I’ve often written about the natural beauty of Japan. From the many gardens that dot the archipelago, to the vibrant jungles in the south, to the shy blooms on its northernmost shores. The sheer density of flowers always surprised me, but of course the Japanese see beauty in much more than just flowers. Most even claim to prefer the reds and yellows of autumn over the pinks of the sakura blossoms. Shrines are often hidden between tall and ancient trees, while others cling to sheer cliffsides or stand upon strangely perfect volcanoes. This summer, for the first time, another place reminded me of that beauty, sometimes even rivalling it.

I have to be honest. Ever since she began her Master of European Studies, Indi’s stance on the United Kingdom has shifted. Although usually an advocate for peace, in the face of Brexit, she isn’t at all eager to forgive and forget. Clearly the Brits betrayed us, and a carefully nurtured grudge, quite akin to a vendetta, does not seem out of place to her. Though not happy at the outcome, I cannot help but like my westerly neighbours. Perhaps I am not Italian enough to understand. 

This reminds me of a minor incident about two years ago, going grocery shopping with Indi and her Dad Andrea. Upon returning home to his centuries old tower in the Tuscan countryside, he inspected the toothpaste Indi had bought. Regretably, reading the small print on the back, he discoverd that it had been made in Spain. Not Italy. Of course not as bad as England, but still, an unnecessary mistake. Every time we stay at Andrea’s place and I brush my teeth with that toothpaste, I am reminded of his quiet disappointment. 

Anyway, the point is that Indi wasn’t all that happy when I started planning a trip to England. She refused the invitation extended by my Mom and Sister, and instead chose to spend those ten-odd days in her own glorious Tuscany. We bid each other goodbye for a little while, and two days after her departure for Italy, I flew across the Channel once more, though without her, and not to London this time. 

Difficult as it befalls me, I will try and not write about the richly decorated cathedrals, medieval town centres, and wealthy manors in this post. Indi assures me that you are all quite bored hearing about religious architecture, and if I do not improve my ways, a dark and lonely future awaits me. 

Still I cannot help but explain how the Gulf Stream pulls tropical water from the Caribean to North-West Europe, softening the cold of winter and warming the rolling hills. In the small valleys that cut through the landscape of Cornwall, this mild climate reinforces itself, creating little pockets different from any other place in Europe. 

Very different in style and philosophy from the Japanese, the English nonetheless approach gardening with the same love and vigour. For centuries they’ve made good use of these valleys where frost never encroaches and where summer loves to arrive earlier and depart later than it should. However, unfortunately for the gardeners of the rich English earls, barons, and abbots, the forests of the British Isles aren’t blessed with the elegant wisteria, bright peonies, happy hydrangea, and ephemeral cherry blossoms.

Fortunately for these wealthy lords, the same navy and merchants that filled the British Museum in London with the heritage of other lands and cultures, also saw itself perfectly capable of scouring the empire for its most beautiful and unusual plants. Flowers in all shapes and sizes of course, but also tree ferns the size of palm trees, straight out of the Jurassic jungles that once housed dinosaurs. Most astonishing were definitely the gunnera, plants consisting of nothing but large, spiny stems, thick as my forearm and taller than all except basket-playing Seppe; stems without exception ending in leaves as large as parasols. A family of four could shelter from the rain under one. However, they never grow alone, but instead form large canopies, creating a screen between their alien-looking flowers and the warm sun above. 

I have tried for a while to find a nice way to end this text. A funny turn of phrase or a mildly wise moral of the story. ‘Conquering thieves have nice gardens?’ But that’s already the title… Or else, ‘Can’t Park There Mate’, but I realise I haven’t written about the car crash. Also not a great option. All I can say with certainty is that Indi won’t be happy with the positive light I’ve shone on England here. I just hope her Brexit Vendetta won’t soon extend to me.