By Peter Please from his book Holine-A British Journey: Bulletins from the Wayside (1997)

Fred was a father to me, the first person to call me ‘gardener’. In appearance he was the grand gnome, stoutly built and cladded with duffle coats in winter; a tapering white beard completed the effect. I’d have to guess the colour of your eyes but it was your buoyant sanity, listening ear and perennial puckish humour that I remember best. I start getting sentimental when I think about you. I suppose I never knew the real Fred who could be stubborn, didactic, somewhat old-fashioned, only Fred the Gardener. Our ideals came up against the rock of you. On the subject of curses, Fred listed perfection quite highly. It doesn’t exist he maintained. “A garden is never finished. You dig the earth and get it looking good but the weed seeds are laughing: ‘Ha ha little does he know we are all here.’ The beauty is that a garden is never finished. What do you do when you’re perfect anyway?” The last time I saw him he did not remember me, not that he was senile for he had happily remarried a woman half his age. I was disappointed but then life can be like that. I recorded this conversation on New Year’s Eve, 1977. He died some years ago.

* * * *

I arrived while Fred was watching the Bruce Forsyth show and Rowena (his first wife) was busy in the kitchen baking mince pies. The white scottie dog immediately dived for my socks; Fred looked sternly at it and the dog curled over and went to sleep. ‘Well, how about something to drink,’ he said. He poured cider for me, sherry for himself. The smell of mince pies floated into the room which closely resembled a badger’s den; comfort was the key note, a splendid place to relax. The conversation was soon on gardening. ‘My working days are. over. I’m an old man now,’ said Fred. His silvery hair and beard had recently been trimmed showing a determined, chewing profile. He leaned forward and rubbed his knee joints as if they were in pain; a prolonged damp spell put him to bed with lumbago; the hazards of a gardening life. To his mind, the community was no place to linger if one was young. ‘There’s a whole world out there; it’s mixing and working with every kind of character that develops character and individuality. An old man like myself can give of his experience here; the young people should pick up as much as they can for the first twelve months and then go back into the world.’ Fred’s voice grew stronger with feeling.

The community jargon concerned Fred; he thought it could confuse people’s sense of identity. ‘Who am I? What am I?’ he suddenly said, leaning forward and touching the floor with his hands. ‘Put your hands in the soil. It’s always the same. It never changes – but don’t leave them there too long at this time of year.’ Fred was no believer in groups, only in individuals. ‘When I first came here Peter Caddy asked me to focalise the garden – the last thing I wanted – I gathered the gardeners together one day and said that if we take on our areas of responsibility, we will have a group without trying. They visibly cringed.’ He turned his face into a cringing gardener. It was on a Saturday morning that Roc came to his caravan and suggested a walk around the garden. ‘I hear you have been having a bit of trouble,’ said Roc. He told Fred the youngsters were still unsure of themselves, groping in the dark. They were apprehensive of Fred’s authority. ‘You are both going to the same place but coming from different directions. What you have to offer is the breadth of practicality and experience.’ He recounted this story with relish.

Our task is to live life. ‘If you’re working with the earth and nature you can never forget your spirituality. It’s always there. You don’t have to make an issue of it. You can never lose sight of it if there is that contact.’ He leaned forwards. ‘You know, I have plenty of time here and I watch people. I notice them, I see their mannerisms. There are some people here who have nowhere else to go. They are running away from life.’ As usual Fred would never name names. A good frost was a godsend, he said, peering out the door. It produced a fine tilth, neutralised fungi spores, any harmful pests, encouraged the birds to really get down to all the cracks. It also broke down the ordinary sugar in parsnips and turned this into sucrose. ‘Nature gives so freely… Abundance is giving away our energy.’   (Findhorn, 1976)