Walking The Orchard

A few years ago when I worked as a home carer, I used to visit a lady called Pat. From our first hello at the hall door, I knew she and I would get on. She was from Kerry and had a fantastic turn of phrase that both charmed and awoke me. Despite living in Dublin for most of her life, she never lost touch with the wildness of her Kerry roots.

After a year or so of visiting her at home, her dementia progressing, her family had to make the decision that Pat needed more care and she moved to a nursing home. She and I got on with our own lives, but I always thought of her when I’d take the bend of the road by her beautiful home. Then a few weeks ago I got a message from her family to tell me that Pat had died.

I had written a piece about Pat before she left her home because I wanted to capture her then and I gave it to the family. They asked if they could read it at her funeral which of course I was delighted by. So today I thought I’d share it here, a meditation on walking her stunning garden and being in the present with her bold and brilliant soul.

Walking The Orchard With Pat

Sometimes I wonder who you think I am. You probably think I’m a friend, and certainly you feel like a friend in this past year I’ve been calling as one of your carers.

‘Ah it’s yourself!’ you say when I appear around the kitchen door. No need to rummage around searching for names. You’re living in the present now, like a wise mystic, and I look forward to my shifts when I can join you there.

I get you ready for the day, clothes sorted, hair brushed, but the best bit is when we go outside.

‘Will we go for a stroll?’ I ask

‘Come on so’, you answer, as you allow me zip up your coat and get your stick. The wooden one with the bird’s head at the top, smooth from wear.

Out the back door and into the yard, we pull a few weeds and water the pots. The white, wrought iron table displays a cluster of random plants, a pick and mix of delight. A galvanised bath lies at its feet, full or rainwater.

‘We could wash a baby in that bath’, I say.

‘If we had a baby’, you answer.

‘There were plenty of babies in this house’, I tell you.

‘Were there?’ you ask, genuinely curious.

From the yard, we stand at the closed wooden door that leads to the garden. Everything pivots in this moment. Confusion melts away and you know exactly where you are. Hypericum overhangs the entrance, forming a bright yellow archway, framing our first glimpse of this parkland.

The pathway changes with every season. Forget-me-nots turn to foxgloves. Pyracanthas erupt like rockets, bursting from the old stone wall that encircles the terrace behind the house. Sometimes we stop there, bending to weed between the flagstones. Other times we sit to take in the heat of the sun.

Back on the path, sweet pea delight in summer, fallen cordyline leaves bristle in autumn. We gather some fallen leaves, promise to put them in the wheelbarrow. Instead, we pile them down low, out of sight.

We’ve already forgotten them as we take the last curve of the outward path, anxious for the reward of the rose garden. We take in the tall pink clusters and towering yellow blooms – their perfume after rain intoxicates us. Some days we reach in and deadhead the spent ones. Other days we just sniff the blossomy air.

The green gothic gate never fails to charm us. Through its bars we see the lush front lawn, a painting crying out to be sketched.

We bring our attention back to the rear garden we’re standing in and turn towards the apple trees. In autumn we pick apples from the broad boughs of the orchard. You stick one apple into each pocket and cradle three more in your arms.

Tall hooded spikes catch our eyes. We search for this plant’s name.

‘Ac’, you say.

‘Aco-something’, I offer.

‘Aconite’, you say with confidence.

‘That’s the one’.

We step onto the grass, walking alongside the shrubs that contour the far wall. Stepping into nooks we listen to a chirping bird. We call, we coax, but he stays hidden.

The textured bark of a tree demands our attention.

‘What’s it called’, I ask.

‘What are you called?’ you ask the tree directly. When no answer comes you say:

‘Ah, it’s too busy growing to heed us’.

We walk on. The expansive lawn is an idyl nestled within tall deep planting.

‘You’ve had weddings here’, I prompt.

‘I don’t think so’, you say.

‘Maybe I’m mixed up’, I respond. ‘I thought the girls had their receptions here in a marquee’.

We pass it off, and yet I think of you in the photographs we’ve looked through together, mother of the bride, a vibrant host of glorious summer celebrations, at the heart of it all.

An acer in full autumnal glory dances in the breeze. Falling leaves lattice the grass beneath with shades of claret, rust and gold.

‘Nothing gold can stay’ you recite from your school-remembered poetry.

Echium feeder of butterflies all summer, is on the turn.

‘Wow’, I say.

‘Wow, Wow, Wow’ you echo.

Beside it, a low tree has twisted into a gnarly sculpture.

‘Tis like my hands’, you tell me. ‘So knotted I think they’ll fall off’.

We examine your hands, testing the strength of each finger.

‘They look fine to me’ I say.

We fling the deadheads and stray twigs we’ve gathered onto the compost heap in the corner, and tell ourselves we’ve done enough. We’ll do more next time.

‘Come on girl, I’m perished’, you announce. ‘Let’s go back inside’.

We link arms and head into your kitchen, cosy as a bear’s lair. Your chair is waiting beside the warmth of the range.

Rest in Peace wonderful Pat.