I love my garden when it rains. It seems to me rain and summer sunshine are a perfect combination, bringing the garden alive, deepening its colour. It’s the same in spring, and these last few days I’ve been reminded of that as I look out of the french windows from my large downstairs table where I also write.
My second novel The Orchid House is set in a garden – a dark story of grief, sexual love and betrayal (as yet unpublished). I got the idea for the novel after I visited the Lost Gardens of Heligan in Cornwall - you must take a look at their magical website!
Here is my protaganist Anna, unsettled about the arrival of Max, a man she has yet to meet but whose reputation preceeds him, going out into the garden before dawn:
A green moon hung above the cloud, presiding over ghostly fields and a pallid sky. The air was cool and the ground not yet warmed, waiting as it did for the dawn. The damp brushed at the hem of her wrap and The Long Garden stretched before her like a length of faded cretonne drying on a grey stone slab. In the borders red poppies splashed from their casings like spilt blood, amid pale spires of larkspur and rocket.
…she leaned against the brick of the Summerhouse and looked out beyond the jasmine fringed arch, waiting for the first rays of the sun to fall on the sea. Anna knew that just as everything would change when the sun rose so must she. She could not exist forever in the mythical exclusion of a fairytale, frightened to break the spell and at a loss to know how – how to change or what to do. Moreover, the prospect of a stranger’s arrival at the gate of her retreat, an intruder in her palace of memory, had unsettled her, leaving her sleepless and waiting for the dawn…
And here is the garden and it’s keeper Madeline, who makes potions and stock and who is considered half mad:
A clutch of lily of the valley grew in an arc at the base of a pear, spreading its arms out into the border, pushing its back against the damp moss of the wall. Here in the bottom corner of The Water Garden, Madeline knelt on the warm grass intent on the crescent of leaves sheltering the fine stems and arching heads of frayed bells. Convallaria Majalis was but one ingredient in her Trescombe Stock. Made over the entire season from petal and leaf; from the first jonquils of spring to the damask roses of summer, each year’s stock had its own bouquet. A little more lilac one year, a little less rose another, it was always distinguishable from other stocks by its pungency, its unmatched variety, its mixing of the seasons – a year held in a stone crock, kept in The Still Room, and stirred daily.
Writing Tip – it’s a wonderful time for gardens – and gardens can be timeless – so why not write about your garden, you could make something happen in it or just write a list appealing to the senses – sound, sight, smell, touch - you could write a scene from your novel in a garden -or transport your character to an exotic garden – see how he behaves – try to capture something of the magical and mysterious qualities gardens can hold. Write a piece about a woman who longs for a garden – maybe someone in exile……just write!
