The Garden

This girl is very happy, and why shouldn't she be. She's just hopped back from the garden, and here she is showing off her basket-full of lovely, freshly picked greens. But then again, she didn't get them from my garden, because a couple of hours with the shovel on the concrete slab at the back of our house would soon knock the smile off her face, and you'll soon find out what I mean.

After moving in, and when things had settled down, it was my immediate intention to tackle part of the land and grow lots of organic vegetables. I acquired an interest in gardening from my Dad when I was very young as he had a large plot given over to vegetables in the garden at the back of our house in Portlaoise. I remember doing the weeding for him on the promise that he would buy me a small bottle of Lucozade, so I could collect another bottle top and then send them all away and claim my free leather hurling ball.

What a battle I had with the soil at the back of our house. Getting the spade into the ground was a feat in itself but getting it out again was another matter entirely, and when it did decide to come out, the horrible oily substance would just stick to the spade which sometimes separated itself from me in my efforts to rid it of the greasy lump of concrete. However with the help of John Seymour's "Book Of Self Sufficiency" and the numerous leaflets that I received mail order from the Soil Association in England, an arable plot of around 50' by 20' began to appear on the concrete slab. The greengrocers in Castlebar were pestered for their leftovers and trailerloads of seaweed were removed from Bertra Strand on Clew Bay. Best of all was the horse manure that the lovely Mike Jennings let me have (after I had cleaned out the stable first). All this was composted on the upturned soil and bags of sand were added to give the soil a chance to breathe. Eventually the garden said "yes", and yielded a fresh and I hope chemical-free supply of potatoes, onions, carrots, parsnips, courgettes and the nicest garden peas one could ask for.

Our house was now home to ourselves and our two eldest children, two Irish setters, and two cats. Soon outhouses had to be built to accomodate the arrival of our goat Asa, and a large trailer load of turf that had to be kept dry for burning in the winter months. Six chickens and a pet rabbit completed the livestock. I was made redundant around this time (1983) and maybe it's a strange thing to say, but I really enjoyed the freedom afforded to me by my newly acquired incomeless status. The early morning walk with the two dogs was a highlight of every day and Asa demanded a lot of attention, in more ways than one. I looked after her from the time she was a kid and she came to be totally dependant on me not only for food and water, but company. Being a herd animal she would now accompany myself and the dogs on our early morning walks, chase me in and out of the house and create a right old rumpus if I dared go anywhere without her.

The problem now was that I was settling, all too comfortably into the type of lifestyle that I knew I could not afford, and while the position of gardener/animal-keeper/dog-walker, at home all day with Pat and the children, surrounded by beautiful scenery, was a sort of ambition achieved, an income had to be generated from somewhere. With my so-called spare time I started making toys and small furniture for the children, and Pat suggested that I could try selling them to nurseries and playschools, adding that I had nothing to lose and plenty to gain. This little project turned out to be reasonably successful financially but not nearly enough to pay the mortgage and the numerous other bills that appeared all too regularily through our letter box.

Bertra Strand, Co. Mayo
The decision to come to England in 1988 was a long and drawn-out one indeed, but a decision of some sort just had to be made. Pat was very definitely missing her family and there was no sign of an end to what could be best described as our socio-economic problems. The hardest part of all was finding homes for the animals who had come to be totally dependent on us; an act of betrayal, typical of human behaviour, and I'm sure that's what they thought too.