Inheritance

Here's a few flowers, but 'bout midnight, more;

The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night

Are strewings fittest for graves.

You were as flowers, now wither'd; even so

These herblets shall, which we upon you strew.

The ground that gave them first has them again;

Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain. 

From Cymbeline by Shakespeare

Where do we get our inspirations from, our love of the things we are passionate about? From many places, of course, but I think I can trace my love of landscape and gardening directly to my father. He has recently died (at the age of 91), and this gives me a focus for my thoughts about him.

George, as he was known, was an organic farmer, who set up a small farm in the immediate post-war years. Among his crops was the peony Sarah Bernhardt and I remember long hours spent in the barn preparing them for transport to Covent Garden. They flower in June/July, and a big spray adorned his coffin.

Between the farm and the house where my sister Hilary and I grew up, there was a large garden with many beautiful and unusual trees and shrubs, a domestic orchard and a vegetable patch. How the Parrotia persica or the Escallonia looked this year compared with last, what to do about the ants in the lawn, wondering at the way a visiting flock of redwings and fieldfares could strip the remaining fruit from the pear tree - could all be the subject of household conversation.

Along with the farm produce, such as eggs, apples, pears and sweetcorn, the harvest from the vegetable patch was vital to provide food for our table. Hilary and I would be sent off to pick whatever was in season. Much of the summer produce like peas, carrots and soft fruit got eaten well before we got back to the house. We complained bitterly when we were asked to dig root vegetables in the winter. I haven't lost that feeling of pleasure associated with growing, followed immediately by eating, that comes from raising your own food, and I shall be sure to reserve some veg patches in my gardens