Where Angels tread (and hoe and mulch)

I have seen larger and grander, but THIS is the garden that's captured my heart for eternity. A springtime ramble through it brings me as close to heaven as I will ever get on earth.

It is the domain of a mother and daughter I shall call Charlie's Angels. They are the most incredible and inspiring gardeners I have ever met, and I have met many good ones in my time. Angel Senior, the mum, is like a second mum to me and an honorary granny to Legs and Noodle. Angel Senior possesses an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things botanical and is a gifted painter and writer, and a marvelous cook to boot. She taught me all about making jams and chutneys, one of my favorite kitchen pastimes. Angel Junior, the daughter, is a renowned sculptor who works in wood and alabaster when she's not busy in other incarnations as a singer, print-maker, photographer and belly-dancer. The Angels are the closest we have to family in our area and we love them to bits.

Their garden is enormous and utterly lovely in all seasons, yes, even in the dead of winter when our garden - and everyone else's - resembles horticultural Hades. Except for arduous he-man jobs like chopping fallen trees into firewood, they do ALL the garden work themselves. Unlike me, they never complain of backaches and have no fear of slugs. This is what their place looks like at this time of year.


I brought a friend to see their garden last week. When people enter for the first time, their typical reaction is usually one of delighted surprise and, often, speechlessness. In the orchard, we were engulfed by giddy-making clouds of apple blossom. There are several dozen fruit trees - mainly old apple varieties, as well as cherries and plums. In the autumn, several hundred kilos of windfall apples are collected and brought somewhere to be pressed into apple juice. The Angels' apple juice is the finest, most delicious apple juice I've ever tasted.

The Angels allow a farmer in the village to keep some of his sheep in their orchard. The 3 ewes and 8 lambs currently in residence get free grazing and reciprocate by keeping the grass down in the orchard. This beneficial agreement creates endless bucolic scenes like the one above. Two local bee-keepers, one of them a druid, also keep a number of beehives in their orchard. The bees feast on the flowers, pollinate them and produce beautiful honey that the bee-keepers offer the Angels in lieu of rent. Everyone benefits. In seeking to live with interdependence and harmony we only need look at Nature's example. The Angels taught me that.


At the rear of the garden is a splendid old wood with mature oak, yew, ash, hazelnut, acacia and chestnut trees which provide cover for an ever-changing magic carpet of springtime flowers. No sooner has the mantle of snowdrops gone over than bands of crocuses and scillas emerge to replace it, only to make way for a blaze of daffodils, then narcissus, and finally culminating in a spectacular blanket of bluebells. This picture does not do justice to just how delightful the wood is, even if the bluebells were coming to an end at the time I took it. Legs and Noodle love building forts and playing make-believe games in this wood. They stay there for hours on end, their shouts, laughter and occasional bickering weaving in and out of the leaves.


A formal hedge separates the orchard from the rest of the garden. A 6-foot tall hornbeam hedge borders this long walkway. Until a few years ago, Angel Senior used to trim this hedge herself, and the sight of this petite woman in her mid-70s brandishing a hedge-trimmer atop a tall ladder would give me the heebie jeebies. I have neither courage nor stamina to take on scary jobs like that. It's what separates hardcore gardeners like them from ordinary ones like myself.


The potager or vegetable garden is mostly Angel Junior's domain. Have you ever seen vegetables more artfully grown? Most people who grow vegetables grow them in rows. Practical, but boring. Angel Junior mixes vegetables and flowers together. Her potager is a suite of rooms separated by 'walls' of raspberry canes, and miniature pear and peach trees on cordons. In about a month's time, a canopy of grapevines and clematis will begin to provide summer shade for the lettuces.


An espaliered crab apple tree in full flower stands guard over Swiss chard, wood strawberries and leeks in raised beds bordered by campanulas and forget-me-nots.

Honesty's vibrant magenta flowers are offset by acid green ornamental grass. The Angels' boundless artistry is present in every picture-perfect corner of their garden. Even their compost heap is pretty.


Lime green euphorbias hug one of several huge walnut trees in the garden. In the autumn, I become the happy beneficiary of walnuts from this tree. They go into all my cakes and their flavor simply cannot be matched by supermarket walnuts.


A magnificent magnolia sheds its petals on the lawn. The Angels love our children and spoil them rotten sometimes. Legs and Noodle have enjoyed Easter egg hunts in this garden since they were little.


They must search high and low to find several kilos worth of Belgian chocolate Easter eggs each year. They have become extremely blasé about going Easter egg hunting anywhere else. This year, I unilaterally (and very unwisely) decided that the children, now 13 and 10, had grown too old for Easter egg hunts. Oh my God, the fallout that ensued! At breakfast on Easter Sunday I was shot stony looks by Legs and Noodle who informed me in the strongest possible terms that they expect to continue this annual springtime ritual on Angel ground until they leave home. As a matter of fact, they refer to the Angels' garden as "their garden," which is ironic because they do not speak of our garden at home - yes, the one Skunk and I toil in - with as much proprietarial affection.


