36. Water violet

Summer at the lochán - reeds, water violets and rushes

Hundreds of pretty white water violets have popped up in the lochán. I peered below the surface and noticed beautiful, feathery weeds lurking there, the leaves of the plant. I leaned over and picked a sprig. The flower was perfect, but out of the water the finely-cut leaf became a droopy wet stem.  I spent a few minutes gently laying it out on tissue to press it, teasing out its delicate mini-branches to preserve the lovely shape.

Water violet

I  was interested to read that Water Violet is a Bach flower remedy for people who are, like the flower, upright, quiet and dignified, but with a tendency to aloofness. The remedy is to help bring people into balance so they can engage more with others.

Today was a bright, breezy day and I must admit to indulging in a little aloofness. I just wanted to sit here for hours watching the ripples on the water, the whirligig beetles busy on the surface, swallows swooping low in search of insects and the reeds moving in the wind.  Not talking to anyone, just soaking it all up as balm to the soul.

35. Yellow flag iris

Iris, buttercups and daisies

Overnight, a nearby boggy field has become a sea of yellow iris. Big swathes of colour like this could be the work of a contemporary landscape artist, but here the designer is nature. The irises flourish in the wet soil, churned up each winter by cattle hooves. 

The flag iris is a bold, strong plant. It belongs in our ecosystem but sadly has become an invasive plant in some countries.

The field is a few days ahead of the Samhain garden, where the spiked buds of the iris are turning yellow though the flowers have yet to open. In Greek mythology Iris is a goddess with golden wings who travels on a rainbow and is married to the god of the wind. I can see her blowing in from the sea, leaving a trail of sparkling gold along the edges of streams and lakes, buds bursting open as she passes. 

Iris buds fringe the Samhain pond

34. Hawthorn - May blossom

May blossom

All the trees and shrubs are in leaf  and wherever I look I see green, green, green. But the fresh green of the hedgerows is now frosted with layers of white hawthorn blossom that lie on the branches like snow. It is mid-May and the fullness of summer is on its way.

Hawthorn, whitethorn or May blossom has a special place in Irish mythology. Many rag trees near holy wells are hawthorn. We invite visitors to the Garden to tie wishes to our own special thorn tree, and many adults as well as children enjoy doing so.

Visitor's wishes on the hawthorn

Other hawthorns in significant spots are known as fairy trees, and woe betide anyone who damaged them. In a famous case only fifteen years ago Clare County Council were persuaded to change the route of the Ennis bypass to avoid cutting down a 'lone thorn' that stood in the way. The tree still stands by the side of the busy road.

Are these beliefs just silly superstitions; old nonsense that brings a knowing smile to a modern face? Or are they an expression of something deeper, an understanding of the sacredness in nature, and respect and care for the trees as part of the natural world that sustains us?

33. Connemara stone

Mweelrea mountain and Killary fjord

Connemara is wild and wonderful and part of the story of the Garden. Our westerly weather tracks in from the Atlantic, hits the mountains and starts to drop its moisture as rain. Lots of rain. We walked along Killary fjord on a bright, clear day, but this area has twice the rainfall of the Garden, just an hour's drive away.

Iar Phoirt, Clifden

The ocean is a powerful presence. It gives us our weather, our ever-changing light, our clean, rain-washed air and the distinctive colours of the West - bright blues and greens in the sunshine, fifty shades of blue-grey in cloud and mist.

I collected a pebble on the shore, which, like the sea, sparkles in the light. I will put it in the Garden, a visual reminder of the wild heart that Connemara brings.

32. Bog oak

The wood grain curves and twists in the bog oak

I held the piece of black wood in my hand and marveled at it. It is from an oak tree that lived about 5,000 years ago, and the black colour comes from being preserved in the acid environment of a bog.

My bog oak fragment is from the base of the 'Flame Figures' sculpture in the Bealtaine garden, part of which began to soften and break as water lodged in its crevices. Created by sculptor Ronnie Graham, it represents both lovers and flames, the twin themes of the Bealtaine garden.

Flame Figures by Ronnie Graham

It is a strange feeling holding something that lived so long ago. I wonder if it was part of a dense forest or a lone tree on a hillside, and what its corner of Ireland looked like as early farmers began to make their mark. It is hard to imagine a landscape with no towns, no roads, no electric wires and with great tracts of forest still intact. A landscape that at one time supported bears, wolves and beavers.

Again the question asks itself - what have we done to nature, and what are we still doing to nature?

31. Charred log from Bealtaine fire

Bealtaine fire

It was a beautiful May evening and the birdsong was as loud as the dawn - blackbirds, blue tits, the throaty cooing of pigeons and the distinctive 'chuk, chuk' of a distant pheasant. In honour of the ancient tradition, my friend and I lit a fire for Bealtaine in the ceremonial fireplace and mused on the coming of summer.

In my original notebook of ideas for the four gardens, I described Bealtaine with the words 'growth, energy, vigour, abundance, passion, colour, openness, connection and light'. Many shades of green, contrasting with fiery reds. Energy radiating outwards.

Designer Mary Reynolds turned those ideas into the stunning arrangement of standing stones and bog oak sculptures, with copper 'flames' in the grass and borders of wild flowers, that forms the Bealtaine garden. This is not a reconstruction or a static design but a living, contemporary space into which our fire of hazel and birch fitted perfectly.

The fire burned down to glowing embers as dusk fell. The next morning I picked out the charred end of a hazel log and the ash was still warm on my fingers.

Glowing ash

30. Marsh marigolds

Marsh marigolds with reflections of alder trees

Bright clumps of yellow flowers are growing around the lochán. They are marsh marigolds, one of our beautiful native flowers - showy and richly coloured, with waxy yellow petals and bright green leaves. Their natural habitat is at the edge of a lake or stream, where the water meets the land.

More like a large buttercup than a marigold, the name apparently derives from 'Mary gold', as these are one of the many May flowers associated with Mary. People traditionally gathered flowers for a May altar in the home, or tied them with ribbons to a May bush. In Christian times these were dedicated to Mary, but, like many of the Brigit traditions, one suspects they are much older ancestral rituals associated with welcoming summer.

Today a pilgrimage group visited the Gardens and we hung intentions on our own May bush, the hawthorn tree in the Bealtaine garden. I tied a 'Mary gold' with a cowslip, a cuckoo flower and a bluebell to the tree. It was simple but lovely act, our own small ritual to celebrate Bealtaine and welcome the fertility of summer.

The 'May bush'

29. Oak leaves - for Bealtaine

A tapestry of greens

New oak leaves

It is May Eve and the Garden is on the cusp of summer. New threads join the tapestry of greens every day - vibrant new-leaf greens, yellow greens, mid-greens, dusky greens and bright greens.

Today, a special shade of ochre glows in the sunshine between cold showers - the oak buds are bursting open. Each leaf is perfectly formed but tiny, pushing its way out of the bud casing like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis.

Tomorrow is Bealtaine, May Day, one of the great Celtic festivals, a celebration of fire and the sun and the onset of summer. The oak leaves stretch out and expand in the sunshine, welcoming the light, welcoming life, welcoming summer.