebees are gathering nectar. And there seems to be a sense of optimism everywhere. Lockdown rules will be relaxed, and there is the hope that the current national lockdown will be the last. It’s midday, and the number of empty benches is decreasing rapidly. By mid-afternoon this park will be filled with people desperate to be in the company of others, keen to have socially distanced conversations with friends and family and even strangers… eager to reclaim the life they had before Covid-19 arrived.
Alton Public Gardens was established on land that had once housed a private lunatic asylum, as such institutions were then called. The asylum closed its doors in 1915 and the estate was later acquired by the now-defunct Alton Urban District Council. All these years later, the same land, now green and pleasant, is helping keep the townsfolk sane.