An Ode To Lavender

A splintered wooden gate propped ajar awaiting our arrival, the portal to childhood summers spent bathed in campfire embers and salty Irish air. Lavender Lodge was a relative’s home, and an annual haven to someone whose daily surroundings were the grey-scapes of an English town. The rustic architecture was the antithesis of the houses I was used to, the unruly wildflowers that welcomed us far superior to the neat green squares that lined my street. It was a place I always left richer in memories, and the start of a lifelong infatuation with the lilac blanket that circled its front.

As the name suggests, the purple plumes of Lavender were plentiful and the sweet aroma enticed an orchestra of bees that reverberated around the floral bunches, the gentle hum like nature’s call to arms. Dried sprigs would always end up in cup holders and underneath the seat of the car when we left, stolen souvenirs of wistful weekends, a signature scent of the utmost happiness.

Sadly, the Summers drew to a close and the chaotic hoard of cousins that once knocked the tiny buds to the floor were swept away with the years and strewn across the globe. The tradition ended and Lavender Lodge became but a memory, thirteen painted letters on a wooden plank that left the land with the owners when they packed up in search of new beginnings. However, it was the start of something grander for the girl who just couldn’t stop smelling the flowers.

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Lavender has somehow become a medium to map moments of my life, though I assume this is merely because I’m always hyper aware of its presence on the front drive of someone’s house or tucked away in a park. The road down from my childhood home has a large lavender bush which drapes over a front wall like cascading locks dyed purple in a phase of rebellion, striking against the muted auburn bricks. As plants go, there is very little to fault, they smell exquisite and they are a wonderful pollinator, with this particular bush attracting more bees than I’d ever seen together in one place. I passed it every morning on my walk to work in a local coffee house, always lingering a little too long on that three feet of pavement in front of it, always wondering if the homeowners were suspicious of the curly haired stranger whose pace lessens every time she strides by their house. Each day I would flit between my two favourite smells, freshly roasted coffee beans and sweet violet serenity - moments of cheerful bliss in the monotony of British summertime.

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Summer days slipped away and suddenly I was hanging up my apron and boarding a plane to Spain, where I would spend a year away from university teaching. I moved to a rural area of Andalucía called Alcalá la Real - rural meaning quiet and quiet meaning lonely. I’m quite content with my own company, but my sunset walks became a ritual break from my own thoughts. Each day I’d walk by a large lavender patch, uniform lines of bushes growing month by month until they were ready to be harvested. When the day finally came, the sucre smell hit me like a Northern wind in October, unrelenting and momentarily stopping me in my tracks. Though they would live on in a new form it was bittersweet to see the roots exposed, the lush flowers hacked off - gone. 

Not long after, I was gone too, back to Leeds to finish my final year at university. That summer I began wearing lavender and jasmine oil on my wrists in place of perfume, mainly in an attempt to be frugal but also to centre myself, knowing the smell triggers fond memories as I embarked on a very stressful eight months. Trying to remember it all is like doing a jigsaw without ever seeing the picture on the box, a cacophony of jumbled pieces strewn pre and post lockdown. Luckily, I got to add in the final pieces as I returned to Leeds for the month of June, and on the 27th day I turned twenty-two. I got up early to pack away the remnants of my student life, put on Joni Mitchell and went for a walk in my local park. I had been monitoring the Lavender growing there for the past few weeks, the gentle foaming before they flowered, the varying species lining the path. But today they were in bloom, a birthday gift, and I picked five stems to tie to poems I had written as a farewell for my housemates. This flower had become a part of my identity simply because I couldn’t stay away from it, enough for me to tether it to my words as an extended symbol of myself. I like to think this is a logic that can be applied elsewhere, to find enough happiness in something to integrate it into your every day, to pass it on as an extension of the cheerfulness it brings to you.  

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Currently I find myself back home, probably for the foreseeable future (it’s tougher than usual for a graduate at the moment) and discovered my mum had planted a small lavender bush in our garden. Sure, it doesn’t come with the promise of campfire songs, fresh coffee or Spanish sun, but there it is, and the bees don’t know the difference.

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Whenever people ask me about my future, about my plans and where I see myself, I always say a small farm with a ceramic studio out the back and lavender as far as the eye can see. I can compromise on the farm, and I’ve never been near a potting wheel so the ceramic is a bit of a pipe dream, but I won’t budge on the lavender - not a chance. 

Andrea Loftus