March's Garden

The recent spell of cold and windy weather has rather put a brake on our runaway Spring, so when I went to the Cambridge University Botanic Garden this week I wondered quite what I'd find to photograph. I've been showing you a little bit of the site each month, but the best looking parts of the Garden this month were the Winter Garden and the Glasshouses, which we've already explored.

But there was a small, but persistent, presence tugging at my sleeve. "Go the smelly one," it urged, "Go the smelly one!". Long ago, you see, I used to bring a young boy here as part of my work. He was both blind and autistic, but could invariably find his way to the Scented Garden, guided either by the fragrance, or else by some uncanny sixth sense, which was the only explanation we could offer for many of the things which he could do.

Even my old and tiring senses could detect the fragrance of the "City Of Haarlem" hyacinth in the top photo and the Erysimum "Walberton's Fragrant Sunshine" (above) as I entered the Scented Garden. There weren't huge numbers of flowers blooming and the theme seemed to be very definitely yellow. On this warm, cloudy day there were lots of intermingling aromas, but they are not easy things to photograph. We'll have to make do with scattered flowers and a few memories.

Several gardeners were hard at work giving many of the shrubs and herbs some neat but rather brutal haircuts in readiness for summer. I don't usually photograph this cheerful band of workers as they go about their very necessary tasks, so I take this opportunity to thank them for their endeavours.

I thought I'd better grab this shot before the shears and secateurs descended and robbed us of these sculptural forms till next winter.

Maybe this little darling had been disturbed from its reverie by all the busy activity going on around it.

The garden lies in a slight hollow that helps to trap the fragrant air and there are raised beds which lift the blooms nearer to nostril height. It's a wonderful place for those with visual impairments to enjoy the wonder of the garden. My young friend was very happy to remain here as long as possible.

The most glorious perfume to rise in any garden and find its way to my nostrils is that of Rosemary. I can't walk past without rubbing my fingers along its stems and through those rudimentary leaves. The flowers are not particularly showy; it's as though the plant has put all its effort into its scent, like some drab little birds contrive to produce the loudest, most flamboyant song.

My father used to like this place too. In the days before there was an admission charge to the Botanic Garden many people used to cut through here as a pleasant respite from the traffic-clogged streets. Dad used to use this as part of his route home from town and knew where all the best seats were for a few minutes rest before continuing his journey. On wet or drizzly days the little shelter in the Scented Garden was the place to be.

And then there were the days when I visited as one of the more pleasant parts of my work. You may be wondering just how I could persuade a very single-minded young man, intoxicated by the mix of aromas on offer, that it was time to leave this heavenly space. That's easy: suggest a cup of tea and a slice of cake in the café. Well, that's where I'm going now. Are you coming or what?

Take care.