GARDENS:A simple raised path, constructed over a weekend, turned a sow's ear into the prettiest silk purse, writes Jane Powers
RIGHT NOW, I'm in love with a certain part of my garden, more so than I've ever been before. The area in question is at the lower end of our patch, and is about 11sq m. Until a couple of weeks ago, it had always been a difficult space - being furthest from the house, and being home to an unlovely lump of a concrete shed, the compost bins and various other garden essentials (the wheelbarrow, some spare pots, the dustbin full of grit, and sundry similarly utilitarian eyesores).
It had gone through several reincarnations in the past 15 or so years, including a mini-meadow (unsuccessful), a kind of a green sanctuary floored with a mossy green pearlwort (fantastically high maintenance, and therefore unsuccessful), and finally, a wild area for hardy self-seeders, with lots of the green and rusty-red pheasant grass ( Anemanthele lessoniana) and whatever else could compete with it.
I liked our urban wilderness, with its cascading grasses and feral plants spread out under a few trees: the lone teasels standing here and there, each one a fierce and spiny warrior; the gathering of monstrous blue-spired echiums confabulating in the lee of the compost bin; the ditzy opium poppies, their silky pink petals blushing girlishly in the morning and evening light. I liked the dozens of the manifestations of the so-called "Miss Willmott's ghost" - the silvery sea holly, Eryngium giganteum, which the great English gardener Ellen Willmott was supposed to have spread by dropping seed in gardens that she visited.
I liked the small river of pink-calyxed and white-petalled hardy geranium, G. macrorrhizum 'Spessart'that surged down to the back gate, and the way that the leaves smelled of pine resin when I brushed past. I delighted in the carefully placed stepping stones leading to various destinations.
But mostly I took pleasure and solace in the unrestrained wild-in-the-city atmosphere at this end of the garden: there were more bees, more birds and more butterflies than anywhere else on our territory (as well as prodigious flocks of midges, but that's another matter). It was easy to fool myself, when surrounded by such a hubbub of buzzings and birdsong, that I was sitting in a country garden, instead of a few hundred metres from a busy main street.
Unfortunately - most unfortunately - our troupe of free-ranging hens loved this part of the garden too. They loved to parade down here - all six of them, led by a self-important grand marshall of a cock - and wreak havoc. Half a dozen hens scratching (with a dozen, busy inquisitive feet) for worms and grubs in the earth when it's moist, and taking dust baths when it's dry, can achieve a great amount of soil redistribution.
Our stepping stones were constantly covered in loose soil, but worse still, the ground around them, where only the toughest of plants would survive, because of the constant traffic (human and hen), became colonised by dandelions, rough grass and other undesirables. So, instead of the slabs appearing as a chain of islands inviting one to explore this naturalistic paradise, they disappeared continually under waves of muck and weeds. Without the vital structure of the stepping stones, my little metropolitan wilderness had degenerated into a mess. And largely thanks to the hens.
Non-hen people would say: get rid of the poultry, or keep them under lock and key. But the hens are as much a part of this garden as the plants and wildlife: daily life would not be the same without their featherbrained antics (and eggs). And we couldn't pen them in, as there isn't enough room to give them a decent run: when birds are used to having their freedom they're unhappy when confined to a small space.
Finally, a sublimely simple resolution to our problem came, as chance would have it, from a gardening friend whose name also happens to be Hen. She took one look at my formless, weedy wilderness and, with characteristic incisiveness identified the perfect solution: "Why don't you put in a raised wooden path, made from railway sleepers? It would be too high for the hens to scratch the soil over, and it would define the space nicely."
So that's what we did, more or less. Or rather, two strong and able young men did, over the course of a weekend. Instead of actual railway sleepers (impregnated with harmful creosote), we used the faux kind, that you can buy from landscaping suppliers, for around €30 apiece. Our boardwalk took the shape of a "Y", with the left arm leading to the compost area, and the main drag shooting off over the pool of Geranium macrorrhizum, like a jetty in a lake. The sleepers were laid long-ways, and three across (wide enough for a wheelbarrow), with a short ramp at the foot of the "Y" and at the top end by the compost bins.
We covered the timber with a skin of fine-grade chicken wire, stretched tight and securely fastened, to give traction on rainy days.
It is the most uncomplicated path you can imagine, yet its bold lines give instant structure to this wild part of our garden. The contrast between solid timber and freeform flower and foliage is perfect. And, although the walk is raised only 10cm from the ground, it is lofty enough so that only the most vigorous of hen high-kicks sees any soil landing on its surface.
I feel as if I have suddenly been given a new garden in this formerly difficult area. My sow's ear has been turned into the prettiest silk purse. I know that you're all delighted for me, of course, but that's not the only reason I'm telling you this. It's the kind of thing that could be done in any urban garden, and - here's a big plus for busy folk - it's amazingly low maintenance. Beside the wooden boardwalk, all you need is a tree (or two) for vertical interest, some sturdy evergreen grasses, and a selection of robust, natural-looking plants that will self-seed or spread by other means.
In our patch, I've tried to limit the plant palette so that the same species are repeated again and again. But because the area must have interest throughout the year, there are about 100 plant varieties happily co-existing. Besides those mentioned earlier, we have euphorbia, hellebore, Japanese anemone, Verbena bonariensis, a tall and slender pink-flowered dianthus, the near-black-flowered Geranium phaeum (commonly known as the mourning widow), leopard's bane (an artless yellow daisy called Doronicum pardalianches), foxgloves, and a host of other plants. All are trouble-free, meaning they are fairly pest-proof and drought-proof, and they require no staking or other special treatment. This is a bit like the way that Mother Nature gardens - and it's hard to beat that. jpowers@irish-times.ie
DIARY DATE:Saturday June 21st, 11am-4pm, "Books in the Garden", a book sale in aid of Wexford Women's Refuge at The Bay Garden, Camolin, near Gorey, Co Wexford (less than 1km south of Camolin village on N11); www.thebaygarden.com