A garden like this is heaven for all forms of wildlife. The Angels, passionate bird lovers, have nesting boxes on almost all their large trees. This sheltered wall hosts a village of bird houses, some of which are recycled from vintage wooden boxes of Earl Gray tea.

More posts on this garden will follow, but for now, I must get back to the weeds in ours.

P.S. I've only just found out that if you click on any of these photos, they will come up larger and in greater detail.

Heroes: Legs takes a giant step.

"I got to where I am because of education."
~ Michelle Obama, speaking to students at the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson School in London last Thursday

Legs and Noodle are in new schools this school year. Skunk and I decided to move them to Flemish schools from the French schools they've attended all their young lives. A bit of background on the tiny but complex country we live in: Belgium has three official languages - Dutch, French, and German. An estimated 59% of the Belgian population speaks Dutch, and French is spoken by 40%. There is a small German-speaking community in the east of the country. We live in the French-speaking part of Belgium although if we drive 20 minutes north we're in Flanders. Flemish is both the colloquial term given to the Dutch spoken in Belgium, and to the inhabitants of Flanders. If this sounds confusing, well, that's Belgium for you.

It was convenient to send the children to the local French-speaking school. They started at the École Communale, a small but cheery primary school a 3 minute trundle from our front door. Eventually, we transferred Noodle to another school two villages away because it was piloting a Dutch immersion program. French native speakers would be taught most of their lessons in Dutch, with the aim of getting immersion students perfectly bilingual in both French and Dutch by the time they were 12 years old. There was skepticism at first, and parents like us who offered up our children as guinea pigs to this experimental program knew we were taking a risk. True, we could have bilingual children by age 12 - something nice to brag about to parents with monolingual kids. But things could backfire, and instead of speaking French and Dutch fluently, there was the possibility that the students would end up confused and speak both languages badly. To complicate matters further, we speak English at home, making English the children's mother tongue. Skunk and I speak passable everyday French. Translated, passable means that we speak it with execrable foreign accents, misconjugate our verbs, gender-bend our nouns, and are a little too free with the use of tu instead of vous. In more concrete terms, I speak good enough French to jaw down the price of a Le Creuset cocotte at a flea market or have a blazing row with the shackass who swiped my parking space in front of the post office, but I will never be able to discuss Sartre eloquently at a dinner party. Not that we go to those types of dinner parties anyway, thank god.

Over the last 3 years we had grown increasingly disillusioned with the Francophone school system's lack of funding and long-term vision. Schools were getting over-crowded, teachers were badly paid, over-worked and demotivated, academic standards were sinking, school equipment was falling apart and not being replaced. After Legs started high school at the French-speaking Athénée in the nearest town, she complained that her teachers were often absent and student discipline was a problem. Most of her classmates were more interested in mobile phones, reality TV and les baskets Converse. She wasn't learning anything. We investigated the possibility of sending her to Flemish schools which are much better funded and reputed to have some of the best academic standards in the world. We found Legs a place at an excellent Flemish high school 25 minutes away, and decided to move Noodle to a primary school in the same town. When the new schoolyear began last September we took deep breaths and prayed hard. Settling in to a new school was relatively painless for Noodle. After 5 years in Dutch immersion learning, his Dutch was almost as good as that of his new classmates who spoke it at home. However, the change of schools has been a grueling transition for Legs, whose Dutch was rudimentary at best.

Skunk and I repeatedly questioned the wisdom of our decision to throw an English mother-tongue, French-educated 13 year old in the deep end at what's turned out to be one of the most demanding high schools in Flanders. It seemed cruel doing it, even though we felt it was the right thing to do for Legs' education. It's been painful watching her struggle with subjects like History, Biology, Technology and Algebra in a language she could barely speak. We knew that all the parental love in the world coupled with her burning desire to succeed did not necessarily guarantee that Legs would make it. We grew frustrated with ourselves because we could scarcely understand the frequent communiqués the new schools sent home. We speak almost no Dutch so there was no question of helping her with her schoolwork. It would have been the blind leading the blind.

It was clear to the headmaster and all her teachers from the start that Legs would be a special case. They welcomed her warmly but said she would have to work very hard. Her new classmates were friendly and helpful, although socially there was the language barrier to hurdle as well. Her first trimester grades were quite poor, as expected. Her teachers were impressed by how hard she was working and gave her the help and encouragement she needed. There was extra Dutch tutoring after school. She began to make friends. She enjoyed gym, especially swimming, which she's good at. She rejoiced in the fact that she was ahead of the others in French and English. In all her other subjects, she scraped bottom. Though she was tired everyday after school, she did her homework diligently and without complaint. She would study for exams a month in advance. She made many sacrifices to help her focus on school: her Nintendo was put away until the school holidays; computer time, unless required for homework, was limited to a couple of hours on weekends only; Saturday afternoon activities in Brussels were put off; her iPod gathered dust.

