The Garden Sounds Different When You're Alone

It's only when you work in gardens every day that you realise how much they have to say, long before anyone else arrives.

There are mornings when I unlock a garden gate and, for a little while at least, I'm completely alone.

The house is still quiet. Curtains remain drawn, and the kettle hasn't yet boiled. Somewhere in the distance, there's the faint sound of traffic, but once the gate closes behind me, it seems to disappear. It's as though stepping into a garden creates its own little world, separate from everything happening beyond the fence.

I've come to treasure those moments.

Before the mower starts or the hedge trimmer breaks the silence, there's a chance to simply stand still for a few seconds. I don't always do it deliberately. Sometimes it just happens. I'll put the bag of tools down, look across the garden and listen.

It's surprising how much there is to hear.

A wood pigeon calling from somewhere high in the trees. Blackbirds arguing over territory. The soft rustle of leaves moving against one another as the breeze begins to pick up. If it's been raining overnight, there's often the gentle drip of water falling from branch to branch, long after the clouds have disappeared.

None of it is dramatic.

In fact, that's rather the point.

We live in a world that rarely gives us silence. There's usually a television in the background, music playing in a shop, a podcast in the car or a phone buzzing in our pocket. Even when we're at home, there's often something demanding our attention.

Gardens ask for very little.

If anything, they reward us for doing less.

I sometimes wonder whether that's why so many people tell me they feel calmer after spending time outside. They often think it's because of the flowers or the fresh air, and of course, those things matter. But I suspect it's something else as well. The garden gently persuades us to slow down enough to notice what's been there all along.

I remember one customer saying to me, "I'd forgotten how noisy the birds are."

We both laughed because they hadn't become any louder. The garden hadn't changed overnight. What had changed was that they had finally stopped long enough to hear them.

That conversation has stayed with me.

As gardeners, we spend a lot of time looking. We notice when a shrub needs pruning, when the lawn has started to grow or when the first signs of autumn appear in the leaves. But listening is just as important. After enough years, you begin to notice when something sounds different. A sudden silence can tell you as much as birdsong. The return of swifts overhead is something you hear before you see. Even the wind seems to have a different voice in January than it does in June.

Perhaps that's why every garden has its own personality.

Not because of the plants it contains, but because of the life that surrounds them.

The next time you step into your garden, before reaching for the secateurs or pulling on the gardening gloves, try doing nothing for a minute.

Just listen.

You might be surprised how much your garden has been saying while you've been too busy to hear it.

Marcus

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Marcus Bergin

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