My Garden Against Time

Dispatches from Parliament, the Power of Gardening and Cannabis Gummies

Saturday 5^th – 6^th July (in Canada)

So I set off on my journey home – sounds simple right? But in truth, it’s a bit of a mission. The route is Revelstoke to Kelowna, Kelowna to Vancouver, Vancouver to London. The first leg is the biggest hurdle: Revelstoke to Kelowna. It’s a two-and-a-half-hour journey with no bus, no train. In Winter there are avalanches, in Spring there can be mudslides, and in Summer, fires. For a confirmed worrier/planner/over-thinker like me, this isn’t the easiest leg to organise. Plus, my daughter has an electric car – so charging needs to be factored in – and I really don’t want her doing a five-hour (or more) round trip just to drop me at the airport.

So I go on Revy Rideshare – which does exactly what it says on the tin. There’s something quaint about it (and great for someone nosy like me) – you see what everyone’s up to, where they’re going, what’s arriving from where... But aside from discovering someone I vaguely know is also heading to Kelowna airport, there’s no ride. So I try Poparide – people offering lifts in exchange for a share of the gas (petrol to Brits), a kind of benevolent Uber. And it works! My vague acquaintance and I get a lift to Kelowna – cheap and with good conversation. Result.

The rest of the journey goes to plan, and I don’t even mind the crap film selection on the flight because I’m listening to the utterly enchanting The Garden Against Time by Olivia Laing. Her writing is gorgeous - the attention to detail she gives to even the tiniest bud in the garden she is making; the language so rich, so evocative. ‘Banks of lady’s mantle were foaming onto the flags, and in the far border a single cardoon was in full sail, crowns of imperial purple burning in the unsteady light.’ Totally inspired, I couldn’t wait to get back to my garden.

At last, twenty hours after leaving Revelstoke, I am back in it – mourning my frazzled plants. The flaming red acer looks like it has literally burnt, the pond is mud, the rhododendrons collapsed.

Monday 7^th July (in London)

I took Melatonin last night – available over the counter in Canada in every strength, in pill form or as gummies - like the cannabis you can buy in any of the three ‘smoke’ shops in Revelstoke. (The gummies look identical – I’m always terrified I’ll mix them up, hence I’m very nervous going through Customs. Mind you, I always blush and feel guilty with or without gummies).

Anyway, I slept long and hard. Woke at midday feeling smug: “I know how to beat jet lag.” I wandered around slightly dazed and thought about meditating, thought about going to the gym, thought about doing yoga, thought about tackling the garden… then thought maybe I’d been hit by a sledgehammer and finally crawled back into bed at 6:00pm.

Tuesday 8^th July

Woke at 4:30am. Couldn’t get back to sleep so I pulled on my gardening clothes, plugged in my earphones, turned on Olivia, and got out there. I’m overwhelmed by what needs doing – not just immediately, but long-term. It all feels insurmountable.

Although I’d arranged for the people staying in my flat to water the plants, I hadn’t accounted for London being hit by the hottest month on record. The water butt is empty. I drag out the hose, lay it at the base of the acer and let it run, hoping I can somehow rehydrate the leaves, make it breathe again. After that, I’ll do the same for the rhododendron and drooping hydrangea – but I hate being so profligate with water. And even if I can save them, what about next month? Next year?

This is where it gets weird – I’m listening to the final chapter of The Garden Against Time, and Olivia Laing is talking about the reality and challenge of making a garden in the face of climate change. The synergy feels uncanny. And right then, I decide: I’m going to re-think, re-plant, and re-construct.

Wednesday 9^th July

More synergy. Today I’m part of the Climate Coalition’s Act Now, Change Forever Mass Lobby at Parliament.

I turn up (feeling a phantom scarlet W scorched onto my chest) and, as ever with these events, feel buoyed by being with five thousand like-minded people—talking, performing, making speeches. The highlight: going into the Palace of Westminster, into the panelled, venerable Committee Room, with about 50 people from my constituency. A real throb of excitement - of being at the coalface, where maybe we can chip away and make a difference.

The lowlight: realising that, like all the other huge demonstrations I’ve been on, the chances of this lobby actually making a difference are probably zero. Oh, our MP listened, but:

• she can’t sign the Climate & Nature Bill because she’s a government minister;

• there are going to be new runways at Heathrow and Gatwick but Saxon Air uses sustainable aviation fuel in its helicopters (N.B. that’ll make a difference then);

• the ocean treaty was agreed by 193 countries two years ago but only 30 have ratified it…

... Hands are tied, budgets are tight, and the will seems weak.

Thursday 10^th July

Just when it seems things can’t get bleaker, the universe sends a scrap of light. Long booked in my diary is a meeting with my old friend, garden-visiting companion, indeed, my erstwhile garden designer, Paul. We haven’t seen each other in nearly a year, but finally our paths cross, and we’ve booked Unearthed: The Power of Gardening at the British Library.

Talk about synergy. Talk about chicken soup for the soul. Talk about joy. If you’re anywhere near this baking, bubbling, boiling city - and if you love gardens or gardening - go see it. Botanical art, Charles Darwin’s vasculum, the only surviving illustrated Old English herbal...plus films and exhibits about community gardening, guerrilla gardening, dryland gardening. One visit isn’t enough. (And the shop is good too. Way too good.)

Friday 11^th July

Inspired again, back in my garden. At least I can make a difference here. On my own patch. I get out my notebook and mark down which plants can’t manage without gallons of water and will have to go, which plants could be strategically placed to receive ‘grey’ water, where I can put in some more water butts.

I hear a croak – I have been so quiet that a frog has emerged from the mud; I check out the acer and am pretty sure some green is tentatively creeping onto the base of the singed casualties; my rhododendrons leaves are standing to attention again and, seemingly impervious to drought and searing heat, giant lilies are exploding into huge yellow trumpets.

There is a quote that is ascribed to Audrey Hepburn:

‘To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.’

I don’t really care who said it. Whoever it was, they were right.