It's said that many a writer has been a keen gardener.

My father, a dedicated gardener, was not a writer by any stretch of the imagination; however, he had a nimble mind and an excellent eye for design. In the twilight of his life, I saw relatively little of him given we lived on different continents separated by the vast waters of the Indian Ocean. 

On my infrequent visits, I would find him crouched over one of his precious flower beds or weeding his bountiful vegetable patch, a look of intense pleasure enveloping his lined, weather-beaten face. He wore a large floppy straw hat better to protect him from the African sun, a tattered pair of gardening shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, long past its use-by date. From certain angles, he resembled a scarecrow intent on keeping diving swallows away from his abundant tomato crop.

We never spoke much he and I although I used to observe him after a day in his beloved garden when he always had a serene glow about him as if he had accomplished something monumental.  Perhaps he had, as he once told me that when tending his flowers and vegetables, he would develop ideas and plan his future projects; "Working in a garden allows your imagination to run free." Given that I had no interest in tending a garden, I had no idea what he meant.

 Until now.

When the pandemic arrived at the beginning of 2020, it caught most, nay all of us ultimately by surprise. Governments issued decrees confining us to our homes having no contact with others as a way to stop the spread of the virus. 

Cities, towns and villages suddenly became quiet, devoid of people on the streets going about their daily lives. Cars, trucks, busses and other forms of motorized transport were stored in garages or stood idle on the sides of deserted roads and lanes. 

Quiet enveloped the earth.  

I am fortunate in that I live on a tropical island cocooned in a splendid house surrounded by sprawling grounds all surrounded by high, ivy-covered walls keeping us in and the rest of the world out.

As the long, languid days of the pandemic morphed into weeks and then months, each day became a repeat of the last, until the day to day life was akin to being aboard a rudderless raft drifting in a becalmed sea. Suddenly, no magazines were calling for tales of faraway places as travel had become a distant memory, meaning assignments slowed to a trickle then stopped altogether. 

All at once, I became like the raft. 

Rudderless.

 With an abundance of time on my hands, I devoured novels, most of which revolved around incidents that took place in gardens. It dawned on me that so many eminent writers over centuries have derived their inspiration from the gardens that surrounded them.

There is a strong correlation between owning a beautiful garden and becoming a successful writer. (I have the garden, so perhaps there is a chance that success is just over the horizon!) My childhood literary hero, Enid Blyton created score upon score of books and series writing in her splendid garden at Old Thatch, her house in Beaconsfield. Agatha Christie drew much of her inspiration from her 30-acre park at Greenway in Devon. 

Gipsy House, with its sprawling grounds in Great Missenden, is where Roald Dahl lived for 36 years. He based the character of his 'Big Friendly Giant' on the warm-hearted builder commissioned to construct his writing shed. The gaily painted gipsy caravan at the bottom of the garden was the inspiration for 'Danny, Champion of the World.'

Part of Dahl's garden at Gypsy House.

My curiosity piqued, I did some research and discovered scores of writers have often been keen gardeners. Rudyard Kipling's garden at Bateman's led him to pronounce that one writes what one practices. 'Gardens are not made by singing, "Oh, how beautiful," and sitting in the shade' – surely a line written from experience. The lawns rose gardens and sheltered Mulberry groves stand testament to his 'green fingers' and the influence for him to write 'Rewards and Fairies' while at Bateman's.

Look hard enough, and you will find that great literature is full of gardens. Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca begins with her dream, of unruly, angst-ridden plants and shrubs lining the long, winding drive to Manderley. Charlotte Brontë ensures Jane Eyre and Edward Rochester's love blossoms in various summer garden settings. Mary Lennox's splendid, 'The Secret Garden' epitomizes everything horticultural throughout the novel. Even the Bard was enchanted by a well-tended garden when he wrote of Romeo calling to Juliette in a formal Italian garden bathed in moonlight.

Many novelists seem to thrive on horticulture as symbolism and plot progression, perhaps capturing the internalized thoughts of their characters. Gardens are used as symbolic expressions of innocence and purity of human spirituality. 

The expression, "like father, like son" has recently come back to haunt me given that COVID 19 turned me into …. a keen gardener!   While musing about the state of the world a few months ago, I let my eye rove over the garden and had an 'epiphany.'  If I removed the 100 odd ginger root trees that ran down the west side of the house this would a) free up about 70 meters of space b) Allow sunshine to flood that area of the grounds.

It was an idea that should have perhaps stayed where it germinated! 

A ginger tree grows to a height of about four to four and a half meters and waves in the breeze until at some point it decides, "that's enough" and promptly topples over. These trees are easily cut down but, having 'felled' four cut them into manageable chunks I realized that felling this 'forest' would fill a fleet of garbage trucks. A month of toil, accompanied by 'secret bribes' paid to the rubbish collectors ensured I had an enthusiastic team to remove a mountain of refuse.

Wayan, my once a week gardener showed infinite patience when surveying my efforts at planting, pruning and all-round maintenance of new spaces and guided me through the process of when and where to place the young plants.

My garden has evolved into a poetic and secret space (one perfect for hiding) as it has become a utopia, a refuge and a place that refreshes my mind and spirit. It inspires me (hence this piece) and, as my father once said, "it allows one's imagination to run free". 

On that particular point, he was right. 

Bali September 2020