Botanical Beauty - a guest post

    On Easter Sunday, I visited a botanical garden in Bristol with my closest and dearest friends. We decided that, since the weather was set to be glorious, and that we were rather ravenous, we could do worse than to spend our day sitting on the grass with a Sainsbury's meal deal looking at plants and flowers. In more civilised and somewhat edifying environments, I always have a sense of being out of place. My accent, too harsh and broad, my loudness grating on ears. Vita Sackville West I was not, with my too small denim jacket, a grubby band tee, leggings, and shoes that had seen better days. Dare we neglect the carrier bag I swung with me containing the necessary nourishment needed. But I felt somewhat weightless, aesthetic in fact, surrounded by shades of green. Yet, what I enjoyed most about this trip, was how the infant inside me burst out with awe and curiosity at these wonders. 

    I am forever struck by the childlike state one reverts to when in a garden. An intelligible conversation is interrupted by bouts of 'ooh's and 'wow's and 'look at that's'. The children who, at the gate sometime earlier looked bemused as to why their parents had brought them here, soon stood up to enormous trees and declared 'woah!' whilst the remains of their picnic lay untouched on the bench; their attention otherwise diverted by the vast jungle that lay before them. Even I, a 26 year old adult had to be phoned by my friend to see where I was. I had wondered off, and found myself absorbed, quite literally, by a group on a walking tour. 

(The craftspeople presenting their treasures, whilst the ducks take a snooze and I invariably get lost)

    The garden posited kingdoms that intertwined smoothly, and so, once transported from the Chinese herb garden, you may have found yourself wondering among the triassic and jurassic, before being entertained by willow weavers, potters and carpenters, working away beside a humble pond that two ducks took to dozing in. There was something for all of us in this garden, and I looked with fascination as my friends took in this humble realm of life and living. 

A and C looking at the trees; deciding if this one would be better than that one for the garden in the house that they had recently purchased. As their hands intertwined, and looks between them that communicated such love and respect for one another peeped through group conversation, the gardens took on an atmosphere of hope and adoration. A.J, the architect in him scanning stems, flowers and trunks for symmetry.  The way the garden worked to walk around, and played upon the eye. The slight crinkle in his brow as he no doubt wondered what was going through the gardener's head to hide that camellia between two overcrowded and less beautiful shrubs. And E, who even with eyes filled with a personal sadness still had a smile when smells of sage and rosemary entered the air. Her graceful stature, bent slightly to take in the small buds, saw her become pixie-like, at home in the soil and petals. I suppose it is a comfort that, like us, these trees have seen such life and death, and yet continue to grow. Such emotions I felt that day. A small cry in the corner of a freshly sown herb bed, a belly laugh at the word 'angiosperm', and away I went to take in more. 

(A monstrosity, that was nearly mistaken for one of my own feet)

    There was an older gentleman walking with hands clasped behind his back tutting at the ones taking photos in the gardens. I see his point - I suppose he was thinking, how can you be present behind a screen?But for some people, photographs is all we have. A photograph evokes memories. A photograph takes us back to a time we may forget soon. Not everyone is fortunate enough to visit cultivated gardens, or indeed to even have one. The tenner I paid to get into the garden certainly set me back on my budget, and I think to those that couldn't even stretch that far in light of the cost of living crisis and indeed, all the other troubles our society pushes forth onto us. 

(The flamingo flower - such a glorious sight, though to touch is rather disconcerting)

("I must go to the Botanical Gardens." "Why?" "To see the ivy" (Brideshead Revisited). Hard not to feel like Sebastian in a place like this)

In lockdown, when we couldn't access museums, concerts and gardens, photographs reminded us of emotions and thoughts we'd once experienced, and inspired in us new ones. During this time, I found a collection of postcards I'd acquired from my travels and, where usually I would have a gander and then place them into the drawers again, this time I decided to hang them up. I found myself entering endless daydreams, of what it would be like to be one of Whistler's women lounging on a couch, or how Francis Bacon created such brutal shapes. 

Ignore the stuffy old man dear readers. Indulge in the photographs you have. I wonder what stories, like the plants and trees, you could tell. 

Olivia Beards 

Many thanks to Mark Beards for publishing this piece and University of Bristol Botanic Gardens for their work.

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