garden

Ponderings

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Last year during the lockdown, the garden was my refuge, my oasis, my paradise, and yet there was something missing. And so to mark my 50th circumnavigation of the nearest star (and what a strange thing that is to celebrate) I decided to get myself something that I have dreamt of for as long as I have lived here: a swimming pond.

What is a swimming pond, I hear you ask, obligingly. Well, it isn’t a pool, first of all. You aim to create something that mimics the functioning of a lake to the largest extent possible, so as to have a real, beneficial effect for the local wildlife, that can use it as a habitat (think frogs, newts, water fowl, koi, the kraken) or a drinking hole (everyone else, to feed the kraken). But of course the idea is to be able to enjoy it if you happen to be hooman, too, so how do you combine the two?

The idea is to have a natural, self-cleaning system instead of having to add chlorine or similar. Water is pumped through a combination of aquatic plants and porous lava rock, and so is kept filtered and aerated much the same way a lake or a brook is. The difference is that in order avoid having to swim through too much muck, the plants are kept in a separate compartment inside the pond basin. Excess rain water is stored in two underground cisterns, and on days when heat causes evaporation the system automatically uses that stored water to ensure a stable water level.

So, that was the plan. After a couple of failed attempts I found a company, Ecoworks, that specialises in these types of ponds, and who sounded professional. There were several planning meetings where loads of ideas were tossed about, and eventually out. Instead of islands, Japanese bridges à la Monet, or waterfalls, we decided on a simple oval shape with a round wooden terrace at one end.

(In a way, that is a rather nifty description of life at 50: the more outrageous notions might never have come to fruition, but hopefully what you are left with instead is a harmonious, graceful entity – and if there is an occasional wistful yearning for islands and waterfalls, well, that is life, right?)

And so, after some hiccups (the first measurements were wrong, and the guy who was subcontracted to do the digging bowed out as a result) the project got underway in August. I was mightily stressed out by the sheer volume of work that needed to be done, and frankly concerned about the impact heavy machinery would have on the rest of the garden, but I needn’t have worried – the builders were pros, and friendly to a fault.

As load after load of soil was carted out of the garden and the lawn turned to muck, the project began to take shape; the outsized cisterns were sunk in the ground and covered up, the enormous, made-to-measure rubber liner was somehow wrangled into place, the plant scheme decided upon and executed, and finally this enormous moat was filled with water from the garden hose over a period of four days, and it all worked smoothly, in spite (or because) of last minute adjustments here and there.

The lesson here: if you have a dream project, the time for doing it is NOW. And if it doesn’t scare you, you ain’t dreaming big enough. Also – and this just might be universally applicable – chances are your dream project will look like a big muddy hole in the ground right up until it finally comes together.

And so we arrive at today. Mid October, mid life, a cold day and me with a cold to boot, but I wasn’t going to miss the premiere. If I can live the second half of my life in a way that reflects my pond – straddling the natural world and modern technology, adding beauty and doing good for the local flora and fauna (including my darling children) – then I shall be content. After all, if life is a beach, it is nice to be able to go for a swim, and sometimes you have to splash out on yourself…

Great, gravity-defying tits 

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I’m so sorry. You came here hoping for mammaries, didn’t you? 

No can do, I’m afraid. But despair not. Today was a day of wonders greater than surgically enhanced bosoms. Today was the day when the hatchlings from the nest of great tits in my hedge took the great leap into the void, and I was there to watch it. 

Think about it for a second. Your whole life you’ve been confined to a cosy bed, your parents bringing you yummy, wormy treats all day long, and then suddenly this urge strikes you: I must throw myself into the air and soar. It’s a crazy notion, but it might just work, right?

Wrong. There’s a steep learning curve to flying even if you’re born to do it, it seems. The three chicks are emphatically not good at it. They crash into things, miscalculate distances and generally make, well, tits of themselves in the process. It’s painful to watch, really. 

They call to one another and their parents, but there’s nothing the elder generation can do but watch as their offspring fail Aviation 101. One particularly unlucky fellow smacks into the trunk of the crab apple tree where the rest have managed to congregate, and gets irrevocably trapped in the undergrowth. 

I watch it struggle for a long time, reluctant to intervene, but in the end there’s nothing I can do but pick it up. It’s the tiniest little thing, short wings and scruffy head, but it’s plucky and perky, and stays on my hand without a worry in the world, seemingly sunning itself and calling to the rest of the family as if to say “Check ME out!” (Tits do that).

I have to nudge it to finally convince it to hop onto a branch of the tree, but once reunited – and having received a restorative maggot from mom or dad – it seems content to continue its aviary adventures. 

Me, I spend the rest of the morning at a respectful distance, listening to their calls from afar, a big, big smile on my face, thankful that my garden gives me such moments of unadulterated pleasure. If you can’t fly yourself, then surely the next best thing is to watch the next generation do it?

Three great tits. Not a caption you’d normally want to see.