I never promised you a rose garden

I HAVE a confession. Every living thing I touch dies. Thankfully, for my family and friends, human beings seem to be excluded. But give me a plant, a flower or anything remotely green and you will see it wither and die mere minutes after reaching my grasp. If there is an opposite to green fingers, then I have it.

Having spent most of my life in small apartments and big cities, I’ve had scant opportunity to launch my inner gardener, although other people seem to manage just fine under similar circumstances.

Some were able to cultivate window boxes of luscious greens hovering over Hamburg and others still have successfully filled UV-lit wardrobes with happy herbs of an unknown nature. For me, zilch. 

Rural Spain, on the other hand, typically comes with some form of garden, so on arriving in Mallorca I was suddenly the proud owner of a green and reasonably well-grown plot. There was no rose garden, but what it lacked in flowers it made up for in abundance by herbs; like the ones I had always suspected grew in a factory to be portioned off, dried and finely chopped into small glass jars that have always lined my kitchen , most at least five years past their sell by date. 

Of course, I needed an encyclopedia and a keen sense of smell to work out what they all were.  It turns out, there were two types of sage, parsley, coriander, celery, rosemary, thyme, bay leaves, I could go on for a little while but I suspect you may nod off or skip straight to the horoscopes.

Surely these green sprouting things wouldn’t stand a chance against my grey fingers? 

Still, while my horticultural skills leave to be desired, I do like my food.  Pruning the algarrobos, mowing the lawn or weeding the path, frankly, leave me cold, but with the advent of my herb garden, the culinary possibilities are endless.

Basil – or albahaca – for a home made pesto?  Mint – or hierbabuena – for the tea?  And my roast chicken now sports more herbs than you could shake a smudge stick at.

It is so very quaint and rural, that sometimes I don’t recognise myself, but I am definitely proud of the little patch dedicated to these aromatic treats and show it off to anyone that visits, packing them off with a selection of my finest. 

I should have expected nothing less in a country where herbs are used in practically every dish and even beverages, such as the famous hierbas liquor, apparently drunk purely for its digestive benefits.

Although on the fourth glass, these benefits may be questionable. Still, many herbs do have healing properties. Thyme and mint are common herbs to cure a hangover, in case you did go overboard on the hierbas.

Parsley to aid the kidneys and garlic, the golden goose of the herb world, to cure almost anything, as well as deterring any vampires loitering in your neighbourhood.

Rosemary stimulates circulation and improves the memory, if you remember to take it. 

And the best thing? So far, these busy little plants have resisted my fingers of death and are, surprisingly, flourishing despite recent storms and torrential downpours.

I think maybe – just maybe – my inner gardener is awakening. Just don’t tell my husband or mowing duties will be unceremoniously handed over faster than you can say ‘herb today, gone tomorrow’.