It was a dreary, cold winter’s morning, yet as I sat gazing out of the window from my cosy lounge, hugging my warm mug of coffee, I saw it. On the edge of what was now a wet, muddy slope that overlooked the garden below, was a Japanese Maple, glistening and bringing the illusion of warmth with it’s bright red branches. The leaves had flown away in autumnal winds and all that was left was the burning red stems of weary branches.
I smiled as I knew at once what was to be done.
Putting on my wellies and grabbing the basket, kept ever-ready by the door, I walked out into a chilly, but bright air. The sun was beginning to tentatively poke out and the thought of bringing some outside life indoors, somehow cheered me. Using my secateurs, I stretched up to snip off some thin, red branches and let them fall into the basket. They lay glistening with the dampness of night frost melting away.
I walked on down the slope, pausing to snip at interesting evergreen leaves at the side, until I reached the bottom, to take off some of the trailing stems of the Ceanothus plant, only sown that summer to cover the newly available old wall, what was remaining of the derelict building that had been demolished the year before. What had once been a farm building, had temporarily housed the small congregation that had survived the famous Welsh Dam Disaster of 1925 and washed away their church building. Only the big, old bell had survived, but despite the loss of 16 people, the community had moved on. One hundred years later, the old derelict building that had since been replaced by a newer one, was demolished and a community garden built on that piece of land. Fitting perhaps, as it led up to the Centenary Commemorations the same year.
In the meantime, our garden, that backed onto it had been created from a piece of uneven, hilly, rocky land. Still a work in progress, I loved to walk down there and enjoy the little we had achieved so far. The chrysanthemums, now died off, but reminding me of the same flowers that were used at the funerals of the victims. New perennials were straining to get going in the newly laid beds, some had been moved around before finding their final home in the bid to create the best layout. Annuals had come and gone, leaving space for new life next season.
Winter was a time to wait and plan, but nevertheless I was quietly pleased to find so much foliage that I was able to gather and bring back inside. Most of it was growing wild, so I wasn’t even sure what it was, but the contrasts of greens, reds, browns, and blacks were as interesting as the different textures of prickly holly, bubbly buds and berries and smooth leaves. Gradually I would get to know what it all was, but in a way it didn’t matter, as together it all belonged to this little piece of paradise that we had been blessed with. I wanted to respect and welcome the natural plants that were here long before us, as they took their rightful place with the newer ones I was planting, hoping that they would fit in and compliment each other, bringing a peaceful haven to a small village that had known much sorrow.
I walked back into the house with a basket full and happily arranged my winter bouquet in the vase that took centre stage. It was a potent reminder of the beauty that comes even in the depths of winter.
I stood there alone and shivered, staring down below.
Confused, frozen to the spot. I didn’t know who I was. Had I lost my mind? I couldn’t make sense of what I saw, as if I’d been transported to another world. I didn’t belong here, this wasn’t home.
Home had been washed away.
The mighty force had taken everything with it, swallowing it up in it’s hungry mouth. Swirling, whooshing, looking for something else to satisfy it’s craving, taking in unsuspecting things along it’s path. So many things. Things everywhere, that didn’t belong outside and looked strange and as lost as I. Forcefully claiming this part of the world that had been taken from one on the brink of adulthood. The noise was too much, I covered my ears with my hands in a vain attempt to block it all out.
And then it stopped. There was a brief sound of eerie silence.
I thought the silence would take over now, relief from the storm, but then they came. Muted moans and confused cries, scary screams. Human responses to our world turned upside down.
And then I remembered that I was a human being too. I started to move, hesitant at first, past the things strewn across my path towards the human sounds of painful hope.
I knew then that this was my home. The mighty force had taken it from me briefly, but this was where I belonged and I would find my place in it once again.
I stood there in the chill of Autumn under a blustery sky, whilst the ageing trees around me were being buffeted by the wind. Instinctively I looked up at the leaves that were flying around my head.
Flying, fluttering, falling, floating down to the ground, creating a carpet at my feet.
How appropriate I thought, as today we were welcoming the memories of those who had fallen. Not in the war, but in the terrible dam disaster of the Autumn of 1925. Were these trees there then? Did they have stories to tell us? Now, as then, they were being stripped of their beautiful leaves, just as the people who died here were taken from us, leaving loved ones bereft yet not destroyed. Soon enough, new leaves came on the trees. The old were gathered to become part of beautiful pictures that would remain.
No wonder this time of the year is known as “Fall” in some places. For much of nature falls to the ground and dies. Yet even in that there is beauty and fresh hope.
There they stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder.
The little row of terraced houses had looked so pretty, with their cottage gardens and white picket fences. On many a sunny morning, of which there hadn’t been many at this time of year, the lady of the house could be seen, sweeping the front steps from tired, dusty feet.
And the children could be seen playing together, running around the houses, chasing each other from back to front, laughing as they dodged in and out of rows of crisp white sheets that fluttered in the breeze in the back gardens. Avoiding the gazes of parents chatting over the garden fence, as if the thin walls themselves that divided them, didn’t talk enough. And arriving at the front, where cyclists returning home, sounded their bells in alarm as they avoided potential collisions and excited dogs barked in accord.
And then, as sure as life had unassumingly gone on for so long in these modest homes, that nevertheless had been shelter from the storms of life, it stopped.
Everything changed. In one moment, all was washed away.
What warning there might have been was drowned out by the tremendous noise that preceded everything. The deluge of water took all in it’s path; the pretty houses, the cottage gardens, the picket fences and front steps, the happy children, barking dogs, chatting parents and good neighbours.
Now it was a matter of survival in the eerie aftermath when all was quiet and of another world.
Nothing would be the same again. life would be different. They would never forget.
Yet it would continue, without the houses in Macho Terrace.
Just us now, a new place, new people, even a new language. We set to in establishing our home , with the sound of water and falling waves from the nearby famous surf center.
So much to learn and discover and begin. The garden, an ongoing vision and work, the need for fresh food, outdoor exercise and a place to be, with the accompanying sound of water and falling waves.
The house, a ready home to welcome guests. To gather around the glowing, burning logs on dark, winter nights. The views from the windows sustaining us even on rainy days and the emergence of rainbows over the valley, bringing their promises in our very own rainforest.
With morning mists and ever-changing skies, wispy clouds hanging low, when they couldn't quite decide what to give us. Would they move aside and give precedence to the sun, or open up and shower us again? The birds gliding playfully before us. Did they have stories to tell of bygone days? And yet there seemed to be sadness hanging over the place. A story of disaster, that some still remembered being told, as if only yesterday. The older ones held the history close to their hearts.
Would the younger ones still remember?
Yet they came, the young ones, the newcomers, bringing new life, new business and change And the comforting sound of water and falling waves, merging with laughter and joy In the hope of new tomorrows.
