Ray Morgan: Outside Space

March 28, 2017 by Ray Morgan

When you're looking for a new home, there are two words that can be a dealbreaker. I can't tell you how many times I hit CTRL+F scrolling through property sites to make sure those two little words were included in my house hunt: "outside space".

To me and you, that's a garden, but in estate agent terms they like to say "outside space" so if there's a two-broken-paving-slabs courtyard with sad dandelions poking up through the cracks, you can't argue that the word 'garden' is too generous. I see what they did there.

Anyway, when Jo and I were looking for a flat to buy, a garden really was a dealbreaker. We've lived together for 8 years and have always, always been in top flats. While we loved those flats (2 out of 3 had sea views or "glimpses" in estate agent lingo), we craved a garden.

Sometimes, in the summer, we'd go round to my sister in law's after work to sit in her garden and have a well earned beer in the late evening sun, just to have some breathing space. It was like borrowing a garden for a bit. I envied both hers and my family's gardens, full of life and greenery, chairs to recline in after a long day's work.

I come from a green-finger family. My parents' garden is a haven of tranquility and beautiful handmade garden decor and classy plants, and they have an allotment that keeps us in fruit and veg for a lot of the year. My sister has a garden not only full of lovely plants, but it's space for her two little boys to maraud about it, kicking Peppa Pig footballs and floating toys in the paddling pool in summer. My dear, dear, late grandad Reg had a huge garden at his bungalow in Northampton that was a great source of happiness for him and he tended to it well into his 80s. It was the saddest thing when he could no longer care for it, because in previous years, he'd spend more time in the garden than in the house! I have so many great memories of tramping around that garden as a kid, with my sister, smelling flowers, arranging our toys amid a rockery made in an old kitchen sink.

So when we found our new place, the garden was a huge draw for us. For the first time, this weekend, we sat outside with a cup of tea, and it felt great. There's a sycamore tree, some sort of unknown fruit tree blossoming sweet-smelling, tiny white flowers, euphorbias sweeping low over the pathway, nodding in the wind and a pink camellia, loaded with buds and ready to burst. There's also a picnic bench, shed, tulips and daffs, all lovingly put there by the previous owner that we're now responsible for taking over.

But here's the rub: I have a history of killing plants. There's probably a picture of me hanging behind the tills in garden centres saying 'Plant murderer - do not sell anything living to this woman!' Seriously, everyone who has ever bought me a plant, I'm sorry, I definitely let it go to the big garden centre in the sky. Reg would be appalled at the way orchids, cyclamen and other cute-looking house plants have wilted under my care, but I'm hoping that having a garden will change all that. I have, like, remembered to water pots since I've been living there and that is major progress for me. A dear colleague of Jo's has given us tomato plant seedlings and I'm obsessed with not killing them. Please, dear things, don't die. I want to prove that I can do this.

8 years in top flats has passed and this is our new chapter where hopefully, plants can thrive and we can finally get some breathing space. Who knows, I might even be writing one of these blogs out there soon, a cup of tea by my side, namechecking plants without having to ask my Dad first... we'll see.