Look. Listen. Attend.

Northern Ireland, gardening, and planning for the next season.

Nearly every day this week, I’ve received a gentle nudge from a faithful reader reminding me that I’m delinquent on my updates.

I know, I know.

But gird your loins—here’s everything on everything.

For the past six weeks, I’ve been at Ballyscullion Park, a historic estate northwest of Belfast in Northern Ireland, owned by Richard and Rosalind Mulholland. When I escaped farm life in Türkiye, I went searching for another cultural exchange and volunteer opportunity, and the stars aligned when the Mulhollands needed extra hands in their expansive gardens and wedding venue.

In exchange for lodging, meals, and the chance to live and learn alongside locals, I work five hours a day, five days a week.

Not too shabby.

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Before I get to the stories of gardening and life here, I have to go back to my arrival.

When I landed in Dublin, the immigration officer asked the standard questions.

“How long will you be visiting Ireland, and where are you going?”

“A few weeks. Ballyscullion Park near Magherafelt.” Nothing to see here!

Instead of stamping my passport and waving me through, his demeanor shifted and he now looked suspicious of me.

“I know just about every place in this country,” he said in a thick Irish accent, “and I’ve never heard of a Ballyscullion Park.”

Gulp.

I quickly pulled out my phone and showed him my destination on a map.

He took the phone, zoomed around for a moment, then handed it back. My stomach tightened when he tapped the officer next to him and gave a silent “watch this” gesture.

“Lady,” he asked, “do you know the difference between Ireland and Northern Ireland?”

My stomach dropped. Was I about to be dragged into a back room for a geography quiz and then shipped back to Istanbul?

After a few seconds of my confused silence, he stamped my passport and slid it back across the counter.

“Enjoy your visit to the United Kingdom,” he said. “You won’t be staying in Ireland.”

I walked away knowing I should probably be embarrassed, but not entirely understanding why.

Since then, I’ve learned that the Republic of Ireland is an independent country, while Northern Ireland is part of the United Kingdom. The two share an island, a great deal of culture, and a complicated history, but they are distinct places—and my lack of knowledge about that probably amused the immigration officer more than anything.

Even if you do know the difference, it can still be difficult to grasp the history that shaped this corner of the world. The tensions surrounding Northern Ireland and the period known as “The Troubles” are rooted in centuries of history.

If you ever find yourself in Belfast, I highly recommend spending an afternoon at the Ulster Museum, which does an excellent job of bringing that history to life. (Northern Ireland is often referred to as “Ulster,” a name that comes from one of Ireland’s four traditional provinces. The local specialty is the Ulster Fry—a breakfast that makes me forget I’m not in Alabama. Fried eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, potato bread, and enough carbohydrates to sustain a small army. This is just one of the many things I’ve learned around the kitchen table at Ballyscullion Park.

During one of my many day trip to Belfast, I also learned that C.S. Lewis was born there. That discovery inspired me to pick up The Four Loves. It feels as though he knew exactly what I was doing here when he wrote, “The only imperative that nature utters is, ‘Look. Listen. Attend.’”

I’ve certainly done a lot of that in the garden.

I’ll admit that my first few weeks here were emotional. I spent a great deal of time alone and came down with a nasty summer virus that left me more homesick than I’ve been at any point during my travels. And if you haven’t heard, sunshine in Northern Ireland is usually a pleasant surprise rather than a guarantee. But while I was going through all of these emotions while tending the garden, it seemed to be tending me in return.

In the UK gardening world, I’ve learned there’s a practice called the “Chelsea Chop.” Around the time of the Chelsea Flower Show in London, gardeners cut back some of their healthiest and most beautiful plants. The idea is that this temporary sacrifice encourages stronger growth and even better blooms later in the season.

For anyone who has ever sown seeds and nurtured them to maturity, this feels a bit like axe murder. But only a few weeks after giving countless flowers their Chelsea Chop, I can already see them returning stronger than before.

You can probably see where I’m going with this.

I’ve started planning my return to the United States. It could be as early as next month or as late as September. Either way, I’ve moved beyond asking myself, “Should I have done this?” and arrived at a place of gratitude that I did. There were certainly costs and sacrifices, but the people I’ve met, the lessons I’ve learned, and the wisdom I’ve gained will serve me well in whatever season comes next.

Like every place I’ve been before, I have many more stories I could tell you about Northern Ireland, but I’ll save them for another day. Tomorrow is my day off, and there’s sunshine in the forecast, so you’ll find me kayaking on the lough I can see from my bedroom window.

I’ll leave you with some pretty photos from the garden. I hope you’ll take some time to get outside and look, listen, and attend to nature.

With love,

Ali