Dad.

Bewcastle

My recent  wittering on biscuits got me to thinking about my dad & how he loved to garden. So, I thought I would write about him because I miss him & know he would love to see what I have managed to achieve in gardening as well as the rest of my life.
I suspect that deep down my dad had a natural tendency to laziness which I have inherited, but he would never dream of letting such a trait surface. Indeed I think he constantly tried to prove otherwise.
From the age of 2 we lived in the wilds of Cumbria, right on the border with Scotland: indeed we had to cross the border to see our doctor. Climate & weather wise it was challenging to any gardener.
Dad was Head teacher at the tiny rural school. We lived in the school house which had a very respectable sized garden. Initially half of this was school garden where the older children were taught (up to the then school leaving age), but when they were transferred to Secondary School dad took it over for fruit & veg. It was still referred to as the school garden.  The aerial  photo above shows the school with the school house on the left & what was originally the District Nurse’s house to the right.
Dad loved his garden & spent the large proportion of his life there when not working. I don’t suppose we really appreciated it when we were young: it was just a place to play & which miraculously produced gargantuan amounts of fruit & veg. Much of this had to be given away & when we had the luxury of electricity much of the summer was spent freezing stuff. That really was a chore for us, particularly when we were old enough to be left when they went away during the summer with instructions to carry on freezing.
To be honest we didn’t help much in the garden although dad would have loved us to. I did spend some time helping him build a greenhouse. We had got about half the glass in when there was a dramatic storm: yes, you’ve guessed it, no glass or all glass would have been fine!
Dad was so keen on gardening that eventually he, along with some other keen horticulturalists, was a prime mover in setting up the annual Bewcastle Show so that locals could compete & show off what they had achieved in their gardening as well as baking & craft work.
Luckily I moved to a house with garden before dad died. He & my mum were about to move to Norfolk (from whence he originally came) so I drove up to Cumbria & filled my car with bits of plants from the garden. I think the only plant I have left from that trip is some Lysimachia punctata which has a slight thuggish tendency but I will not be parted from it as it is always a reminder of dad. He never really saw my interest in gardening blossom, but I often think of him when I am outside.

Mum & Dad The flower garden

Writing this has brought back many happy memories, all prompted by the words “Daaaaad, 10 o’clocks”.