Christmas in Wicklow: The Garden Sleeps, the Questions Linger
I landed in Dublin already annoyed with myself for not packing a better coat. Spain had duped me again—those late November mornings barefoot on the terrace, the lemon tree still hanging on. I forgot what Irish cold feels like. Not sharp exactly. Just personal.
The N11 was quiet. Max thudded softly in his crate every time I took a bend too fast. Out past Bray, the hedges thinned out, the light fell grey and sideways across the bogs, and everything looked paused. Not dead. Just waiting.
When we got to the cottage, frost was crouching around the vegetable beds like a question left unanswered. The kale held firm. The rosemary hadn’t. The polytunnel flap had torn again. I lit the fire with damp turf, muttered at the kettle, and stood at the back window for a long time staring at the rowan tree. Brian’s tree.
The house smelled like old paper and last year’s mince pies. I found a cracked Baileys miniature in the press and a half-written list: “cranberries, bin tags, Eoin—?” Probably mine. Probably meant something.
The boys came the next day. Sean first, obviously. Still bringing biscuits I don’t like and pretending not to inspect me. Then Cian, straight from work with a laptop bag and three different cheeses. Eoin last, arms full of mystery packages and no wrapping discipline. Classic.
It was noisy in that beautiful way. Max barking. Someone swearing about the immersion again. Cian reading out the gas bill like it was a horror novel. They asked about Spain. About the garden. About whether I’d go back before Easter. Sean, of course, asked about “plans.”
I said I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Which wasn’t true.
Truth is, I’ve started poking around at things I never used to care about. Like private health insurance in Spain. It’s not dramatic. Just… grown-up. I’m getting older, and I’m not fluent enough yet to argue with a pharmacist about antihistamines in Spanish. And Max isn’t getting younger either.
I didn’t tell them that.
Instead, I showed Eoin the bulbs I planted in late October. A mess of tulip and narcissus I’d panicked-bought at the co-op in Rathnew. He grinned, said it was too late for them, and we both knew they’d probably bloom anyway. Gardens forgive more than people do.
Christmas was chaos. The ham took twice as long. Sean’s trifle curdled and nobody mentioned it. Max ate a napkin. Eoin gave me a book I already had, but wrote something in it that made me cry when I read it later. The crackers were mouldy. The heat kept clicking off. It was perfect.
That night, after they all went to bed, I crept into the garden with a glass of wine and no coat. The air had that brittle Wicklow frost edge to it. The bulbs were still, but I could feel them under the soil. The elder tree stood like it always does, arms open, saying nothing.
I’m not sure where I’ll be in spring. But I know I’ll plant anyway.
Because gardens don’t wait. And neither do lives.