Christmas holds a very special place in my heart. Memories of family gathering from far and wide as they followed my mum’s instructions, “Get to Lions Den and turn right.” Scents of deliciousness wafting from the kitchen, carols in the entrance hall, and laughter and ridiculous games underpin the incredible generosity and love my parents showed to all who crossed the farm grid.
Escaping the frenzy of a city Christmas, we head for the Silvermine hills. A moody sky, a gentle breeze, and soft whispers of golden grass beckon. The remnants of the April fire are still very present. Sparks of colour remind us of resilience, new hope and extraordinary beauty.
Nestling amongst the blackened proteas are exquisite buds of spring green, soft purple and tips of seasonal Christmas colours. Some buds are still tight shut, keeping their secrets hidden. Others are showing a hint of deep blue, and some are bursting with new life and energy. The dwarf Agapanthus.
“Agape” comes from the ancient Greek meaning “selfless love,” and “anthos” means “flower”, the flower of love. It was named in 1788, by the French botanist, Charles Louis L’Heritier de Brutelle. As many as one hundred tubular-shaped flowers can emerge from one bud. Such generosity.
The buds remind me of my darling granddaughters, who fill our home with endless energy, delightful laughter and abounding joy. It is the season of love.
As we wander on, the Watsonias shimmer in the grey morning light. The buds capture my attention: upright and exact, statuesque in their poise, with nuances of colour that sparkle under the moody sky. As they open, flower by flower, into bright orange enhanced by the blackened backdrop, they exude joy, creativity and abundance.
Watsonia was named by the botanist Philip Miller, in honour of his friend Sir William Watson (1715-1787). Watson helped to introduce the Linnaean system of plant classification to the UK. The longevity in plant species, spanning centuries, gives hope in this uncertain world.
The tawny golden grasses dance with careless abandon in the breeze, swaying this way and that, wherever the wind takes them.
It is Christmas at its best – in the wild.