Wednesday, 14 September 2011
It is nearly five years since we moved into the "Seventies Monstrosity" as I tend to call our house.
The front garden, when we first moved here, was tended and perfect. Neat. Not a blade nor a rose out of place. It featured automatic watering and dinky little volcanic pebbles to minimise the weeds.
Some five years on, it has a more "lived in" look, a more rough and tumble appearance, and a lot more "native" a feel.
My lovely husband is a talented gardener. I have made mention of his gluts before, and yes, I love his gluts, for gluts sake. But he is not so keen on working on the front garden. Too public. He hates to "get neighboured" whilst he is gardening and resists lengthy small talk with passers by.
So, our front garden has evolved into a beautiful but rather random combination of herb and salad patch at the lower level, and native jungle at the top of the drive next to the street.
The pavement is gradually lifting, I notice. By the roots of a wattle tree that has grown, from nothing, in less than five years. It is currently in flower, and quite breathtaking. I see people on their evening stroll stop, and admire it's height, it's profusion and it's colour. As I round the corner into our street, and see the wattle, quite bursting with abundant flower and foliage I feel a swell of pride.
When I look at snaps of the front of our house from five years ago, this tree was not evident. It has grown in such a short space of time. Native to the postcode and loving the soil, it has thrived. I take photos today, and it is hard to fit the whole tree into one snap.
Which makes me realise, if you just let nature be, if you leave things to their own devices, beautiful things grow strong.