The Lavender Path

THE LAVENDER PATH

You may 'remember an inn, Miranda'

I remember a Lavender Path.

Grandma lived only a short distance away.

We could walk there.

But the journey was an adventure.

Excitement was my companion.

'We're going to Grandma's!' I would chant

As I skipped along by my mother.

Our house was just a house;

Grandma's was a place of magic.

First, the gate.

But not just a gate!

A leafy archway

Which made our entry

Ceremonial!

We 'entered'.

We didn't 'go in.'

Then, the path!

Shiny and orange.

Terra cotta I'd call it now.

Then it was 'orange'.

And gleaming.

And orderly, with its neat tiles.

And so very, very long!

(I experienced 'The Yellow Brick Road'

Long before 'Oz')

It led up to an elegant doorway!

And we passed between banks of lavender!

The purple spikes massed on either side,

Their perfume intoxicated me.

I still smell them.

There were other delights.

An orchard

Filled with Cox's Orange Pippins.

You who have never smelt a 'Cox's'

Or bitten into its wrinkled skin,

Haven't lived!

There was an apple loft,

Where Grandpa stored 

His bounty.

One climbed wooden steps to reach the loft,

And there was a platform at the top.

From there one could look over

The apple trees

And see the trains!

Oh bliss!

To stand there,

So high,

So royal,

Watching one's thundering beasts go by!

There was also a shed.

It was tumble-down, even then.

It was musty with age.

And there were other ancient smells

From plant-pots

Old newspapers in stacks,

Hessian.

Yes, definitely hessian.

I wonder why.

We were allowed to eat Cox's windfalls.

So, yes,

There was that gloriously appley smell too.

Plus the smell of the forbidden raspberries.

And, most magical of all, 

There was a greenhouse

With Grapes!

Grapes were foreign things.

These were small and sour.

But there they hung,

Gloriously plump exotica

In Grandpa's greenhouse!

After tea, we walked home again,

Past the lavender.

And I stole a few heads

To rub between my fingers as I walked.

Making the magic last.

*

My 'Christmas Trees are small' now

As the song says.

I have returned as an old lady.

I see an unremarkable suburban house,

Not very well planned.

I see a small garden 

With one or two trees.

I hear the irritating sound

Of passing trains.

I see a narrow path

Which, if I take a few steps,

Leads me to an everyday door.

And the lavender has gone.