The Other Pond

It's not mine, but I love it so...

The other pond is bigger, deeper and is already home to newts. The other pond has a rock solid wall surrounding it, built using local gritstone. The other pond is beloved by beetles and its creation was overseen by a watchful robin and its fledglings. The other pond has views across the Peak District and is fringed by mature apple, plum and pear trees. The other pond backs onto ancient woodland. The other pond can never be mine.

The Other Pond, June 26 © Joe Minihane

The other pond came into my life in early March. It was cold and damp when I first met her predecessor, a sorry looking mess of split liner and rotten railway sleepers, choked with weed. This was to be my first professional pond, one remade in the images of mine at home, on behalf of a delightful couple who lived in a spectacular home in Hathersage, in the Peak District, replete with a tiered garden full of places to stop and breathe in the spectacular nature which had made its home here.

I was to get to work on the other pond on 12 March. But my leg break meant that it would be another 10 weeks before I saw her again. The weeds were thicker, the grass taller, the job more momentous. The weather was hot as I lugged bags of sand up to the site. The beaten up liner came away easily and with it the mess of pond plants which had remained in the damp conditions. Irate newts scattered as I left the vegetation among the grass and lifted the old carpet which had been used (successfully!) as a membrane. The ground beneath was soft, more newts fuming as I chivvied them to safety.

This was backbreaking work, yet I fell into the rhythm of the task, digging out a larger hole, removing stone and slate, ensuring the space was ready to receive its new shell. The latter I had somehow managed to squeeze into the back of my Ford Ecosport, seats down. A van is, and will long be one, of my ongoing dreams.

The other pond began to take shape, slotting into the slope, gobbling up back fill of sand and rubble. For two weeks, it settled while I went on holiday. On my return, the hard yards of shifting the railway sleepers began. The other pond was lucky that the previous owners of my own home had left a crowbar in the shed (the words ‘going equipped’ sprang to mind that morning as I placed it in the tool bag). Soon, the sleepers were scattered around and I was able to create a semblance of a pond, now full of a fortnight’s worth of rain water.

By now, the other pond looked nothing like what it had before. The following week I hefted stones the owners had on their drive all the way up to the pond’s edge, while a hard landscaper friend expertly cleared a trench and built a wall in two hours, chiselling the pieces to fit, creating a masterpiece replete with seats that made my work look great. I thought of him as a particularly good editor, polishing things up while I took the credit.

Soon it was time for planting. Thyme split to fit within the wall’s crevices. Musk sedge. Nymphea. Irises. Lesser spearwort. The other pond had, in that moment, surpassed my own front garden pond in my affections. Its location was stunning. Wildlife clearly adored it. And yet, it was never mine in the first place. I cleared the area, patted the stone wall and waved the other pond goodbye.

At home, my pond appeared choked with algae. I lifted the green weed that had spread across its surface. Soon a dragonfly appeared, along with a red admiral butterfly. A charm of goldfinches burst from the cornflowers as I inspected the scene. The other pond may have had the visual appeal. But my pond will always be mine. No matter what other pond I help bring back to life.