In February of 1952 King George VI died and was succeeded by his daughter Elizabeth. We are now celebrating the Jubilee marking 70 years of her reign, a breathtaking and extraordinary milestone. I too will be celebrating in less than a week when my own ‘Jubilee’ birthday takes place, having been born in the same year. This is proving to be quite a difficult milestone to absorb. They say you are only ‘as old as you feel’, and although there are days when my arthritic hands ache and I feel about a hundred, I can’t bring myself to feel more than about thirty five when the sun is shining and the garden looks a treat.
GARDENS
I would like to show you some of the gardens which have influenced my life, beginning with the one at a house in Buckinghamshire called ‘Berwyns’ where I was born. My mother hated hospitals and so both my brother and I came into the world at home. This first photo, taken at least ten years before I was born, shows my father in uniform standing in the garden of ‘Berwyns’ under a magnificent cherry tree. In the background you can just make out a lovely lawn and roses trained to grow up wooden stakes. One of my earliest memories is of this lawn, and my father mowing it with a terrible old pre-war mower which was so noisy that I used to run and hide when he started it up!
We moved from ‘Berwyns’ to a house in Little Chalfont where my brother was born in 1957. This garden was my father’s favourite, and also his passion. We children grew up playing in and around the trees and shrubs, inventing marvellous games and stories and practicing tennis, cricket and croquet on a sloping lawn which didn’t really work for ball games! The photo shows my father and brother mowing, the former using the same thunderous old mower from 'Berwyns', while my brother pushes a 'Suffolk Punch', purchased to take over from its predecessor which eventually ended up in Ransomes' museum.
Many years later when I moved to my tiny garden in Devon, I crammed as much into it as I possibly could. Over the years some beautiful shrubs and roses matured, and by the time we left I felt I could do no more to improve the little plot.
|
|
|
||||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,And merrily hent the stile-a:A merry heart goes all the day,Your sad tires in a mile-a.

















