Down the Garden Path

Perhaps I have read too many books where a worm hole, the back of a wardrobe or simply a gate leads to some great adventures. Thinking that this could ever happen to you is a certain way to be disappointed but there is nothing embarrassing about continuing to look for that magic portal into a secret world.

I was therefore a bit intrigued and excited by coming across a small wooden gate just about visible in a dense hawthorn hedge at the back of a house in a small village in the hinterlands of East Yorkshire.

On a slightly darker, misty day the natural shades of timber and foliage would have blended together in a clever camouflage and I might not have even noticed it.

The gate was well oiled on its hinges and opened easily with a distinctive "whick-whack" sound on the spring closer. It had evidently been used quite regularly. I could still make out the traces of deep ruts from a wheelbarrow and the broad tread of wellington boots although a fresh grass covering was becoming established.

A lush green pathway led from the gate along the line of a well tended border. There seemed to be a dead end until I could make out a sharp corner ahead.



Beyond the ninety degree bend was a wonderful sight.

In front of me was the green path but this time it fringed a vegetable patch, not the typical few square yards wrestled from a suburban garden but as wide and as long as a cricket pitch.

This was a very productive plot, a scene of much hard labour and dedication from the inset wooden dividers to the turned soil ready to be planted out with new season seeds and cuttings.

Root crops were thriving from regular dressings with compost and manure and not far off harvesting.

At the far end of the patch were the rough hewn branches formed into a climbing framework for sweet peas.

There was nothing alien in the garden, nothing artificial in plastic or man made materials except for a natural netting protecting the soft fruits.

This was the sign of a true gardener, in sync with the elements and the seasons. Everything needed was to hand in the surroundings and crafted when needed.


I felt privileged to have seen the place. I had wandered through it only briefly but I could feel about me a peace and tranquillity that I hoped that the hard working owner would have had time to experience.

On retracing my steps towards the gate I came across, in a sunny corner, a well used rustic bench.

Soil encrusted tools, a spade and fork, had been left leaning on the seat suggesting that this may have been a regular resting place and hopefully not the last for the absentee owner of the secret garden.