After 20 years, three incarnations and some hedge heartbreak, Nigel Slater at long last has his perfect sanctuary – and without a blade of grass in sight
I could barely wait to dig up the lawn. Getting rid of the rectangle of mown grass that passed for a garden was almost the first thing I did when I moved into my new home on a bitterly cold New Year’s Day, 20 years ago. An act of vandalism to some, but to me the patch of brown earth, chips of broken china and old, soil-filled medicine bottles it left behind was just the blank canvas I needed.
The wielding of the spade must have been symbolic, because I did nothing more outside for months. I wanted to create a place to think. A green space in which to clear my head in between recipes, or to untangle a knotted sentence. A lawn has its uses as a safe place for children to play, somewhere to kick a ball around or to sunbathe, but it wasn’t the right garden for me. I don’t find inspiration or peace in a neatly edged rectangle of grass. All I see is a wasted opportunity. I wanted a garden where my imagination could run, where I could make a home for bees, birds and butterflies and where I could escape to when the house was full of people. A place that would act as both inspiration and sanctuary.
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