Thirteen
Thursday 17th September
The Firefly greenhouse was more of a green mansion, making it easy to spot from a distance. A glowing hotbox of humidity, at odds with its wintery surroundings. There was nobody about as I wandered in, and the sweet, zesty smells hit me from all sides. Lush and fresh, it reminded me of Columbia Road flower market as I unravelled my scarf and whipped off my layers. The floor was split between fruit and vegetables, with a small section at the front for salad-y things. A row of trees stood tall along the back wall, and I spotted baby apples, pears and plums nestled in among their leaves. The vegetables would have been less easy to identify had it not been for the hand-drawn pictures scattered among them: rhubarb, basil, lettuce, onions. It was much the same vibe as my colour-coded filing cabinet and I loved it. The greenhouse was full of good energy and the plants were flourishing in their patchwork of freshly watered plots, with plenty of space to grow.
Tore had been adamant we would carry on with the retreat programme despite the weather – even though most of the guests were hiding in their cabins, loath to leave the warm. Somehow I’d managed to do the opposite and in trying to enthusiastically prove I’dgiven it a good go, I was the only idiot who’d turned up for the gardening workshop.
Henrik emerged from behind a cherry tree wearing a long apron and carrying a spritzing bottle in each hand. ‘Sara! Sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was in here.’ He walked towards me, spraying the lettuces as he went. ‘Looks like it’s just me and you for this session.’
‘Is it safe to be in here?’ I asked as the wind whistled through the glass. The vibrations reverberated across the ceiling and I wondered how long we had before the roof caved in.
‘Completely safe. I won’t let anything happen to you – don’t worry.’ He said it with complete sincerity, but I could feel my cheeks turning red. ‘This building has survived worse storms than this, believe me. It’s solid.’ He handed me an apron and a pair of orange gloves. ‘Put these on and let’s start. We could do the growth and grounding workshop you missed on the Monday you arrived?’
I shrugged. ‘No idea what it is, but yes. Let’s do it.’ I pulled the gloves on and they felt gross and rubbery inside.
‘The others planted spinach, cucumber and carrots, so shall we do the radishes?’
‘Yes, chef,’ I said, wiggling my eyebrows cheekily.
Henrik rolled his eyes with a smile, his muscles rippling through his T-shirt as he grabbed a sack of topsoil and slapped it down next to a tower of cardboard pots. ‘Each pot needs filling halfway and patting down. Then we bury the seeds and add a touch of water.’
‘Is this the growth part of the workshop or the grounding?’
‘Both.’
We worked in companiable silence, patting tiny handfuls of cold soil into each pot in a productive rhythm. Henrik put some classical music on, and I inhaled the oxygenated air, enjoying the calming effect as we lost ourselves in the repetition of the job.
‘Our menu is all plant-based, as you know, and most of the food is grown here,’ he said proudly. ‘We are working towardsself-sustainability, but it’ll take time. I want us to get to carbon negative and give back more to the environment than we take.’
He looked so earnest and genuine. I felt ashamed of my plastic soy sauce marlins.
‘Wow. That’s a very worthy goal. Is it possible in a place like this when you can’t control how much hot water and heating everyone is using?’
‘We control what we can. Starting with this. Not just standard versions either, I’ve been cultivating new varieties of beetroot, lettuce, cucumber, cabbage, spinach… all sorts. Jonas wants our food to have a specific taste that nowhere else can replicate.’
I was genuinely impressed. ‘That is such a cool idea.’
‘We think so. Assuming the taste is good.’ He laughed.
‘True. You don’t want Firefly to taste of smelly feet.’
‘That is one of the beetroot varieties I’m testing,’ he said with a cheeky smile. ‘We’ve put a lot of effort into our growing programme, and Jonas is experimenting with all the flavours. I’ve even developed a secret sauce for the soil, to make sure everything gets the same set of nutrients. And so far, so good. The greenhouse is thriving.’
It certainly was. The fruit and vegetables were plump and plentiful in a glossy mix of colours. It was mind-blowing to me that Henrik was keeping so many plants alive at once – and they were bearing fruit. The yucca in my lounge didn’t look half as shiny, and it was plastic.
‘Do you meditate back home?’ Henrik asked, once we had the first line of pots complete.
‘Not really,’ I said, being honest. Unless I could count swearing under my breath. ‘I find it hard to empty my mind. I know you’re supposed to acknowledge the thoughts and let them go, but I’ve got too many going on at once. I just spend the whole session imagining myself as air traffic control.’
‘We’ve got a morning meditation on Sunday, if you want to try again?’
‘I’ll be back home by then, if this snow ever stops.’ Although the thought of going home was slightly less appealing today. ‘I’ll do it if I’m here, for practice. But it’ll only be a one off – I’d never fit it in in real life.’
Henrik nodded while he potted. ‘The gurus say you should meditate for twenty minutes a day. Unless you’re too busy. And then you should do it for an hour.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I’d need two hours then. My brain is honestly too full. I don’t find it very helpful.’
‘That’s London for you. All that city noise takes a while to quieten down.’
