who grows there

In this mature forest garden, does the gardener really make all the big decisions about what gets planted where?

The air has cooled, the light muted, the sounds of the garden hushed. Sitting on the veranda in the late afternoon, looking out into the trees, listening to the bellbirds chiming their delight at finding fallen fruits to hollow out, I think “forest-y” thoughts. Why, I wonder, would any plant – say, the Victoria plum growing directly in front of me, the black mulberry off to the left or the quince to the right – choose to grow here in this forest-garden?

I’m crediting plants with the ability to make choices without really knowing if it’s true or not; my reading lately suggests plants have far greater powers of discretion than we have collectively credited them with and may be making decisions about all sorts of things that impact on them. So, if they could choose, I mull, why would they choose here, over another garden; one where they are fed regularly, for example, or trimmed, cleared-around or sprayed for insect pests?

Here, they receive little to none of that sort of pampering, making their way instead, under their own steam – finding sustenance where they can, assuming their wild and natural shape, height and density, seeking and finding the sunlight they need and protecting themselves from sap-suckers and leaf-munchers with their own repellents.

Here, the hand of the gardener, mine, is lightly applied. Do plants appreciate that relative independence? I think they do. They certainly thrive here, despite the seeming neglect of their basic needs.

The soil’s so good now, with years and years of leaf and twig fall, freedom from herbicide, synthetic fertiliser and cultivation, and the moisture level’s so steady for the same reasons, that everything growing here looks healthy.

Individual plants too, might be enjoying the company of others – of their own kind or exotics; no xenophobia in this forest garden where natives to this country grow besides, beneath and between natives from every other country on the planet; or at least those countries we have been fortunate enough to collect plants from over the years. Kōwhai, kahikatea and kākābeak grow amongst Himalayan strawberry, Chilean wineberry and Japanese aralia without complaint; I would even say happily.

I believe plants like company. I know they communicate below the soil surface through direct root-to-root contact as well as along the fungal networks, for starters. I bet there are other interactions happening down there that we are yet to discover. A tree growing on its own in a field must yearn for another to talk with. There’s only so much whispery pasture-chat a grown tree can take! Trees in my garden often interlace their branches, along with their roots, and that must feel natural to species that form forests. Plums, I know, fruit better when they mingle branches with other plums.

The plants in my garden might also enjoy my company, now that I’ve matured beyond my matchbox-mower-mulcher stage. I began my gardening life filled with chop-it-down, burn-it-up energy that I now wish I’d extinguished earlier, but now that I’m gentle in my management, the forest will surely have relaxed in the knowledge that I’m not planning to fell it in a fit of youthful vigour. I spend time in the dapply lit space, admiring it all, chopping next to none of it and if ever

I do lop a path-blocking bough off, I leave it where it falls for the tree to absorb back into itself, with the help of its fungal friends. I do feel valued.

Plants here might appreciate the birdlife, the beneficial insect populations, the moist soil, the shared protection from wind, rain, hail and drought; cattle beasts too, providing the fence between us and the neighbouring farm holds, along with the freedom from unnecessary human intervention.

I wonder too whether they enjoy the human visitors who traipse around the winding, plant-lined paths; the children especially. We host school groups, sometimes as large as 60, that spend a good part of the day roaming, climbing, picking, swinging, and generally filling the space with chatter and colour; I suspect the forest loves them and their energy.

If I was a plant, I’d choose to grow here.

The passage of time between the apple harvest and the appearance of bolete mushrooms under the birch tree finds me pensive.