Transplanted

There’s an old Regency manor house near us that has been preserved as a heritage site, beautifully surrounded by manicured gardens that are faithfully tended by volunteers and open to the public. The gardens were planted and arranged over successive generations in the old English style—which means that the plants and trees were imported from all across the globe. This worked particularly well on the Fota estate because of its sheltered conditions. Even its name, Fota, is derived from the Irish “Fód te”, meaning “warm soil”. The arboretum is particularly impressive, boasting some of the finest specimens of pine, cypress and sequoia in Europe. There are also acers and eucalyptus, tasmanian tree ferns, acacia and magnolias that burst open with enormous flowers before the leaves even begin to appear. A walk through Fota gardens is a walk around the world, with the sights, smells, and colours of the Himalayas, Japan, Chile, China, New Zealand, the Pacific Northwest, and beyond.

Sometimes I’ve wondered how trees from California and Australia can grow so well in Ireland. I suppose they don’t have much of a choice in the matter, but they’ve certainly made the best of it. Their roots are deep in the fód te, and I have to strain my eyes to see some of their towering tops. They have not simply survived in a foreign land. They have made it their home, and thrived. When I wander among them, I am encouraged.

I, too, am a transplant. I came from North America, like the sequoias, and have put down new roots in the warm, welcoming soil of Ireland. Although my instincts and assumptions were trained in a different cultural climate, I have gradually acclimatised to the cooler days, the subtler humour, and the slower movement of time. The air and soil, the rain and wind of this place have crept through my foreign skin and become a vital part of who I am. I’m not sure when that happened, or how. I just know that it did, and I feel it even when I travel beyond these shores. I feel strangely changed—as if some of the fód te of Ireland clings to me anywhere I go. But of course it does. Soil always clings to roots.