I'm mad about gardening. I have an allotment on the other side of

“I’m mad about gardening. I have an allotment on the other side of Hampstead Heath, and I keep three hens in my garden.” — with these words, Deborah Moggach, the novelist whose stories have illuminated the quiet heroism of ordinary lives, reveals the heart of a truth that is both ancient and divine: that in the tending of the earth, the human soul finds its rhythm. Her words are not merely about soil, plants, and hens — they speak of balance, of simplicity, of a return to the sacred harmony between humankind and nature. When she says she is “mad about gardening,” it is not madness in the sense of folly, but the sacred passion that overcomes all who have glimpsed the quiet joy of creating life with their own hands.

The origin of this quote lies in Moggach’s reflections on her life as a writer and a lover of homegrown simplicity. Known for crafting vivid, empathetic portraits of human connection in novels like The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, she has always celebrated the beauty of the everyday. And so, her love of gardening is no accident — it mirrors the same creative impulse that drives her storytelling. The allotment across Hampstead Heath becomes her second world, a sanctuary of growth and renewal, just as the writer’s mind is a field where seeds of imagination are sown. Her hens, meanwhile, are symbols of gentle continuity — the cycles of nourishment, care, and gratitude that bind all living things together.

In the ancient days, to be close to the earth was to be close to the divine. The farmer, the gardener, the shepherd — all were seen as keepers of the sacred order. For the earth itself was the mother of all, and to till her soil was to partake in creation. When Moggach speaks of her allotment, she is, in truth, speaking of a temple — not of stone or gold, but of green and clay. Each seed she plants is an act of faith; each harvest, a small redemption. To walk through a garden, to feed one’s hens, to see life multiply — these are acts of worship more ancient than prayer. In them, the soul remembers its first language: the quiet exchange of giving and receiving, of labor and gratitude.

And how beautifully the hens complete this picture. They are creatures of humility and abundance, offering eggs — small, perfect gifts — without demand or vanity. To keep them is to live in rhythm with dawn and dusk, to honor the cycles of nature rather than the deadlines of man. The gardener with hens becomes a steward, not a conqueror; a caretaker, not a master. This humility is the wisdom of the earth: that all creation is bound in reciprocity. The soil gives life to the plants, the plants feed the hens, the hens enrich the soil again — and so the circle turns, unbroken and eternal. Moggach’s joy, then, is not indulgence, but alignment — a life lived in harmony with what sustains it.

History, too, offers its mirrors. Consider Leonardo da Vinci, that restless spirit of creation, who kept his own small garden while painting the mysteries of the world. To him, nature was the ultimate teacher. In the curve of a leaf, he found geometry; in the growth of a vine, the pattern of life itself. His journals are filled with drawings of seeds and roots, not because they were trivial, but because they revealed the hand of the divine in all things. Like Moggach, he knew that to be “mad” about creation is the sanest form of devotion. For in the act of growing — whether it be a garden, an idea, or a story — one participates in the divine act of making life new again.

The allotment, then, is more than land — it is a metaphor for the inner life. Each of us holds within a small patch of soul that must be tended. We must pull the weeds of bitterness, water the roots of love, and plant seeds of patience if we wish to see the garden of our being flourish. The hens represent the simple joys — the humble acts of care and repetition that ground us in meaning. In a world that rushes ever faster, Moggach’s life is a reminder that the path to peace is not through speed, but through steadiness. The garden does not hurry; yet everything is accomplished.

So, my child, take this wisdom as your own: be mad about gardening, whether of the soil or the spirit. Find your own “allotment” — that sacred space where life grows slowly and honestly. Nurture something with your hands, and it will, in turn, nurture your soul. Let your days, like Moggach’s, include the small labors of love — the tending, the feeding, the walking among living things. And if you cannot yet cultivate a garden, then at least cultivate the attitude of the gardener: patience, attentiveness, reverence.

For in every seed lies a universe, and in every humble act of care, eternity itself breathes. Deborah Moggach, in her devotion to her garden and her hens, reminds us that the truest art is not found only in books or on screens, but in the living masterpiece that grows quietly under our own hands. So go — plant, tend, and love — and in doing so, remember that to care for life, in any form, is to mirror the Creator’s own work.