Southam - The cottage under the big pines : memories and details from Foxglove Spires

DEDICATION

F or all those who dared to peek through the window, and for those who longed to, but didnt.

Contents

Introduction

When I wrote my first book, Velvet Pears, I had twenty-five years of journal entries and memories to fill the pages.

L ooking back now, I tried to tell the story of how I built and shared my garden with the outside world, covering every corner of the grounds, every room, whimsy and folly. It never occurred to me that there would be another book, so I touched lightly and briefly on all my loves. But as the story unfolded and the pages quickly filled, I found that there was still so much more to share. My hope is that, at the risk of repeating myself in some areas, this second book brings you a greater depth and another layer to the story. The garden has always played a strong dominant role in my life, but it came long after my first lovemy heart had fallen for an old timber cottage not far from my childhood home in southeastern New South Wales. I was eleven years old when I first saw the old house and I knew instantly that we would someday meet. It took another ten years, but it did happen. The old timber cottage became my home and, over time, I built the garden around it. Foxglove Spires was born.

The following pages come from an emotional, creative place, fuelled by my relationship and love for her. My family and I have since left Foxglove Spires, but memories of her will stay with me forever.

B efore the garden at Foxglove Spires, there was an old weatherboard cottage sitting between two huge, very imposing Norfolk Island pines in an open paddock of grasstheir lower branches sweeping to the ground in a deep curtsy, respectfully acknowledging all who approached. The old house was set a long way back from the front road. A narrow dirt drive meandered through the rough dry grass, past several ancient fruit treesstunted and twisted with the ravages of cow, sheep and droughtup to her front door.

This demure, elegantly aging cottage was to become my best friend. Every bit a century old, she still held her head high despite her sinking foundations and peeling paint.

On a beautiful warm autumn weekend my husband, Pete, and I moved our belongings into the cottage and thus began the love affair of what seems like a lifetime.

After nearly thirty years, I know all her faults and she knows mine.

Now, after nearly thirty years, I know all her faults and she knows mine. I have been introduced to every square inch of her surface with my paintbrush more than once. I know which door does not open completely, which window has a touch of dry rot, and which floorboard always squeaks. I cherish the sun in the front bedroom on a winters morning, and Im thankful for the cool dark lounge room on a scorching summers day.

Its in this house I raised my family. It is between these walls that my deepest desires and wishes have been whispered. Embedded in the timbers, as it is embedded in my memory, is the sound of tiny feet running through the house, the happiness, laughter and the tears. Now my heart is reminded all over again as I cradle our newly born grandson. Such strong feelings from the past revived. New life again received under this roof.

And so I feel compelled to tell the story of what felt like a predestined attachmentthe deep bond that I have formed with this houseand to attempt to find the words to express that which I cant explain. While on the surface it seems a simple connection between a material object and me, in truth it has drawn me in and created a living breathing energy bound between and through these old floors and walls.

My story with the house, goes deeper, it is more than the conventional day to day. Its more than just a roof over my familys head, more than a garden that needs weeding. It goes behind the scenes that play out in its spaces, and I try to explain where some of my inspiration has come from to bring out my homes spirit and be true to its essence. There are no hard and fast rules and my experiences are restricted to my worlda 100-year-old house and my precious family protectively orbited by four acres of garden.

Standing back, I can see where the twists and turns have taken me over the course of the past years. It is evident where my inspirations have sprung from and the things that have energised me. My greatest teacher has been Mother Nature. Shes given me the ability to patiently observe and interpret what I see around me, and its her rules that I have answered to and adopted. She has slowly seeped into my heart and mind and revealed a world of constant gentle joy. I respect her and worship her. She is my spiritual guide, never judging my mistakes, always patient. She waits for me to see, and sometimes it has taken years. The wonder of it all is that this journey continues to unfold.

My growing older, my family growing up, the garden continuing down its path to maturity, and the house, defiant to old age, sitting gracefully between the pineswe are all intricately entwined. Like a family quilt, each patch is sewn together with tiny deliberate stitches and slowly something of comfort and reassurance has emerged.

Its not a great garden and its not a magnificent grand home, but it is my life experience. And for me this is where the value lies.