Recently, the highest-standing tree in the Botanic Gardens, a Giant Redwood, was announced to be deceased. Its grandeur and bearing overshadowed the splendid magnolias and captivating water lilies, despite being a mere 200 years old in a potential lifespan of approximately 2,700 years. Unfortunately, the tree had been suffering for quite a while, its fragile branches having been chopped off due to the risk they posed during high winds. The Redwood was left bare and vulnerable, reduced to merely being a perch for seagulls. Even a botanical novice like myself could observe that the tree wasn’t faring well during our Sunday strolls.
News of the tree’s demise caught us off-guard. There was a surge of texts with a link to a news piece on the RTÉ website from other recreational walkers. The tree had fostered quite a reputation in the locality; admittedly, a rather gloomy one, but celebrity status nonetheless. With generations having seen the tree standing tall, witnessing the comings and goings of its neighbours, it had been a consistent figure. In recent years, the tree faced a vibrant and striking exhibition of ferns, a species dating back to before the dinosaur era.
The Botanic Gardens, affectionately known as the ‘Bots’, holds a special meaning for those of us residing nearby. Amidst the hustle and bustle of urban life, the gardens act as a sanctuary where one can observe the changing seasons. The snowdrops and crocuses post-Christmas, the burst of cheer from the daffodils, and the transformations to tulips and roses, dahlias are a treat to any eye.
Just a few days ago, upon sharing a conversation with a visitor from the US while exploring one of the glasshouses, she expressed her amazement about the free entry. According to her, the gardens were worth every bit of €50. She was visiting Dublin for a short while and had convinced her other half to spend two days in the gardens. Coincidentally, she was part of a botanical garden committee in California, yet she found the Botanic Gardens in Dublin incomparable.
Naturally, humans aren’t the only ones who find charm in the gardens. Some time ago, a small collection of us locals and a pair of ducks found ourselves congregated at the gate, eager for its opening. The ducks indulged in their playful antics, darting to and fro, occasionally stopping to gaze at the gate and causing a ruckus in the adjacent flower bed.
When the gates eventually opened, one of the ducks sauntered in and established its presence, seemingly communicating, in its duck-like fashion, “Hey, I’m inside!” Upon hearing this, its partner swiftly followed suite.
If your schedule permits, pairing a botanical garden visit with a tour of Glasnevin cemetery completes the experience. The gate separating the two has been welcoming visitors for some time now, providing a quick passage from the vibrant spectacle of nature to a sombre reflection on life’s impermanence- a journey from life to death in just a few steps.
A few years ago, my office held our Christmas celebration within the cemetery. The outer tables played host to our small group, everyone bundled up against the chill while enjoying a simple meal of soup and sandwiches complemented by warm beverages.
Glasnevin cemetery brings one face-to-face with graves of the renowned as well as the lesser-known. Seeking these graves requires navigating grassy knolls and boundaries, creating an atmosphere of respectful trespassing. I found myself unknowingly nodding in respect to those whose graves I crossed. Observing this, a friend reassured me, “Don’t worry, they don’t seem to mind.”
One particular grave, that of poet Gerard Manley Hopkins proved difficult to find. During my initial visits, I continually came up empty when trying to recall lines from his poems, despite having studied them years ago. Yet, I found myself effortlessly remembering the potent ending of Brendan Behan’s ‘The Confirmation Suit’ while standing before the gravesite of the remarkable author and playwright.
Uncertainty surrounds the imminent fate of the colossal Sequoia. Might it be felled during the encroaching dusk? Will its stump endure? This newborn from two centuries past, facing a futureless existence, silently communicates with the surrounding ferns. These primeval verdant witnesses, standing as fortresses of knowledge gathered over thousands of years, offer silent reciprocation.