My Garden and Other Animals. Mike Dilger

       JANUARY

       THE MOVE

      ‘Potential’ was definitely the word that sprang to mind the first time I clapped eyes on our new ‘house-and-garden-to-be’ in the small rural village of Chew Stoke, eight miles south of Bristol. On my partner Christina’s first viewing, the adjectives that sprung to her mind were ‘dilapidated’, ‘overpriced’ and ‘abandoned’. True, the unprepossessing semi we had just purchased was an ex-council property, hastily built in 1956 to house those displaced by the flooding of 1,200 acres of farmland that would ultimately form the Chew Valley Lake Reservoir. The house had also been sitting empty for the best part of a year, often not one of the best of signs. Don’t get me wrong, the property was more than habitable and according to our surveyor had been solidly built and was structurally sound, so at least it would be dry and warm. It was also a house perfectly designed with the phrase ‘bog-standard’ in mind, and certainly wouldn’t be the recipient of any architectural prizes.

      From the outside the pebble-dashed facade smeared over concrete-block walls bore more than a passing resemblance to the colour of boiled shite; and with a combination of pine-panelling, hideously dated wallpaper and marigold-coloured walls, the interior offered little improvement. Even though the house was of cheap construction and stuck in a 1970s time warp, we had always declared this to be of little concern, as the real reason behind making the huge financial leap of faith had been the bell-bottom-jeans-shaped garden at the rear.

      Surrounded on either side by mature gardens and playing fields, and book-ended with a small wooded bank leading to a stream that also represented the northern boundary of the property, the garden, whilst currently tired, unkempt and unloved, might just be in a position to offer huge promise under the right stewardship.

      Along one of the boundaries – which divided the garden from an adjacent playing field – a small peeled-up section of fence and digging-marks in the lawn were a sign of the active presence of badgers. Surely, too, the stream might just play host to passing kingfishers, and the mini-woodland would certainly act as the perfect wildlife corridor for the comings and goings of everything from grey squirrels to great tits. Who wouldn’t bet on deer, foxes and woodpeckers making an appearance at some point too?

      On our second viewing, endless possibilities as to how I could turn the garden into that mini nature reserve I yearned for began to run through my mind. My mouth followed suit, as I attempted to convince Christina of the simple, fun tasks we would be able to undertake to make the garden even more attractive to wildlife. ‘The bottom of the garden is where we should create the meadow, the pond would be next to the garage, we could then remove the alien species from the wooded bank and place the bug hotel in a quiet corner …’ I breathlessly declared in a soliloquy that would have left Hamlet short of a few words. Building up a head of steam, and getting even more carried away, I further stated that if we were successful in purchasing the property, I would personally take in hand the task of re-designing and re-wilding the garden, while maybe Christina could be persuaded to take on the slightly less glamorous task of redeveloping the house …

      Now I hate to characterise our relationship as that of a ‘building-castles-in-the-sky’ type pitted against a cautious pragmatist, but broadly speaking it’s true. So I was in no position to argue when Christina put down a few conditions as to how the division of labour would work even IF we were to make an offer.

      While on one hand she thought it churlish to ride roughshod over my naive optimism, she also felt compelled to point out the uncomfortable truth that I was not exactly the most practical of people, and so would have to give serious thought as to whether I would have the technical ‘know-how’ to carry out such ambitious plans. Not helping my argument was my track record; in my old communal garden in Bristol I had always tended to be a little work-shy when it came to any hard graft, and my ‘share’ of the gardening chores had usually consisted of little more than filling the bird-feeders. In response, I assured her in no uncertain terms that this time it would be different.

      Feeling like I was winning the argument, I also offered an additional sweetener by suggesting that I would of course seek advice immediately if I felt out of my depth and promised I wouldn’t attempt anything foolhardy. Still unsure as to whom I was trying most to convince – her or myself – Christina suddenly and uncharacteristically threw caution to the wind, catching me totally off guard, by boldly stating that we should put in an offer without further ado! I could have kissed her … and in fact I did!