My Gardening Journey by Eleanor Abrahams

So here I am, writing about my gardening journey. The opening act to this story stars my husband as the main character, who was a talented gardener who loved his plants so much, possibly more than me! I could usually be found just happily wandering around, admiring his handiwork, and soaking up the garden’s beauty.

We were both born and raised in Zimbabwe. Unbelievable as it might seem, the plants and flowers are mostly the same as we have here on this little isle. Growing up, my mother grew flowers with glorious fragrances like sweet peas, roses, carnations, jasmine and many others. I realised retrospectively that the problem with my dreadful hay fever was the huge, beautiful jasmine growing outside my teenage bedroom window! We also had numerous fruit trees in our one-acre garden, and the very best was the mulberry tree. Us children spent most of our lives with purple feet from walking around the tree and eating those delicious berries. Mum had a huge vege patch, in which the artichokes took pride of place. The many plants just kept on producing and all the family would come round for ritual artichokes and hollandaise sauce feasts.

Even though my childhood backdrop was so wondrous, I was not inclined to actually get on my hands and knees and do any gardening. I was a musician from a very early age, so was an exclusively indoors girl. I trained as a piano teacher and taught class music for many years in Zimbabwe and Botswana, which was a dream come true.

We moved to England in 1997 with our three children, bringing with it the struggles of migration. Nevertheless, my husband left a trail of magic wherever we went, creating beautiful gardens with nothing more than a few cuttings from here and there. He spent hardly any money at all - as opposed to me who has now spent a lifetime’s worth of savings on plants and gardening tools!  

Patiently, he taught me the basics of plant care after I took over the gardening at our home in Colchester, following his heart attack. He was, however, justifiably terrified of my pruning tactics. I would boldly cut off any offending branches and stems - offensive to me, not to a regular gardener. I remember buying 2 honeysuckles, which I cut right back in order to move them. I don’t think he ever forgave me, and glared at me for weeks, calling me a honeysuckle murderer. As an aside, the honeysuckles have thrived, thank goodness. I have learned a lot since those early days, and just really love working/playing in my garden now. It has filled the creative void in me that I have missed for so long. How amazing nature is.

After my husband died in 2018, I thought it a brilliant idea to carry on his legacy and to really learn how to look after his splendid garden. Enthusiastically, I signed up for the RHS long distance course Level 2 but was flummoxed by all the Latin names. How on earth was I supposed to even pronounce such words? I spent many months learning how to pronounce plant names, then looking those words up to put a face (or bush) to a name. I adored learning about all the soils, biology of plants and such like, but it has taken me a while to get back into the swing of academia.

Enter WRAGS. I was always buying plants from random people through social media. During one such visit I happened to meet a lady who, quite frankly, changed the direction of my life. I told her all about trying to get to grips with the course, and she asked if I’d heard of WRAGS. I was eager to learn more about the scheme, so I phoned, and kept on phoning and emailing Jane Palmer, the regional manager of Essex, Bedfordshire and Hertfordshire. She was marvellous, so encouraging and knowledgeable. I used to pester her with questions about plants, and she in turn tried to find me a placement. Nothing doing for a year or so, then the Regional Manager of Suffolk found me a placement in a big private garden, for which I was delighted. However, after a month of working there and loving it, the first lockdown was announced, so that was that. I was not happy with the universe, I can tell you!

Then Jane told me that the National Garden Scheme were prepared to pay for an apprenticeship placement, so she contacted Springmead Community Gardens in Brightlingsea. Julie Ford, the head gardener (soon to become manager), agreed to take me on as her apprentice, and I started in October 2020. I am grateful to them for this gift, and so glad to be getting a chance to get hands on experience. As an aside, one of the volunteers looked at me and said laconically “well, you’re never too old to be an apprentice I suppose”. I thought this was very funny, as well as feeling a bit indignant, being as I am a mere sixty years of age. Anyway, moving swiftly on…. 

Julie is the most marvellous of teachers, and with her extensive knowledge of plants and garden design, is the perfect tutor for me. She is patient, kind and funny and has taught me a multitude of horticultural delights. She has, however, despaired of my inability to tell the difference between a Miscanthus Sinensis Zebrinus, a Miscanthus Sinensis Variegata and a Stipa (even though she has told me 10 times, and I have looked it up 50 times)! I even have some of these in my garden, so I really need to get a grip. I’m sure you can tell the difference, you knowledgeable beings. I am, however, much more at ease with the Latin names of plants now that Julie is educating me. 

I love learning, getting muddy in the bog garden, slipping down the woodland slopes, pruning plants (Julie has to keep an eye on me with my tendency to be over enthusiastic with the loppers) and getting in the pond to remove great mounds of duck and blanket weed. Seeing new spring bulbs and flowers peeking through the soil every day is such a delight.

 The garden is enchanting, and many people come here, saying how peaceful it is, and that just being there has helped them in these difficult times that we are living in. Julie and her many volunteers have made it such a welcoming place to work, and the living, breathing heartbeat of the garden is indeed a much-needed balm for the soul. 

All images. Author’s own.