Gardens, which no longer have site value, have instead got lifestyle value, says ISABEL MORTON

LAST WEEKEND was the official launch of the Irish summer.

We may not actually get one this year, but at least we’ll all remember the June bank holiday weekend. The sun shone down and gave us some respite (however brief) from the misery and depression we have all been feeling of late.

Some took the opportunity of catching up on long outstanding DIY jobs, some entertained and some skipped off for the long weekend.

But after the never ending winter of discontent, we shed our misery along with our woolies and pretended that “all was well” and that “all in the garden was rosy”.

In my case, the garden was weedy and in dire need of a spring clean.

My difficulty differentiating between flowers and weeds is my excuse for not removing anything other than the most obvious ones popping up through the gravel.

And, as my mother tells me that gardening is something you get into with middle age, I am astutely avoiding showing any interest in it, for as long as possible.

However, with the weather forecast on RTÉ still ringing in my ears and the sun frying what remained of my brain, I rather rashly invited some people over for a barbecue on bank holiday Monday.

Now, it’s was all very fine making a few phone calls and sending a few texts, but then I actually had to consider the fact that my guests would require food, drink and chairs to sit on and that my untamed garden would be the “reception room” for the event.

Gardens, which had recently been regarded as nothing more than potential building sites for extensions, mews houses or small housing developments, are now coming back into fashion. Not as “outdoor rooms” to be viewed from glass box kitchen extensions, but as proper gardens, devoid of designer grasses, decorative box hedging and smart water features.

We have returned to the classic Edwardian garden, where children can play, trees bear fruit from which jam can be made and vegetable patches are, once again, all the rage.

Gardens, which no longer have site value, have instead got lifestyle value.

Having said that, I was nevertheless grateful that my eco-friendly daughter hadn’t yet got her way and dug up my lawn (moss and weeds) for her organic vegetable patch.

However, I hoped my plan of restricting my guests to the patio area outside my kitchen door might result in them not noticing the weeds and general disarray elsewhere. And, it would be so much handier for serving, clearing, etc.

Delighted to have found a solution to my garden embarrassment, I was relieved that I only had to worry about making one small area presentable.

However, one glance at my motley selection of dull brown garden furniture, with the varnish looking crispy and dry and prone to peeling off in sheets at the slightest touch, worried me. Despite the bright sunshine, the patio looked grey and uninviting. Something had to be done to cheer the place up – and fast.

With vague notions of recreating the soft romantic look of Mediterranean distressed furniture in sun-bleached colours of powdery mauves and blues, I knew, (recession or no recession) that it could not be bought and that I would have to do it myself.

So, four hours hard labour with the noisy electric sander (apologies to my neighbours), an hour mixing pots of leftover paint (with a flower as a colour reference, although it might well have been a weed) and six hours of painting later, I got pretty much the result I wanted.

Of course, in between all of this I had to make a Saturday dawn raid on the shops to buy food and spent all Sunday evening chopping and marinating. (Only men think barbecues are easy).

And that evening, just as my husband announced that he was going to bed, it dawned on me that I would need another parasol to prevent my guests from getting sunstroke over lunch.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” I shouted after him as he rounded the stairs.

Within two seconds, I was in the car and on my way to Cornelscourt for a spot of midnight shopping. Parasol secured, I was home and in bed beside him before he knew it. (I felt like Benny Hill after a secret midnight escapade.)

Monday came and went in a blur of preparing, serving and clearing up after the long lunch. Regardless of numbers, as the hostess, you can never totally relax.

But at least the sun was still shining when I woke up on Tuesday morning and the family enjoyed the leftovers, under my new parasol, on my nicely painted table.

It gave me hope for a recession-free, long hot summer. We’re all in dire need of a reprieve.