“We must cultivate our gardens.”—Voltaire, Candide
Early May is not the best time to leave a garden; there is much to be done as spring speeds into summer. But the celebration of my mother-in-law’s ninetieth birthday required traveling to France.
The attractions in France include wine, cheese, and bread, all of which I appreciate beaucoup. But as a gardener I am drawn to the ancient potagers, or kitchen gardens, land cultivated for centuries throughout rural France; and I am fascinated by the wild flora as I walk the countryside. In Brassac, a village similar in population and altitude to Shelburne Falls, walled gardens are hidden behind most houses. As the stone walls are about five feet high and there are wooden or metal doors to enter from the street, it is easy to peer into these little Edens.
Early in the season, terracotta roof tiles are tented over tomato plants to protect them from temperature extremes, and wooden produce crates shield newly planted lettuce from the bright sun. Some flowers are grown in the gardens, notably calla lilies and poppies; but they mostly consist of orderly rows of vegetables and fruits. These cultivated plots are passed down through the generations, sometimes along with a house, sometimes separately. Grandmothers, uncles, or cousins who previously tended the plots are often remembered through various plantings. I noticed a gnarly old thyme plant in the garden of eighty-year-old Uncle Jojo and he remarked that his mother had planted it decades ago. The continuity in the relationship between the earth and the people is striking and somehow comforting.
Gardening in Brassac is not dramatically different from gardening in Ashfield. Chemical fertilizers and pesticides are used in rural France, but old traditions hold as well and organic methods are becoming more popular. A liquid fertilizer for tomato plants is made by soaking nettles in water until good and smelly, similar to manure tea. Whereas in New England the wisdom is to wait until Memorial Day to plant frost-sensitive seedlings, in the Brassac region of France, May 11th, 12th, and 13th are called the Days of the Saints of Ice. Saints Estelle, Achille, and Rolande mark the last expected days for frost.
Planting according to the lunar cycle is still followed by some gardeners. This tradition follows the ascending or descending phases of the moon: root crops are sown on different days than fruiting plants, which are sown on different days than leafy vegetables. It is an old tradition but it makes no sense to me, since all plants in the vegetable garden have roots, leaves, and flowers. The moon or the cosmos doesn’t know or care that we eat some as roots and some as fruit.
“A garden to walk in and immensity to dream in — what more could he ask? A few flowers at his feet and above him the stars.”—Victor Hugo, Les Miserables
While rambling on old country roads, woodland paths, or along the river, I can’t help but notice what is growing and flowering. Genet, or broom, covers hillsides with bright yellow pea-like flowers. Pinky purple heather grows amid the rocks by the river. Blue columbine, forget-me-nots, and a pink lychnis seem to be everywhere, as well as a wild purple orchid. The brilliant red of papaver rhoeas, the Flanders poppy, is in gardens, along the roadside, and throughout fields beginning in May. I sense that the French are very fond of this plant. They speak affectionately of les coqlicots perhaps for their beauty or as a sign of the summer to come.
The dandelion is ubiquitous. I have always thought that the name came from the French language—dentes de lion— because the shape of the leaves are like the teeth of a lion, but I learned that the dandelion is called la chicoree in French. The roadside weed with powder-blue flowers is what I know as “chicory.” Both roots are used as coffee substitutes, so maybe that is where the confusion stems from. Here is an example of the importance of Latin nomenclature. Taxaxacum officinale is dandelion. Cichorum intybus is chicory. Another name used by the French for the dandelion, pissenlit or piss in bed, comes from the diuretic effect of eating dandelion greens.
Back home in Ashfield, I missed two weeks of cold, rainy weather. The week I returned, it snowed on Sunday morning but by Thursday it was 90 degrees. Typical variable New England weather or climate change? Experiencing gardens in a different climate and culture is a treat, but I am content to return to my garden, a refuge from the craziness in this world. My rhubarb is waiting. My arugula is ready. My bluebells are blue. And soon the fullness of summer will return.
“How fair is a garden amid the trials and passions of existence.”—Benjamin Disraeli
June, 2017
Commentaires