Garden of the Senses

Nine o’clock. I sit in my garden, sipping a cup of tea (so English!) and savouring the results of the past weekend’s gardening achievements. The bushes and shrubs we have shaped and trimmed wave softly in the breeze. The sun shines through them, making delightful patterns of sun and shade on the freshly swept stones of the patio. A soft breeze moves through the branches of the lilac, setting up a gentle motion across the garden, not restless but a calming influence, a restful movement, beckoning me on to contemplation and enjoyment of this moment before work begins.

Fronds of honeysuckle break free from the archway where we have tried to entwine them, defying our attempts at neatness. A blackbird flies low across the garden, settles in the bird bath and flutters in the shallow water, preening itself and splashing until, satisfied with its ablutions, it flies up into the lilac tree and perches there, shaking the glistening drops of water from its wings. A painted lady drifts across the foliage and busy bees dart here and there, their work already begun.

Soft pink petals quiver and fall to the ground as the gentle breeze moves softly through them. I watch the star-shaped patterns of the oleander leaves, dark on white, against the sunlit, painted wooden shed, subtly rearranging themselves as the wind ripples the leaves. The jasmine shifts in the breeze and releases a waft of its heady perfume. And I realise that this movement: sometimes fierce, sometimes gentle like today, is an integral part of the garden, scattering showers of leaves and petals, spoiling the tidying we have done, but a part of the garden’s glory. It’s alive.

All my life I’ve had a love affair with colour. The rich red and soft pink of the roses; the bright spurs of purple lavender, standing up straight and reaching for the warm sunshine; the bright pinks and oranges of the nemesias and the creamy white of the pyracanthus blossom. As the wind blows, the hydrangea scatters clouds of yellow pollen everywhere. All these things have delighted me. After the grey Dutch winter, the world comes alive for me when the sun shines, the temperature rises and the landscape is suddenly drenched with colour.

But today it is the movement that touches me. The stirrings of the leaves in response to this gentle wind, which one is rarely without in this land of wind. Even here, in my sheltered garden, the wind creeps in, over the wall, over the fences, through the gaps in the foliage and it creates this green well of life – not static or stagnant, but alive, acting and reacting, changing, impressing itself on me, catching my attention.

I get up and wander slowly through the garden, stopping to admire the beauty. I run my fingers through the leaves of the thyme, sage and rosemary, so that each releases its own special aroma, and turn to identify the source of the sudden blasts of perfume from honeysuckle and jasmine. I reach up and bury my nose in roses climbing high on the pergola, inhaling their gorgeous scent, and I gaze up into the clear blue sky.

In the background, I hear other noises. A neighbour is vacuuming, with the back door open to enjoy this lovely morning. A murmuring of voices in the distance seeps into my consciousness and a school party, maybe on a trip out, herded along the pavement by watchful teachers; then sounds of traffic from afar. They disturb me, these sounds, here in my peaceful garden, but they remind me that the rest of the world is alive too. Without them I would be alone. Their noises mingle with the garden sounds – the cheeping of baby birds from next door’s fir tree, the buzzing of insects, the rustle of leaves. The world is alive in so many, many ways and I am here, with all my senses, to taste and enjoy it.


*title inspired by a visit to the ‘Jardin des Cinq Sens’ in Yvoire, France.

Life in the City

Sipping a coffee – the biggest one I can find – I sit, contemplating the world around me. Jostled, bumped, elbowed, squeezed, I sink back into my basket chair and am thankful to escape, at least for a while, from the busy city streets I have just battled my way through.

The whole city seems to be in competition. Like a tall green forest (something I understand better than this) - the trees straining upwards in competition for the sunlight – the entire city seems to be conspiring together, in a deadly ongoing struggle, not towards harmony, but towards securing the basics for life – light, heat and, above all, space. The tall office blocks and elegant church spires (new and old in tension) reach together for the sky and for recognition. A power struggle, masquerading as a ‘beauty’ contest, encouraged by the city authorities, has been inaugurated for the highest building to dominate the skyline, the weirdest design, the most innovative building materials. Steel girders, giant cranes, scary glass buildings, reflecting their surroundings but giving no clue to the secrets concealed inside, all jostle with each other for pride of position. Humanity follows suit. I must adapt.

