Scents, sights, sounds and sweet peas – Carlow's Floral Festival is a feast for the senses, writes Gemma Tipton
DO YOU KNOW your hosta from your phlox? I don’t, but I was keen to find out, and the annual Carlow Floral Festival seemed the best place to start. Surrounded by experts (Dermot O’Neill, Helen Dillon, Dick Warner, Joy Larkcom Pollard), and in the surroundings of Carlow’s glorious gardens, how could anyone’s fingers not turn green? Carlow has been making the most of its gardens for some time now; they range from the old walled gardens of Duckett’s Grove and Altamont, to Kilgraney’s medicinal herb gardens, to the Delta Centre – where I begin my day. The Delta Centre, unprepossessingly hidden in an industrial estate, is a wonderful discovery. It provides training, residential and day services to adults with learning disabilities, and part of this is time spent visiting and working in the sensory gardens. Designers, including Mary Reynolds, Gordon Ledbetter and Jimmi Blake, have made the interconnecting gardens a real feast.
In the rose garden, Dermot O’Neill tells us that roses need love too. Care for them and talk to them like he talks to his, and they acquire better immune systems, even to stand up to the dreaded Black Spot. We sniff at a rose called Fragrant Dreams – peachy coloured, like an old-fashioned bathroom suite – and are disappointed to find it doesn’t smell of much, though
all around, the scent of roses hangs heady in the air. Onwards, we discover how to make the trunks of your silver birches whiter than white, while a small boy tries to get as wet as he can in as many of the water features as possible – not for boldness, I think, but because it’s pretty irresistible.
“Do you like sweet peas?” asks O’Neill. How could anyone say no? “The more you pick, the more they grow.” Sweet pea, buddleia and lavender are now filling our heads with their aromas.
“This is Alchemilla Vulgaris, Lady’s Mantle, put it under your pillow for eternal beauty,” O’Neill says, adding “it’s also self-seeding and very intrusive”; I surreptitiously pop a couple of leaves into my pocket. With the sounds of water, the scents on the breeze, and the vivid colours everywhere, I begin to think you could never feel hopeless or depressed for long in a garden.
As Latin names are uttered, I remember my granny knew them all, and the lore that went with them, and I wish I had listened to her more.
We go on to Kilgraney, where the medicinal herb gardens are fascinatingly laid out according to what each group of plants can cure.
Hens scatter up old stone steps as we walk around to a gallery showing flower paintings; and ceramic bowls in the shape of flowers, leaves and pods by Martin Marley, one of Kilgraney’s owners – all for sale in aid of the Hope Cancer Support Centre. Go to Kilgraney for amazing food, much of it grown in the gardens, and stay the night for a blissfully peaceful sleep.
Totally inspired, I drive to Arboretum, which is apparently Ireland’s first five-star garden centre. Pushing an enormous trolley, I wander round the Inspirational Gardens and stands of plants in pursuit of sweet peas. “It’s a little late for them, don’t you think?” says the assistant, disappointingly. I linger in front of Cosmos Atrosanguineum, a little red flower that smells unexpectedly of chocolate, then load up with things that are either half-price, or “easy to grow”. At the checkout, I feel guilty at bringing all these beautiful plants to what is probably a certain death, but the person taking my money seems to think it will be fine, and I drive away in a car filled with the scent of lemon balm and lavender.
At Duckett’s Grove, a country fair is in full swing. Helen Dillon is giving quirkily informative garden tours, a farrier is shoeing a horse, a thatcher thatching. There are vintage cars, farm animals and pets; plus plants, food and crafts for sale. Mary Teehan (aka the Truffle Fairy) has such amazing chocolates that I buy a box, thinking they are a better bet than Cosmos Atrosanguineum. “I used to be a customer,” says Naomi Denny, who is working on the stall, as I tell her these chocolates are addictively, almost indecently good.
Padraig Larkin is weaving baskets. “You start making a basket,” he says, “and you think you know what you’re going to do, but baskets have a mind of their own.” I buy one to swing on my arm, filled with flowers, chocolates, and a pair of Mary Doyle’s fluffy wool slippers that I couldn’t resist either. I have visions of myself as a real country lady.
Regretfully I tear myself away, to drive home to plant my plants, and to sleep with Lady’s Mantle (hopefully) working its magic under my pillow.
Carlow Floral Festival continues until August 8.
carlowfloralfestival.com
