The Last Country Garden

A brown roadside sign with white letters
Establishes, for outsiders, enough;
The name of the estate and ‘Gardens’ -
Beckoning off the B road
Somewhere between Ross and Hereford.
A mid-afternoon diversion before
The caravan and the kids and
Those demands and distractions.

We’d mutually agreed to leaving
Them in the car with their electronics
While we strolled the property.
Before turning down a single track
Towards the Wye Valley;
A tunnel of fecund trees heralded
Early Summer, but also isolation.
The village was nowhere to be seen.

The car park, a gravel patch next
To crumbling outbuildings, once majestic,
Was empty and available, with but
Three other cars (no teens in them;
Ours would be pioneers, if
Not prisoners. Would anyone care?)
A drowsiness filled the space as
I pulled into mine.

On through a brick arch to
The tea room and the eight quid
Admission and two-sided
A4 describing the gardens.
I pocketed the last glossy
Brochure informing of same,
Already suspecting we’d happened
Upon fallen grandeur.

Then ambling up a bucolic
If tarmac-cracked avenue between
Singular trees to the top-of-hill entrance
To the gardens, a gentle bend to
The left and you asked for
The descriptions; a querulous
Tone to keep me occupied and
Focused; in the moment.

Then a grassy descent to
The first level, ‘The Dell’, with
Its ancient stone cider press a
Central feature. You perked up
Then; revived from an afternoon
Of subtle disappointment… them,
And me, again not showing Care,
Appreciation, Love.

The gardens offered escape; a
Moment to chat about it (the
Horticulture that used to be)
Instead of them, or us. We’re
Both still tongue-tied in our
Avoidance of that which
Grows over us. Cutting back
Seems a long way off.

‘It’d take an army
Of gardeners to put it right’
You murmured, and I
Assented, noting the
Unkempt scene. An army
Marched through our past:
‘Loved ones’, vicars, counsellors…
And a lot of good they did. I mean that.

The garden had suffered neglect,
Disease, disorientation. Yes,
The Dell was just a lawn
Bordered by more interesting trees, so we
Shuffled down a narrow slope,
Onto ‘The Old Tennis Courts’;
Room for two, now traversed by the
Ghosts of Edwardian garden parties.

Uphill behind the pavilion, the manor house;
Lived-in but lifeless, its
Multiple windows a honeycomb of
Empty eye sockets. We played tennis
Early in our marriage, but then
The kids, the jobs, and the
Just-not-inclined. A further downward incline
Led on to ‘The Rose Pool.’

The A4 sheet described what followed as
‘A Sunken Florentine Garden with
A simple cruciform pattern of deep rills.’
At this point print didn’t
Matter; yet again words
Belittled the reality
Of this
Desperate situation.

The rills were browned-under with dead
Leaves beneath several inches
Of turgid water, and the statues
Could have cared less.
Further downhill, behind trees, before us,
The Wye, a turgid rill itself,
Made its way south.
We turned to make our way uphill.

For that slog we needed to pass up
Through four levels of
The Terrace Garden; I moved
Ahead of you while you took pictures.
Each level separated us by
A rose-branched brick wall with
An arched passage to
The next level of plantings.

I turned to locate you at
The level below, your face obscured
By the camera. I moved up,
You moved to one side
And disappeared. These gardens were
Well-tended but still in
Early-summer barrenness.
Then you appeared at the next arch.

Here, near the end, I
Went back in my mind, again, to
Milan. Our first home, its
‘Va benes’ and ‘molto benes’ and
Choked clogged Tangenziale, but
Our terrace with its flower pots and looking
Beyond, the rice fields to the Abbazia
Mirasole, medieval nursery for monks.

Luigi next door blasting
Puccini off his terrace while you
Turned up The Archers on that
Dinky cassette player. Like Mussolinis, we escaped
North to Como, especially Bellagio, with its
Palazzi, terraces cascading with bright
Fiore, and the alpine lake a lavender
Blue. There was potential then.

Back down to town,
We visited that monks' refectory with
Leonardo’s resplendent garden; its
Cracked plaster under desperate renovation
By art history grads on scaffolding
Before spotlights. We could only stare
From the back; what care-
Que vita.

At the top, you joined me
Next to that trim chapel and we entered
The courtyard again. Sometimes journeys
Take us back to where we started but we
Arrive with a different perspective. Still
Deserted, we returned to the car through
A final arch. Left the bored girl and the fluttering
A4s. The cream teas would have to wait.

We found the fruits of our sowing;
Thumbs still on gadgets. Brief
Wan smiles, showing, ‘Hardly noticed
You gone.’ It’s right to leave
Some garden to seed. Fallow, regenerating,
Absorbing sheets of English rain.
It might come back with
Something better than before.