THE garden was old and wistful, the soil was tired and thin, a selection of mature trees defined the perimeter while within, some big magnolias rose above the tangle of brambles and grass. There was desolation but coupled with it was determination on the part of new owners.
And then there was the aspect of a steep southerly slope overlooking the city and an impression of capabilities. The house had a nostalgic Italianate air and suggestions of a Mediterranean hillside. Here was a fine place forexperimentation, escapism and indulgence. Myrtle, arbutus bay acacia, echium and cypress could rise above cistus, sage, lavender, thyme and rosemary. This could be a very special place, I assured the eager owner.
Filled with enthusiasm, we agreed that basic clearance and immediate revitalisation of the soil were to be priorities before any of the nicer aspects of the task could be entertained. My instructions were simple, if rather brutal. "Dig out trenches three feet wide and two feet deep removing all stones and debris from the site, and backfill with a thick layer of well rotted farm yard manure topped with a thick layer of good, topsoil."
Without such a thorough revamp, I reasoned that planting would a rather hopeless business, and a major effort to get the ground into good planting and growing conditions was a prerequisite for the paradise we envisaged.
Such a Herculean task might be achieved by a small army but we reckoned some mechanical assistance would be necessary if results were to be achieved before the Millennium. A mini digger would be very handy and could Just about manoeuvre on the site, negotiating the narrow pathways and terraces.
Access seemed to be a problem, as the only entry through the high boundary wall was a narrow gothic door - very romantic and very Continental. "Never mind", the friend replied happily. "The digger can be lifted over the wall and dropped into the garden." I admired their keenness and the spirit with which they proposed tackling the business.
After some discussion on the merits of vintage farmyard manure and the preference for three or four year old stuff, I left them to it and went home. They were bitten by the bug and I was pleased to be party to it all and to know such positive and optimistic friends.
Work proceeded and after a little while a letter arrived in place of the usual friendly telephone call. "Here's wishing you a very happy new gardening year even if it's more problematical for us having achieved the status of emotional and financial wrecks. ,And it's all your fault. Never once in your column or in your eloquent instructions to us have you alluded to the stress involved in garden reconstruction.
You might like to inform your other innocent and naive readers that one of your followers now rates gardening on the same stress level as bereavement, having babies and moving house. To elaborate, following your advice to the letter we have incurred the following disastrous consequences: our garden is now a veritable mud field brimming over with muck and topsoil. This is carried into my home several times each day by my darling, children on their muddy feet.
"Our neighbours are no longer saluting us because the noise, and inconvenience caused by the unloading of tons of gardening materials, as I choose to describe the manure - one even had the effrontery to threaten me with a consultation with his solicitor if I did not desist from my gardening undertakings.
"And finally, my children are traumatised by the removal of their fountain and seal adornments and summer house. Can you enjoy the new season after that litany? I trust you can because being more magnanimous than our dear neighbours, we bear you no ill will and trust you implicitly and remain optimistic. I am full of hope and look forward to a revamped, tranquil, lush, scent filled - I could go on but you get the picture.
Suitably berated and contrite, I acknowledge that I tend to avoid talking or writing about the traumas of gardening. Who needs to have their optimism diminished by talks of difficulties, doubts or contrary neighbours? They say no cross, no crown" and those who opt for paradise here and now will not let irritations bar the way. Onwards, gardening soldiers, marching as to war.