The Glory of The Garden...

So we all know that Mr Kipling makes exceedingly good cakes.

However, that is not the Mr Kipling to which this post is about. 

One of my favourite things to do on a sunny Sunday morning is to wander around a boot fair.

I absolutely love a good boot fair, and have countless times happened to drive past one and screamed "STOP...STOP...BOOT FAIR..." at my long suffering husband.

I get really excited and almost dribble. Yep.

So, last Sunday, the LO woke me up nice and early.

We pottered about, listened to the radio and shared a lovely breakfast involving porridge and banana while we left The OH in bed for a well deserved slumber.

By 8.00am The OH was still... sleeping... like...a...baby...so the actual baby and I headed off to the local boot fair.

In the past I used to do a formula one circuit, scanning everything everywhere in super quick time, for the fear of not being fast enough and missing out on something.

Nowadays it is a much more leisurely activity.

Mainly because I made a commitment to stop buying junk that I didn't really need.

If I buy anything now, I have a one in, one out policy.

Whether it be a boot fair, charity shop or finding something for free, it has to be...

1) Useful

or

2) Replace something else which then gets donated or given away.

When wandering around a boot fair, I will always be drawn to books, things to do with owls, and anything garden related.

I really have to work hard at not buying another book about wildflowers, even if it may be 'useful' when out rambling across the countryside...

Back to the last Sunday...

I had already bought The LO a nice set of flash cards for the grand price of 20p and a set of books for 50p, two African Violet houseplants for one whole pound and was about to head home when I spotted an interesting little picture.

It was in fact a poem called The Glory of The Garden by Mr Rudyard Kipling.

I have way too much art hanging in the house already with not an inch of wall to spare, but I loved the little poem and when the lady told me I could have it for 50p I immediately handed over my silver and rushed home with my goodies.

I have a whole wall dedicated to various pictures loosely based around the theme of woodland/trees/nature, and the little poem fits in perfectly.

   The Glory of The Garden   

                  

Our England is a Garden that is full of stately views,

Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,

With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by,

But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,

You'll find the tool and potting sheds which are the heart of all,

The cold frames and the hot houses, the dung pits and the tanks,

The rollers, carts and drain pipes, with the barrows and the planks.

And there you'll see the gardeners, the men and 'prentice boys,

Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise,

For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,

The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.

And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,

And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows, 

But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,

For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made,

By singing "Oh, how beautiful" and sitting in the shade,

While better men than we go out and start their working lives,

At grubbing weeds from gravel paths with broken dinner knives.

There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick,

There's not a hand so weak and white, nor a heart so sick.

But it can afford some needful job that's crying to be done,

For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.

Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,

If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders,

And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,

You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.

Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees,

That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees,

So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray,

For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!

AND THE GLORY OF THE GARDEN IT SHALL NEVER PASS AWAY!




Rudyard Kipling