Memowing (another form of therapy)

Alongside weeding and other gardening tasks, are in themselves, forms of therapy. The same as other house chores, that we perform nearly on an auto-pilot, they allow us to switch our brains off of our main worries and allow them to wonder off.

But this was the first time I've mowed weeds. The garden was so disappointingly let down that there seem to be very few spots that actually have lawn growing in. If I were to pull out every single dandelion, I'm pretty sure we'd have no green in our back garden.

In the UK, because it's a humid country and gets plenty of rain throughout the year, as soon as the sun comes out, life shoots out from everywhere. Every vase, every border, every wall, every slab. Wherever the light gets into, you name it. It's so easy to maintain, as long as we keep on top of it.

Normally mowing is therapeutic, when it's straightforward. But this lawn just messes with my head. We know that, at some point in the future, we'll have to dig it all out and re-sow. Not only is it full of weeds everywhere, it's also a mini version of a BT track. And because we are also planning to extend in the future, it's a little bit a waste of time to make any major changes to it, unless these changes can outlive it. But at least it allows me to "memowing" (sorry, I've always been a neologist by nature), which means to digress into childhood memories.

Having been born in Portugal - descending from Southerners - and loving nature and the outdoors, oak, olive, pine, eucalyptus, orange and lemon trees were always part of mycnative surroundings, growing up. I think trees should be a family landmark, that every house should have one. Of all the trees, the olive tree is the one I relate the most to. Not only because I absolutely loooove olives, but also because it's just the right tree for a Mediterranean family house. And the one that is more likely to survive. If it gives olives: Bonus!

I have very vivid memories of holidays at my grandparents' house, in Alentejo, where my grandpa had all sorts of fruit trees. At the back of the house he had grapes, three orange trees, a couple of olive trees, one lemon and one plum tree. From the room window I usually stayed in, I could see them. At the front they had another orange tree and also a huge pear tree.

I remember waking up in the morning, with the sun invading the rooms and already feeling really hot, going outside and picking an orange straight from the tree, even before breakfast. I miss that so much! They were the sweetest, juiciest oranges I have ever tasted. It's the sort of memory that will haunt me for life. Never again will I have that privilege. Unfortunately, orange trees are not the sort of trees that will survive in the good ol' British weather. An olive tree it will be.