Roll back those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer! As always, just when I’m finally getting into the gardening groove, the season is winding down.
Nevertheless, it has been — and continues to be — a wonderfully busy summer, with as much time outdoors as possible. It’s important not to feel too tethered to the garden, so when adventures beyond the garden beckon, I’m always willing to go.
It wouldn’t be summer without a visit to Martha’s Vineyard, an island filled with dear memories of our former sailing expeditions — and, I hope, many more to come. Last week, my friend Cecile and I took the fast ferry over to revisit some of our favorite haunts. We discovered a charming little bookshop in Edgartown and came away with a few new additions for the shelves.
But I’m equally drawn to the island’s topography and, of course, its gardens — especially the summer gardens of the Methodist Campground in Oak Bluffs. Set in the heart of the island’s most touristed town, the Campground offers the traveling gardener a wonderful place to pause, look around and dream.
This world apart has a magnetic pull on me whenever we make landfall. Partly, it’s the unique “gingerbread” cottages that make up this historic enclave, and the colorful gardens that surround them. But even more, it’s the peace, quiet and nostalgia it evokes. The Campground makes for a lovely, traffic-free walk and a chance to create your own pace, away from busy Circuit Avenue with its steady stream of day-trippers and summer shoppers.
I first came here on a bicycle trip with the Girl Scouts in 1971, the same year Derek and the Dominos released “Layla,” whose unforgettable chords filled the air as we biked our way across Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard. Not surprisingly, it’s still my favorite song.
My recollection of the Campground from that time is a blur, but I do remember fixing a flat tire in Tisbury and enduring a frightful thunder and lightning storm on Nantucket, where water ripped through our tent in some remote woods.
The fact that this place would become a refuge of sorts a lifetime later just proves how our lives sometimes run in circular paths. The Camp Meeting has served many in a spiritual way since the first gathering was held here in 1835. As the congregation grew, thousands came to attend, housed in tents arranged in a semicircle around Trinity Park. In the late 1800s, the tents were replaced by the Victorian-style cottages that remain today — some 300 of the original 500 are still standing.
Today, the association is interdenominational, and the programs held in the giant central Tabernacle are ecumenical in spirit. Many of the cottages have been owned by the same families for generations, and Campground residents have a keen appreciation for its special traditions.
As we walked through on an oppressively hot day, we were drawn into Trinity Church, where we heard music. We were the only audience members, absorbing the chorale from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony as the pianist practiced, sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows. The music and the coolness did us good — even if only for a brief spell. We made a donation and stepped back into the summer heat.
We strolled unencumbered by noise, responsibilities and laundry lists. It’s like entering another dimension. And while I photographed a tree backlit by the afternoon sun, I thought of all the summers I have been so lucky to have on the island.
There are countless memories of my children when they were young, including our youngest — now 32 and recently engaged — at 5 years old, wielding a fishnet we had just bought him at the local Five and Dime. There are memories of relatives and friends sharing the walk, or riding bicycles and all the requisite snapshots, and the pleasure found in the simple, uneventful act of strolling.
Not too long ago, we went to Illumination Night — always the third Wednesday of August — and although it was crowded, it was magical.
I appreciate the different palettes of color used to embellish the charming architecture, as well as the equally charming gardens, where hydrangeas and other New England cottage-garden favorites predominate. I like to imagine the lives of the people who inhabit these homes, looking for clues: a bicycle stationed outside, an errant garden hose, an unfinished crossword puzzle, or perhaps a few neighbors chatting on the front porch as the world goes by.
We stopped for lemonade at a delightful stand run by a young entrepreneur. Somehow, that made the day all the sweeter.
Naturally, I’m thrilled to see any actual gardening going on as well. I’m inspired to rethink my own deck garden, currently overgrown with fennel, and to borrow some of the ideas for color and texture that appear around every corner here.
It’s a pleasure to be part of the scene, even if only for a brief hour or less — to breathe in the summer, wander through its gardens and, ultimately, find a little lasting contentment.
“Gardens are a form of autobiography.”— Sydney Eddison
The Seaside Gardener
By Laura McLean
