Submitted by Patrick Reyes on the 2017 summer session program in Granada, Spain sponsored by the Department of Languages, Literatures and Cultures…
The garden has long been part of our collective fascination. Throughout history, one can see how civilizations have all, in some form another, created beauty formed from the magnificent union between nature’s wisdom and mankind’s craftsmanship. We can note tales and legends of gardens in ancient history, mythology and the holy texts of modern-day religions. It is no wonder that the art of gardening spans civilizations, from the serenity of the Japanese karesansui, to the lush overgrowth of the English gardens, the manicured spaces of French gardens, or the legendary gardens of Persia and the Middle East. And it is through its gardens that the storybook kingdom, again, whispers wisdom into my ears.
Everywhere I go, I find gardens and plazas. In fact, I have come to navigate the city by way of its green spaces. For example, I know I am close to home when I find the Plaza de la Trinidad or the Jardin Botanico, or that I have strayed too far east if I find myself before the Jardines de Triunfo. And beyond navigation, I always know I have a place for shade and shelter from the late-afternoon Andalucian sun. Indeed, the locals have mastered this art of navigating by shade.
But in a city marked by gardens ranging from the smallest green plaza, to the grand spaces of the Generalife, again I find myself pondering on how the course of history made Granada into a city of citrus trees, berries and flowers. I cannot help but wonder how, in the south of Spain, Granada chose the pomegranate and Valencia chose the orange. Perhaps a peer through history may provide some answers.
I have been reading a book on Granada written by a local expat, Steven Nightingale, who covers everything from the religious history of the city, to his own experiences moving into an ancient carmen in the Albayzin. He also devotes an entire chapter to the gardens of the city and their roots in classical antiquity. For example, he notes the connection between gardens and the idea of paradise, such as in the Garden of Eden and the Islamic afterlife. But how did this connection come about? To tackle this question, the author looks to the ancient Greek historian and philosopher Xenophon, who translated the Persian word pairidaeza, which meant “to wall around”, into the Greek paradeisos. Yet while we get the English word “paradise”, how come the Spanish still refer to their walls as paredes? How did we come to inject ideas of heaven and the divine into the simple walls of a garden? Besides noting how the stories of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Garden of the Hesperides came to inspire stories in the Bible and the Koran, Nightingale also posits the reason as to why one would build walls around a garden. He says that “they were not for keeping people out, but for concentrating beauty within.”
One can see how the Garden of Eden and the gardens of the Islamic afterlife carry this notion. The Book of Genesis notes how God uses Eden both as a work space and an inventory for the best of creation. In the Koran, Paradise entails a land of plenty where the holy shall never find themselves wanting, with flowing rivers of milk and honey, and fruit trees from the world over. It is in the gardens of mythology and religion where one may begin to trace the Middle Eastern roots of Granada’s gardens. For the gardeners of Al-Andalus, the city’s gardens were a culmination of a journey of sorts. They brought the raw materials with them. From the Middle East, they bore the ancient knowledge and practices of gardening, including the idea of the walled garden, the importance of moving water, and the creation of defined spaces within the garden that would be their canvas. And their palette consisted of the rich flora from all the lands they touched. Some lush shrubbery here, a dash of vibrant blooms there, some tall trees for shade. And of course, the pomegranate.
Indeed, one can note the telltale marks of their work everywhere. Neat hedges to outline their work spaces within the garden. Following the path of the garden, one can see how each space is sanctuary for nature’s bounty. Lush and vibrant, but not to the point of overgrowth.
And water. Flowing water everywhere. Too many fountains to count. Even the stairs and paths would be lined or intersected by little channels where water could flow. Water could slake the thirst of both visitor and flower alike, while the sound of its gentle lapping was soothing to the ear. In all this and more, one can see how truly ancient the gardens of Granada are, how rich their connections to the past. But all that would be for naught were it not for one thing. Remember, the walls of a garden were not to keep people out.
Gardens are meant to be shared. and indeed, I have found that the locals do more than just seek shade in the gardens of their city on their way home. They also seek each other. The benches and byways always play host to the loveliest conversation and the nicest of company. Old friends just catching up, or new friends in the making. School children celebrating the end of class while the old folks enjoy the breeze and reminisce about their own youth. Fellow travelers planning their next move and catching their breath between sips of water or Aquarius. Rumi was right. Gardens may radiate their own beauty, but what they want most of all is for us to celebrate the beauty we find in each other. So, what better way to celebrate Granada and her gardens than showing you who I’ve shared this gift with.