In the old days, living in the quiet English countryside, I used to stroll through the centre of the little market town where I lived, greeting my neighbours, stopping for a friendly word or offering up a ‘half-smile’, the one we reserve for strangers, and stepping aside to let a harassed mother with a pushchair through, anticipating the polite dance that the oncoming ‘traffic’ and I would need to do in order to pass each other on the pavement. Those were the innocent days! Life was gentler, not so intense or focussed, and there was time for the niceties of life.

In the city, years later, life has moved on and it is a rude awakening. Nobody knows me. Nobody has time to know me or even consider me, or the small and very modest amount of space required by one small person, simply trying to make room for herself and her life in an alien environment. Everyone is intent on their own business. Each one has a purpose, a time scale, deadlines that must be strictly adhered to. In the process the relentless army mows me down.

As I sit contemplating the way life has gone over the years I reflect after all that maybe life in the city is not so different. Nowadays, my street is my village! In the city, it is true, I am still a stranger. In my street, after five years, I can exchange greetings with the neighbours. Now they know that, though foreign, I am here to stay. I have been in the street longer than many Dutch people now. On the street we chat about the weather; I search in my garden for lost footballs kicked over the wall by the neighbours’ children; I rescue a neighbour’s dog which has escaped and strayed into the busy road. Occasionally we even share a meal together or make arrangements to look after the neighbour’s cat or house plants at holiday time. Here, at last, I am a part of the community, even though I still struggle with the language.

Just lately, the weather has been like an early summer and, warmed by the sunshine, we smile at each other instead of hurrying on by, hunched against the cold and battling against the wind and rain. Why are we all so much friendlier when the sun shines? Why do we seem to undergo a complete personality change when we feel the warmth of the sun on our shoulders and relax in the soft, balmy air? It’s a miracle! Suddenly the whole city is transformed into a big village. Friends are laughing and drinking together in the pretty pavement cafés, urgent tasks are put off until tomorrow and there is a sense of well-being and community in the air. We are sharing this wonderful weather together! Tomorrow it may rain and we will retreat into our private worlds, but for now we smile happily and believe again that we are loved and life is good.

Cold, hard and unstoppable!

I saw a trailer today – yet another one – for The Apprentice. The latest development in the Dragons Den story, Lord Alan Sugar is out to do a bit more recruiting. A fun TV programme? A little game? A challenge we can get excited about? Surely just a joke? Sadly not. This stuff is helping to set the scene for the modern business world and even for some sectors of society.

Imagine the scene. It’s the latest family wedding. Everyone’s gathered – young and old. Uncle Bert is entertaining his favourite nephew. He’s struggling a bit because the wedding speeches are dragging on. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Jo?” A pause… “Cold, hard and unstoppable” comes the serious reply. Wait a minute, is this what really what we want to hear from our seven year olds? “Wouldn’t you like to work with animals, Jo? Become a vet? Or perhaps drive a train?” Apparently not. Jo has his eye on his future, his bank balance and probably his pension – already.

Do I exaggerate? Well, yes, probably, but is this what we really want? Imagine two of these cold, hard, unstoppable people striking up a relationship together, moving in together, sharing a house, sharing the chores, and even bringing up children together… What is likely to happen? A great formula for making money, perhaps – although I wouldn’t personally want to do business with Mr./Ms. Cold, Hard & Unstoppable. But imagine climbing into bed at night with him/her! Imagine sharing your old age with this latest streamlined, souped-up business model of humanity. When do we get to go on holiday, switch off the lap-top and settle down together on our sun beds?

