Well, hello and welcome to the first entry of our garden journal, where I, Pip, one half of The Garden at Moorfield and formerly of Life at Little Oak Farm, will empty the contents of my head and my actual garden journals, here on these pages with the musings and particulars of creating a 5-acre organic garden from scratch, both productive and ornamental, for you to read. Perhaps you will relate to my words and stories, perhaps you have trodden this road we too have been down once before, or perhaps you’ll find comfort here after a long day, or week or year….or life. Perhaps you’ll draw inspiration from what we create as I do from so many gardeners whose work I follow or simply just ponder my prattling on over a cuppa or a glass of something you fancy at days end. Whatever brings you here, know that I am, we are, grateful you came. Thank you.
For many of you, you are already familiar with my voice which swings in great swoops between poetically poignant to something of a blow by blunt instrument. I am both of these things and all that lies between; like all people, an onion, which happens to be something I’ve never managed to grow particularly well and hope to rectify but it will be my voice, you can be assured of that and I will tell you where I am in this journey each step of the way, not foregoing the many inevitable trials amidst the triumphs, we so like to tell about.
Sometimes this space will be one where I talk about the garden we are creating in a very matter of fact way, spelling out in detail the processes we undertake or the methods we use, accompanied by plans and lists and sketches and this will appeal to many of you as it is what you’ve been asking us for, for years and I’m so excited to finally share these things. Sometimes it will just be a space for me to talk about the experience of being here, of creating this garden, the observations of the light, the change in seasons, the flowers in bloom or the fruit that’s forming, how we interface with the natural world around us from the smallest insect to the most bullish of greys standing as tall as Hugo. For some of you, this will be enough, those of you who always wanted me to write more, this is for you as much as it is for me. Thank you for encouraging me to get here.
I guess I write this mostly, however, to expand upon what I began in Southern Tasmania on a platform of little squares with word limits, a place for pictures that I used to tell a story, albeit in brief bursts considered novel like for the world of Instagram, about a garden we made called “Little Oak” and how it changed me so utterly that I don’t really recognise the me that existed before it. I don’t dislike her, Pre-garden Pip, though her sharp edges, more rounded now, softened by the discovery of a great passion and time spent in commune with nature, I am still the same person, only happier and more sure of who I am and what floats my boat. Not the kind of happiness or confidence that sits close to the surface, vulnerable to the elements but a deeper running river I hadn’t ever realised was within me, something consistent, something that quieted the rest of the world which perhaps I suspected was there, but never knew how to tap into.
Instead a garden did, unearthed, quite literally, with every flower bed I made and remade when I realised I’d done it all wrong or at least, there existed a better way to do it, with each piece of fruit I grew and savoured or lost to wildlife or disease brought on by overly wet winters and ripping winds, each tree I planted as a bare twig no taller than my knee that one day cast a shadow long enough to stand in, out of the sun and the next was decimated to half its size in a single night by a single possum, every rock I hit, rose thorn through my glove, wheelbarrow carted, fork snapped off at the base…….and every evening we collapsed exhausted into bed convinced we’d made but a tiny dent in what seemed an insurmountable task.
Yet we kept going, even though at times we thought about giving up, for lack of time, lack of money and in the end, lack of energy left but we dug deeper and deeper again because it was no longer just a garden, it was a sanctuary, an outlet, a community and an extension of us, of me. So much so I left my career for one in horticulture, less money but more passion and spent 4 years satiating every inch of my relentless thirst for understanding plants and soil, only to discover the hunger only grows and so does our understanding of the natural world. I could never know it all and that was the most wonderful epiphany.
Then one day, she was finished, finished as our story at least, the picture we had always envisioned and more and we did what we never thought we would when we bought her a decade earlier……we said goodbye, called to a new adventure, never prouder than the moment we handed her on, our once ugly duckling turned into something of a swan and of ourselves for riding out every emotional wave and staying the course when we really didn’t know how we’d ever get to that point.
Somehow it was that give and take, the push and pull of creating the garden at Little Oak, the steep learning that levels you out, makes you realise your presence here, your hand to nature wields no real influence at all, though you will try and try again to mould it and form it into something that speaks of you, that you feel at home in, it will remind you every time that you are the lesser entity. And I think that’s important for humans to feel as we are so very impressed with ourselves at times, so much so we forget we are part of something, not the only thing. It is in the succumbing to a rhythm not your own, kept by forces far greater than you, far more persistent than you, that sheds you of the responsibility to spend every waking moment trying to control everything around you, you can’t, a garden will teach you that, it is ever-evolving, it is never done, it is only ever done, for now.
It is in the acceptance that to win this game against the powers that be in your garden, you have first to acknowledge there is no competition between you and it. You must submit, you will always be slightly behind and you will need to be ok with that, with the imperfection of it all. And not just ok but able to see the beauty despite the rising panic around the inordinate speed with which weeds grow on the cusp of spring turning to summer, that perfect storm of warming soil and residual moisture, rendering you a mess of profanities and overfilled wheelbarrows. Or the final throws of winters last week’s where even just the sight of mud makes you want to lock the doors until mid-December.
