The glorious wild.

Where I leave the all the wild flowers and the weeds to grow... and other enchanted encounters…

“She was a free bird one minute: queen of the world and laughing. The next minute she would be in tears like a porcelain angel, about to teeter, fall and break. She never cried because she was afraid that something 'would' happen; she would cry because she feared something that could render the world more beautiful, 'would not' happen.” ― Roman Payne

Hello dear readers…

I love how often French bank-holidays happen through this month of May, how they create a bridge over the Friday when Victory in Europe day and Ascension fall on a Wednesday and Thursday giving us five days off in a row. And, who would have guessed that after so much rain and cold and suffering to flora and fauna - seven ancient oaks over as many days now lay broken and torn - that we would at last be blessed with a few days of warm and glorious weather unbelievably falling on those five wonderful days off!

I’ve spent every hour, in a cloud of veritable floral variety attempting to make sense of the jungle that is my garden.

I had such hopes this year! With the guttering to the barn almost finished, as in really close to ALMOST, back in February and the possibility of having an extra forty-thousand litres of rain water collected in the cistern for watering, I was determined to have everything potted and planted, beds weeded, manure dug in…

But in her infinite wisdom, Mother Nature sent rain on rain on rain - the gutter is still just almost finished and my garden a quagmire. It was a beautiful dream…

But, delightful dilemmas prevail…

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Laced in gold - wild garden at dawn.

Oh but the weeds are beautiful!

To uncover the essentials in a garden that has a tendency to lean towards wild, as mine does, is a laborious task, one I love and hate in deed and thought. It is the why, after just a few hours, I take a less discerning gaze around and succumb once again, even after promising myself I wouldn’t this year, to the delirium of wild flowers, leaving them to do their wilful wild thing.

So, the weeds stay; the creeping buttercups and oxeye daisies, the blue stars of borage, the vetch that was so loved by my sheep, the bobbing white heads of campion and the cloud of forget-me-nots, even the horseradish with its delicate white flowers that has invaded one corner entirely and the lemon balm which is not only invading the garden but the empty sheep field too. The roquette and kale now seeded from last year also remain, I leave every one. All except the thistles and brambles because - ouch! I will regret this I always do… but I have these words floating around in my head, touching doubt in my fingers as they relish crumbly earth;

“Such plants are "weeds" only to those who make a business of selling and applying chemicals.”
― Rachel Carson

With the weight of guilt lifted, though not the image of my fathers critical eye, I leave all their loveliness and heavenly scents to attract the bees and the butterflies and resign myself to digging a new bed to nurture tomatoes plants that are overflowing in their pots under the skylight in the loft and then another for lettuces. Everything else I squeeze in between riotous wild. I am delighted by the enchantment I have created with the help of natures endless gorgeousness.

Like a wedding symphony… a parade of confetti at dusk.

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In finding small wonders… walk with me a while.

The harsh light of day that accompanies me while I drift through the question of flowers versus weeds is fading, Now, a kinder warmth touches tired bones as dusk beckons - this is what I understand - with myriad shades gathering in glowing folds of light and dark, gold tinted shadows and faintly aquamarine sky laced with cinnamon trees, the evening is a tangible deliciousness. I read earlier of a low pressure spreading its damp and humid greyness across the country - again… because of this I walk with an even deeper consciousness of doing so than usual taking into my skin every drop of the evening.

I meander up the hill, taking tracks thoughtfully left by the farmers giant tractor wheels. With arms stretched, my hands brush through the ears of now above waist high barley - it will be the best harvest I’ve seen since moving here. I sit quietly a while on what remains of the rocky outcrop just below silver birch whispering like ghosts in the breeze, listen to the evening songs floating out from branches where birds are hidden cleverly between, wishing I could see their sweetness. Across the acres of fields behind me a cuckoo is calling, another answers, their conversation indecipherable but melodic, somehow slower and less urgent than their dawn calls. As if they too are watching or waiting for the grand finale of todays story.

I am reluctant to return but indigo is leaking onto the horizon, the light fading. I turn, walk back via the ridge, down through the barley on the east side. Here it has grown taller still and there are no tyre tracks to make easy steps, scratchy ears touch my bare shoulders - I feel small - as I run with childlike euphoria to a strip of wooded clearing, the boundary between crop and meadow.

A young deer, startled by sudden human presence leaps from between two ancient cherry trees down through the meadow, it is out of sight before I even fall upon its sleeping place. Stopping to catch my breath, I crouch down, lay my hands in the warmth left by the soft of its body. I try to ignore an inexplicable impulse to lay in its shape, to curl my own body into its wild scent, pretend, for just a few beautiful seconds that life could be this simple.

I walk slowly now, breathing in the beginning of night. A barn owl glides between the trees, disappears into the forest beyond, silent, graceful - owlets, the word appears unbidden but so far, still… they don’t.

I am reluctant to let even one step lose its place in a future multi-faceted memory but as the indigo of darkness begins to draw charcoal smudges across fading light - my feet know the way…

This night - there was no end…

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With love from glorious wild

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The something I loved this week is by

Trivarna Hariharan

writing about mothers… beautifully enchanting writing and for me, beyond poignant.

Mothers who are the gardeners of the our human spirit.

There are so many kinds of mothers

Thank you for reading A Hill and I, if you enjoyed walking with me I’d love for you to show your appreciation by tapping the little ♥️ below or leaving a comment.