Are we on ‘self-destruct’ – out to destroy the human race or what? Well, no need to get over-intense – just a couple of idle thoughts I had whilst wasting a few seconds of precious money-making time…

April in Majorca

The door bangs. I wake with a jolt. I lie still in the darkness, rigid between the faintly damp sheets, staring at the pattern of light filtering through the wooden shutters and disturbed by the gleam of light under the door from the hotel landing. Noisy neighbours; an ill-fitting door – typical hotel stuff! Each time they shut the door there is a loud scraping noise. The whole floor must be able to hear it. They seem to need to open and shut it a lot. It seems to go on for hours. In between I drift off to sleep, only to be rudely awakened by the next bang. In the end, too stressed for further sleep, I lie there, miserable, stomach tensed, fists clenched, waiting for the next one. These things always loom so large during the night hours. Later my habitual anxiety problems escalate into full-blown gastritis, spoiling the holiday and requiring a Spanish doctor to be called out on her bank holiday weekend. But for the moment it is just one of those holiday hazards.

In the morning, after our eventful night, the hotel receptionist promises to send a ‘technician’ to look at the offending door. He looks, but it cannot be fixed! However, we set about planning our day. Our holiday weather started well. We enjoyed two whole days of sunshine – almost as warm as the heat wave we left behind in northern Europe (!), but with a chill wind that leaves you never sure what to wear, what to take, and staggering out each morning with a bag packed with alternatives to cover all eventualities. Just like home!

After two days of sunshine, the hotel desk admits, after persistent questioning, that the weather doesn’t look good today. That can’t be fixed either. We pile on layers of the thin summer clothes we brought with us and shiver in the wind and misty rain. As usual, Spain is ill-prepared for bad weather and so are we. There are heating controls in the hotel bedroom and we eagerly fiddle with them, hoping to gain some temporary relief from the damp and cold. But however many knobs and levers we press the temperature remains the same. In summer it works fine as air conditioning but apparently there is no need for heating the rest of the year.

At breakfast the hotel’s beachside terrace, with breathtaking views, is again available to us. In the warm sunshine it is magical. But now? Inside the hotel the tables are also laid up for breakfast but the doors onto the terrace are wide open as usual and a gale blows in. In the evening it is the same: scantily clad diners attempt to enjoy the romantic setting in this stunning waterfront restaurant in temperatures that at home would call for winter clothes and central heating! Viva España!

Majorca does not disappoint. The island never does – only the weather and the broken infrastructure of this magical isle are sometimes frustrating. “Es roto! Es España!” one defeated restaurant owner in Southern Spain once told me, in a rather sad display of national shame (“it’s broken – this is Spain!”). I had simply politely mentioned that the toilet seat was broken and the door didn’t lock.

But the sea is still sparkling in a variety of shades of turquoise, the palest of greens, aqua-marine and indigo – all of them so totally unbelievable and yet so totally true! The olive groves are such a wonderful shade of grey-green, so twisted and gnarled, so ancient and so gloriously restful! The orange and lemon trees are still laden with both fruit and blossom! The air is filled with a hundred-and-one exquisite aromas and the mountains are alive with the sound of twittering birdsong. Who could ask for more?

‘Un Hiver à Majorque’ (A Winter in Majorca), the famous volume that is now a by-word in tourist Majorca – on sale in all the best bookshops, tells the story, not of a tourist paradise, but of a winter of discontent. In 1838-39 French novelist, George Sand, spent a miserable season in the Carthusian monastery of Valldemossa in the mountains of northern Majorca, together with her then lover, the composer, Chopin, and her children. Although the book describes the scenery, flora and fauna and customs of the island at that time, it centres on the discomfort and deprivations, the cold and the rain, of their disastrous stay there, which exacerbated Chopin’s pre-existing condition of tuberculosis. Ironically, the book has helped to make the island the famous and much-loved tourist destination that it is today.

After repeated visits, frustrating weather, sleepless nights in draughty, damp hotels and broken toilet seats, I understand where they were coming from. But just wait till the sun comes out! Wait till the orange blossom appears. Wait till the swifts start to wheel in the vivid blue sky overhead, high above the bell tower of the monastery of Valldemossa and a soft warm breeze wafts the aroma of the blossom down through the whole valley. A deep sense of joy and well-being floods through even the most discontented traveller, wiping out, almost without trace, all thoughts of sleepless nights and winter chills. Nothing matters any more. ‘Summer in Majorca’! What a different book that might have been!