Gardening with Brighid

I'm just back from an amazing weekend spent in Galway with my friend, Brighid.  Brighid lives in an old Irish cottage which she has filled with gorgeous fabrics, symbolism and a fabulous collection of indoor plants.  Brighid adores all plants as they too are forms of life just like us manifested on this earth in a different form.  She rescued a limb from a 100 year old cactus plant that had belonged to her grandmother and coaxed it to grow on its own.  It is now over six foot tall. She even has an ivy that broke through from outside the house walls and comes through the kitchen ceiling.  It's as welcome as those in pots.  She waters all her plants regularly with rainwater she saves and not 'chlorine muck from the tap'. 

 

A magnificent geranium sits like an enormous spider in front of a pine dresser; its long, thin branches droop delicately over the edges of its throne almost reaching the floor.   The leaves are a hue of dark green, shimmering velvet edged in purple. The fabric like quality of the leaves are such that if sewn together would make a gown as magnificent as the one worn by Scarlett O'Hara when she visited Rhett Butler in gaol.  I assumed from its size that like the cactus it, too, was an antique plant.  I asked Brighid if I could take a cutting. 

 

 "You know," she said, "plants are like people: if you provide the right environment they will thrive and if you're very lucky the odd one might even flower." Given that I had confessed the night before to buying plants in twos and take at least nine cuttings from a friends' plants in the hope of at least one surviving, her reluctance was understandable. 

 

 Not wishing to spoil its shape I concentrated my search around the back but as it was surrounded by other plants in equally massive pots restricting my access all I could do was paw uselessly at its leaves trying to find the beginning of an offshoot.  Looking for the source of the Nile would've been easier.   Eventually I decided that since this plant was such a monster it wouldn't miss one of its many legs and I simply ripped one out.  However, its long elegant stems was so entangled up with the others it was like trying to unknot a child's hair.  I regretted starting the venture and shoved the gangly leg into the plastic carrier bag from last night's Chinese take-away.

 

That night it poured but we woke to a beautiful sunny morning. We had our breakfast sitting on the patio enjoying the sun trap.  Brighid's house is less than a 100 feet from the sea and I could smell the salt in the breeze as I sipped my coffee.    I noticed a large pink plastic pot filled with rain-water.  I was tempted to tip it out as I do at home: most of my plants die from being waterlogged but just then a car pulled into the driveway. "Ah, it's Ms Moldova," said Brighid.  Brighid hopped up from her chair and ran inside the house.  Ms Moldova got out of her car and as she crossed the yard towards us she stopped at the pink bucket and picking up one of the handles she spilled the contents into the drain beside it.  She beat me to it.  

 

Suddenly an anguished "No" howled from inside the house.  Ms Moldova and I froze.  Brighid appeared at the backdoor holding a large plastic bowl and cried, "What have you done with my rainwater.....?" 

 

After breakfast we went for a walk.  Brighid drove a short distance before parking the car on a Boreen lined with stone walls beyond which lay fields filled with cows, some horses and hordes of golden, healthy daffodils in their prime.   It brought to mind Cork's version of Wordsworth's famous poem and I shared it with Brighid.

 

I wandered lonely as a cloud

I wandered over vale and hill

When all at once I heard a shout

"Get off me fucking daffodils."

 

We came across a row of horse chestnut trees, their fat, sticky buds ready to burst.  "They would look amazing opening up in my home," said Brighid.   Scanning the line of trees she spotted a fallen branch which miraculously had new buds on it.  She marched into the bramble patch several yards wide that stood between us and the buds.  I plunged right in after her.  I joined her at the fallen branch and enthusiastically helped rip several short branches handing the best ones to Brighid.  Armed with a bouquet of toffee coloured buds, Brighid re-traced her steps effortlessly crossing the bramble patch again to safety.      I was not so lucky.  At every step my feet sank into booby traps of criss-crossed branches; strings of bramble snaked around my legs and wouldn't let me pass without first snagging my jeans tearing, small holes into the fabric and leaving behind little thorns which I could feel but not see. 

 

When I finally broke free I ran to catch up with the waiting Brighid.  In slightly panicky tones I told her, "That was harder to get out of than it was going in."    She agreed smiling at me,  "That could be a metaphor for life." 

 

By the time we got back to the house it was mid-afternoon and time for me to go home.  There was one more plant I wanted; Brighid had a large aloe vera on the window sill of her kitchen with a healthy offshoot at the base; perfect for re rooting in a new home.   I read somewhere that aloe vera is one of five plants that are ideal for bedrooms as they readily absorb negative energy. 

 

"Could I have some of that?"  I asked Brighid.  She looked at the plant doubtfully. "Yes, but let me do it."

Brighid stood in front of the aloe vera, "This is Geraldine.  She's going to take very good care of you so don't worry.  She's going to put you on a window sill as soon as she gets home so that you get as much sunlight as possible."   She then plucked the offshoot from the mother plant and looked around for something to put it into. 

"Here," I said holding up the bag with the geranium cutting I had taken the previous day.

"Absolutely not," she said, "it needs something much more sacred than that," and walked past me into the dining area.  She opened several cupboards and pulled out a tall glass cup the kind in which you would serve an Irish Coffee.

I protested, "Brighid that's too good, a plastic bottle will do."

"Not at all," she said and holding it up to me continued, "look, it's got a Celtic symbol on it, that's a good sign."

Overwhelmed yet again by her generosity, I followed her to the sink and stood beside her as she filled the glass with water from the tap.  She filled it right to the top and then realised it was too much.  She tilted the glass sideways and shook it.   The infant plant shot out and landed in a frying pan that was soaking in the sink. 

Oh, how we laughed.

Brighid rescued it from the sudsy water and stuck it back in the glass. 

 

 I've named him Horace.  Horace survived the journey to Cork and sits on the sunniest windowsill I have.