Gardens in Literature

I don't know about everywhere else but London is currently basking in glorious sunshine and it's set to continue over the weekend. Inspired by my lunchtimes in Grays Inn Gardens, I thought a summery post on literary gardens might be the right way forward. Admittedly this list could be horrifically long and I will probably spend my weekend being frustrated that I didn't include this garden or that garden... but I'm just going to pick three.

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles.

Now critics will have drilled this book with Freudian accusations. Regardless of whether you agree or not, this story is one of the most beautiful. There is something incredibly satisfying about walled gardens... in Greenwich Park there is an enclosed garden, sometimes used for outside performances in the summer, and to me it has always been my secret garden... although it turns out it's not that secret... The wildlife in this book brings everything to life, the garden and the writing, to the extent that one of my favourite characters is the robin:

The robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off. Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off - and they are nearly always doing it.

The Go-Between by L P Hartley

...sat on the lawn, its dark foliage and the brightness of the turf around its shadow; and I also remember the hammock of crimson canvas slung on two poles beneath it.

Rather than a garden, Brandham Hall has impressive grounds and in one of the hottest summers they play hosts to cricket match after cricket match, Leo catching 'glimpses of white-clad figures striding purposefully to and fro', and forming a backdrop to the story. Although the novel, as with any other, is not plain-sailing, you can't help but wish you were spending your summer holidays lolling about on the lawn, eating cucumber sandwiches and acting completely oblivious to all the tumultous goings on beneath the surface.

The Selfish Giant by Oscar Wilde

Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden. It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. "How happy we are here!" they cried to each other.

When I was a child, my mum used to read from Oscar Wilde's fairy tales - probably not the most appropriate stories as they are, often, desperately sad. I remember my mum saying how sad they were and I never fully understood at that age but, going back, I can see it all now. It's beautifully written and if it doesn't make you well-up you're made of rocks and stuff...