Dear Dad,
I am composing this letter in the walled garden of the Ardgillan demesne. It is early on a sunny Sunday morning in May and the garden is at its best. There is no one else around. This allows me to indulge in my favourite pass time: I walk about the garden pretending I am the lady of the manor at a time in the distant past. There is something about walled gardens that engages my imagination. I return in my mind to my favourite books and literary heroines. The Secret Garden was one of my first and all-time favourite books. Thinking of Emma from the Jane Austen novel brings to mind the beautiful clothes and leisure pursuits of that bygone era. Putting myself in the position of Jane Eyre allows me to play the tragic heroineawaiting Mr Rochester in the garden.
As I walk about the garden the Latin names of the plants float into my mind, taking me back to our beautiful family home and rambling garden of long ago. The plant names I remember from numerous garden conversations that I overheard growing up. Aubretia, Spirea, and Escallonia; exotic words that in combination sound like poetry. Those names conjure up memories – of you cutting the Escallonia hedge in summer singing adeste fideles, while my sisters and I laughed as we sunbathed in a secluded sun trap. The plants I see here tug at my memory. The lantern tree reminds me of our Saturday morning breakfasts, the boys next door making faces at us from behind the tree, my sisters and I trying to distract you so that you would not look out the window!
I wanted to write in gratitude for those interest you passed on that are a source of happiness for me. From you I have that love of books and words that started when read to us as children. My earliest memory of being read to is your reading Oliver Twist to us in that comforting rich voice of yours. The love of books you nurtured with countless gifts over the years. The love of gardens and flowers you gave us came from your own father. My grandfather's ordered garden was a summertime joy, dahlias and lupins flagged the garden path in a riot of hot colours. His vegetable garden was a fantastically-ordered array of vegetables, fruit and herbs. Our garden at home was a more adventurously-planted and rambling wonderland.
Thanks Dad, for your important influence and enthusiasms passed on to us, for your great care and love for us always. I wish that may we both continue to gain pleasure from these sources for a long time to come.
With love,
Ann
xxx