If you’re prepared to accept the process, which often involves you being handed back your own pride, the prize, not even at the end but throughout, is peace, moments of pure peace, that soon it is in the doing, not the arrival, the maintaining as much as the making, that brings you the greatest sense of contentment, of being centred, showing you just how very small and inconsequential you are. The least important species, dare I say, to this intricate system of symbiotic relationships that we as gardeners become enthralled with supporting. At least, we did and it is one of the things I most look forward to in creating this garden, who shows up to make it home or find food.
It is a privilege to tend a garden, a patch of earth, in the time that you get here, a single plant even, a balcony that has become something of a jungle, a collection of a singular species you have some inexplicable obsession with, a backyard become your haven from the world outside. Becoming part of a network of people, of garden nerds, fanciers and tragics, aficionados and enthusiasts, who will go eagerly toward your two hour ear bashing on the nuances of hot versus cold composting, perennial seed heads as winter structure and the what, when, how of perfect pruning. Not only will they listen with bated breath, but they will in fact, celebrate your over-elaboration and welcome more. We are a generous bunch, gardeners, I think because the very nature of what we do is therapeutic, we know this now and so it makes us happier people or at least, goes a ways to granting us a contentedness that leaves more space for others. Gardeners delight in the successes of other gardeners, we have found and that is something I truly love and admire about this community.
You told us over the years that bringing you with us; as we created a garden and home, reached you, that it spoke to your own passions and dreams, doubts and hopes, your enthusiasm, your creativity, to memories that stretch right back to the gardens you grew up in or in which you raised your own children or imagine to someday call yours, to the gardens you were creating as we created ours. It made us community and anchored our goals to yours, making us feel embraced and part of something which sought to reassure you and remind you that nature is you and you are it and that’s why it feels like it does to tend to it because in doing so, you tend you.
Gardens, I believe, are hopeful places and great tutors of life, that can help you unlearn and unload the heavy things you carry. Aching muscles from toiling hard that at last set still, overlooking a silent swirling storm of a million tiny insects, backlit by a dropping sun, can awaken the optimist within even the most hardened heart, make you believe that change is possible, dreams can meet you in the real world and peace can be found in something as unseemly as manure stuck under your fingernails and soil stained sweat dried upon your brow.
So, it is true that to garden is to feel you partake in something bigger than you because of course, you do and by pushing your hands into the earth itself and nurturing that which it sends up, connects you to it, grounds you to it. Where once you might have been left gripping white knuckled to anything that might keep you from being swept away in the nonsense of the rest of it all, suddenly all else has slipped from your thoughts and it’s all you can do, not to lose an entire day to pulling weeds and removing laterals off tomatoes. In a still moment with a butterfly and a flower, or tiny spider and his web, neither bothered you are there, in the small joys of juice of fruit you’ve grown running down your chin, filling the bellies of those you love, the wonderment of something you felt you knew; an apple, an apricot, a rose, suddenly made new, and better! The taste, the texture, the perfume, all entirely new.
Transformation waits on the other side of a garden, I truly believe that and can bring you back from the darkest of places to where the light of dawn and dusk across a landscape, through the trees, over a veggie patch, becomes some kind of a salve for your soul. And if your connectedness to what you’ve created could be seen, no matter how small or how sprawling, you would stand suspended by a million tiny threads reaching back to you from every leaf and limb, beetle and blade of grass. This is how a garden heals, makes you a better companion, a better a parent, a better friend, a better human, by holding you up above the rushing current of life’s bullshit and pulling you down to earth long enough to remember what really matters. And I couldn’t recommend it to everyone more.
So, in saying all of this, I guess it is the desire to lift you, however so slightly, up and out of your world and into mine that compels me to write this journal, as the telling of the story lifted me for all those years at Little Oak, as did your encouragement of us. How the planting of a hillside at the bottom of the world and now within the rolling blonde hills of gold and granite country, takes whatever it is I might be lugging around and sets it down and maybe for you too. So, I write it all down, for me, for you, for all like-minded souls who care to read on. I hope it speaks to you and this becomes a space where we can share in the making of the garden at Moorfield and it inspires, informs and encourages your own gardening adventures and further deepens your love of nature.
Thank you again for being here.
Love Pip, Hugo, Nes, Pam, Wednesday and Missy xo
Pip, I’m that lurker, back again, who adores your garden and hangs on all the words you write. I rarely comment, as processing what I learn from your work, and planning for the future of my own garden, is what I do best. I’m nearly 70, and have been a gardener all my life, but reading your descriptions ignites my inner spark.
I am totally gobsmacked by the level of energy that you and Hugo show, the rate of progress that you generate, your multiple projects, your enthusiasm and devotion to writing, your wonderful sense of the capacity of your community, all the while being thoughtful parents to Ines. I don’t know how you do it all!
But I can’t wait for you to write more, so I can devour the ‘next bit’! 💚
I have followed you for quite a few years and have learnt so much about gardening and improving the soil! I find myself saying to my husband “well Pip and Hugo suggest ...” I look forward to learning so much more through my subscription Pip!