Gardening in a drought-prone place of temperature extremes is not for the faint-hearted, but Jeremy Valentine loves a challenge. Here’s the latest instalment of In the Weeds, his monthly newsletter for Galah.
Hosting an open garden is a surreal experience. Quite simply, it's the turning of your own private world into a public park. And here at The Stones, where a sense of quiet and seclusion is so omnipresent, flinging open the gates to the masses proved more than a little jarring to the senses. It was, however, enormously rewarding.
Of the few events at our place in recent times, this was the "grand daddy" of them all, and there was just so much to do. Thankfully, the garden was coming together without too much donkey work.
We had chosen autumn – my favourite season – as the time of year that comes with the guarantee of the vibrant tincture of changing leaves and the mellow shambles of summer-lost. It's a time where the ravages of the hot and dry are forgiven, and new life takes off in secretive ways.
Apart from the garden, the myriad of other things to do – polishing tea cups, collecting table settings, rallying urns and nutting out rosters amid our already hectic schedules – was beginning to feel overwhelming. In response, Grant set up a time-scaled spreadsheet.
The date was looming, and suddenly we found ourselves at the pointy end of the list.
Losing the only key to the old ute that was marooned on the driveway the day before the event was not on the list. We had used the ute the day before to cart and wrestle portaloos into their designated positions, and left it parked awkwardly, right in the way, at the all-important axis to the garden.
The key was declared missing at midday, and an ever-amplifying panic set in. You see, when setting the perfect scene in a place such as this, the sight of a ute (or any vehicle for that matter) would be a complete mood killer. An immediate fail. Leaving it in situ for the event would be unequivocally, devastatingly inconceivable. The ute had to go, no matter what.
Meanwhile, the secret mechanism of time was tightening its unending coil, and hours were seemingly lost in seconds. The situation was looking grim.
While we should have been immersed in a sea of last-minute preparations, we were key-hunting instead. We checked the pockets of every jacket and every pair of pants, (whether they were worn or not), under things, around fence posts, and in the thickets of the garden. At one point, in a fit of desperation, I even checked inside the fridge.
We drove to the places we had visited, thinking that this single key went into the other car to other places and fell out, but nothing was found. The low point was frantically combing through vast piles of autumn leaves on our hands and knees as a whole host of arrangements were pushed to the side.
The RACV was called, then a locksmith. The closest was in Ballarat, 70 kilometres away, and he arrived at 6pm in rapidly fading light to encounter the only ute of his career that had a computer code he simply couldn't configure.
By 9pm I was feeling sick with anxiety. I tried to brighten his struggle by plying him with tea and lamingtons. I even offered to bring him dinner. By 10pm he still couldn't crack the code with his new-fashioned key, and he conceded defeat. The ute refused to start.
What he did manage to do was unlock the steering column. So at 11 o’clock in the dark and in the rain, we pushed the ute by torch light along the driveway, through the orchard and let it roll away into the paddock. It felt like launching a doomed ship into the ocean.
Despite it being a failed and very expensive operation, I was actually jubilant with relief. The garden was car-free, and the ambience was restored.
To make up for lost time, I rose at 2 o’clock next morning, prepped the urns, set the tables, covered trestles with 1950s linen, and turned our domestic kitchen into a kind of commercial operation necessary for the weekend ahead.
At first light we installed the road signs, put up a marquee, blew up green balloons for the entrance, and finessed the gravel.
The open garden was a roaring success. We couldn't have wished for a better outcome. The visitors were lovely, everything ran smoothly, the weather was perfect, and our amazing team of friends and neighbours were all incredible. Even our sheep lined up along the fence to meet and greet the visitors as they walked the sinuous sweep of the drive.
Twelve hundred people came through the gate that weekend, and their cars were parked for a kilometre in both directions. I have never talked so much in my life. It was a magical experience I shall always remember.
By Sunday evening when the last of the visitors had left with what remained of the lamingtons, our little world regained its serenity once more. The peafowl returned, and the guineas moved back to the house grounds. All about, our familiar little world regained its all-pervading quiet.
Then the phone rang. The farmer up the road, from whom we buy our hay, sounded immediately jubilant. "I've found the key laying in the dirt!"
Photography by Min Loo.
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Catch up on Jeremy's previous stories here or find him on Instagram at @thestonescentralvictoria
