I am about to go to London for a summer break. I’m not sure about this: is there ever a “good time” to leave a garden?
As usual, I’m overwhelmed by the feeling – or maybe the obsession – that now is a critical moment (as if nature couldn’t get along perfectly well without me). And here’s why:
i) We have barely got the irrigation system straight. We allowed 6 weeks to do the overhaul, or 4+ months if you count from our first attempt in the New Year. Between January and May we have got through 2 engineers and several assistants; now we have a watering system that my husband sorted out in the end, but we haven’t had enough time to test it thoroughly for potential bursts.
ii) Raised beds 3 and 4, partially rescued by drastic measures during the winter, are doing well. Crops coming on-stream are onions, cherry tomatoes, capsicums, French beans and herbs. What I thought were sweet basil seeds germinated as Egyptian basil; meanwhile, the sweet basil popped up among the onions! I am leaving the flat leaf parsley, dill, rocket, coriander and sage to flower and go to seed, in the hope that the beds will host a wealth of self-seeded food crops, and I’m happy to see that this is working well. The effects are untidy, but bountiful. So why choose to go off and leave the garden at this moment?
iii) Elsewhere, the grass and shrubs are growing like topsy and the vines like tipsy, as my husband says. As the gardeners disappeared after agreeing to cut the hedge but before doing the job, the Indian laurels are bursting out in all directions. What is it about our hedge, I wonder, that strikes such fear in people’s hearts? I feel myself in danger of becoming a laurel-obsessed, shears-wielding danger to the landscape.
From a yogic point of view I need to detach myself from the drama, or from my wild imaginings, and return to the core. The plants are doing exactly what they should be doing: growing. I appreciate it everywhere else; I need to breathe deeply and appreciate it here, too.
Recently, I made the round trip to Alexandria by train, travelling northwest through the Delta. It was harvest time: the wheat was being cut and, as far as I could see, threshed on site and bagged up for sale.
Travelling through the countryside, even though insulated from it by the train, gives a real sense of the pulse of life in Egypt since ancient times. In the Delta, broad vistas stretch as far as the eye can see, the flat land divided into strips where diverse crops are cultivated side-by-side. Just now, there’s golden wheat next to bright green sweetcorn, still young, next to the darker green foliage of potatoes, next to fresh green “berseem” or clover in flower, fodder for the animals and a natural fertiliser. Here and there, stands of palm trees or small orchards of citrus fruit break up the flat vistas; or wooden trellises, ready and waiting for climbing vines that will produce a crop not of grapes, but of loofahs, later in the summer.
Men and women are working in the fields, or taking a break in the shade of a tree or a rough shelter, to drink tea and chat. Animals – donkeys, water buffaloes, cattle and sheep – munch on the post-harvest gleanings. Dawn to dusk, day after day, the scene is repeated across the country in a natural cycle that we try to break at our peril. Go with the flow!
(The above photos were taken close to Cairo during a journey into the countryside in spring 2014, when the wheat was not yet ripe.)