Every language a child learns brings a different way of looking at the world. Week after week, we've watched with astonishment and delight as Legs' grasp of a new language has grown. The awkward phrases she mumbled six months ago have been replaced by the nimble, confident patter she keeps up with friends and teachers today.

On Friday evening we attended a parent-teacher meeting to discuss her second trimester progress. Both kids left in the afternoon for a competition weekend in the Ardennes with their Flemish swim team. Then it's Easter break for the next 2 weeks. Legs had not seen her latest report card but warned me, "Mama, please don't be upset if my grades are still bad. I really did my best." With that in mind, we weren't expecting much when we sat before her teachers. So we were speechless with shock when we saw her latest grades, which have improved tremendously. Her teachers were full of praise, "We've not met many youngsters like your daughter, she's a real joy to teach!" Her grade point average is now just a few notches below the class average, and if she can keep up her momentum she will have caught up with everyone else by the time school ends in June. Legs has surpassed everyone's expectations. Sitting there listening to all this, I fought back tears of pride and relief. Skunk and I drove home in a daze. I sent a text message to her swim coach to give her the good news right away.

I, perfectionist but slacker extraordinaire, am totally blown away by my girl's pluck and determination. I feel awful for yelling at her on the occasions she was too tired to remember to wash the dog's bowl, bring her dirty laundry downstairs or keep her desk tidy. When I look at the Herculean task she's tackled so bravely I know I should have cut her more slack at home. I could have, but I haven't always remembered to, or wanted to. Had it been me in her place I doubt I would have fared half as well. Humility is a classroom I will have to keep revisiting in earth school.

There's a Zen saying that goes, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." Legs, your student is here.

Photos of Legs by Liana Joyce

Rock & Reel

The word 'roadkill' accurately describes how I felt yesterday morning after spending the previous night with a demented crush of teenage banshees at a Fall Out Boy concert in Brussels. I was so tired I never even got up to my grumpy morning default setting. It couldn't be the one beer I had, decorous by my standards. And it wasn't that the music was concert loud, because I love that kind of loud. No, it was the non-stop pandemonium in the audience that wiped me out. Teenage hormones in full spate and at ear-splitting decibels will sap the juice out of anyone, even a life-long party animal and adrenalin junkie like myself.


As concerts go, it was a great evening; Fall Out Boy are a terrific band with a big brash sound. What made it special for me was the fact that it was Noodle's first ever rock concert. Being present at this rite of passage was a privilege for his music-mad mama. The look of utter delight on my son's face when FOB hurled themselves into their first song will stay with me forever. He was easily the smallest person there and glad to have us by his side. He'll feel differently in a few years, so we're grateful for today's small mercies.

A disapproving friend wanted to know why I would even take a 10 year old to a rock concert on a school night. (Legs stayed home studying for exams.) Not knowing how to explain myself I simply replied, "Because I like to have fun with my son." But it got me thinking about why Skunk and I do it. We've been taking Legs and Noodle to concerts for about 3 years now. The fun element is crucial, yet there's more. On the practical side, teaching the kids basic street smarts is part of our brief as parents. Noodle and Legs aren't too young to learn about concert protocol, especially how to be safe and enjoy themselves at public events. Stay away from drunks and people who are high or aggressive, we caution them. Know where all the exits are. Don't accept drinks from strangers, I sometimes nag. If the volume's too loud, ask for free ear plugs at the bar. Stay close to the security dudes if the mosh pit vibe gets uncomfortable, et cetera. Luckily, in the 20-odd years we've been going to the Ancienne Belgique, we've never had a spot of bother. It's a mid-sized venue, clean, well-policed and generally attracts a good-natured crowd. Still, better safe than sorry.

But back to the real reason why we take our children to concerts some people deem inappropriate for their age. A singular magic unfolds when good music is performed live. Live music creates fellowship in a way that bottled music can't. Aging rock chick that I am, I have much more in common with the dread-locked heavy or the wispy redhead with multiple piercings gyrating next to me than any of us can ever imagine. Barriers fall, smiles are traded. Kind strangers sometimes turn into new friends. Important discoveries are made about ourselves and what makes our cells hum with joy. We emerge, temporarily deaf but years younger. The happy buzz lasts for days, the memories a lifetime.

Besides, the thought of my children listening to dreck by the likes of Britney Spears or James Blunt is more than I can bear. Give me roadkill mornings any day.



Fall Out Boy performing "Thanks for the Memories" at their Brussels concert, the last gig on their European tour. The footage is shaky in parts due to jostling by deranged teens, but audio is okay. (Length 1:43)