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There was this gate, which marked the boundary between the garden and the woodlands beyond. It wasn’t a fancy gate – it wasn’t made of wrought iron or elaborate willow-work. It was a simple structure of three parallel wooden bars within a frame and one cross bar going down from left to right. It was probably of oak since it was ancient in appearance and looked as if it had been there for generations. Its hinges were of solid iron attached to a strong wooden post. Its latch, on the woodland side, linked into a fairly recently fashioned hook sunk into a similar post on the other side. It had that worn weathered look, faintly rotting at the joints, and a green algae hint blending into the rich wood tones. The top of this gate was worn and smooth, a legacy of the many hands that had held and pushed it on their way to the path that led through the untamed woods.

If asked, the gate would say that it preferred the wilder wood to the cultivated garden. Every time it was pushed open, it felt the expansiveness that came with freedom. It took on the pleasure those feet felt as they embraced the unpredictability of nature, never knowing just what they might encounter but knowing all the same, that it will represent the magic and mystery of the universe. It felt deeply connected to the wildness outside the garden, where peace could be found in the most unique wildflower or untended bank. Everything was perfect, just as it was, in this world.

This gate has had a varied life. There were times when it was open more often than shut; permitting the passage of wayfarers heading for distant exploits; greeting their return and enjoying the babble of their discoveries, or the quietness of their satisfaction. Its portal announced the familiar for them. The click of the latch sealed the day’s knowledge, and the house approached to reclaim them.

There were other times, when the gate would infrequently serve its purpose. A lone venturer would sally forth, sometimes for the whole day, or more often just for a brief sortie. As the gate returned to its close position, it could feel the creaking of its hinges and its reluctance to engage. Whilst the garden thrived and people of all ages enjoyed its lawns and pathways, the path through the wood beyond became overgrown and more difficult to traverse.

Up until a few months ago, no one had passed through the gate in a long time. So much so, the surrounding bushes had encroached and only the telltale flattened earth in front of it, gave sign of its existence. Because it was made of such sturdy stuff, it had managed to withstand the neglect, but it was unable to open. The gatepost, which held the fittings for the hinges, had inclined inwards, pushing the whole structure into the ground and putting tension on the rusted hinges. The other gatepost had become loosened, and when it had lurched backwards it had wrenched off the latch. It lay uselessly across the path which had become a distant memory. The silence that surrounded this impasse was only broken up by the whispers of the undergrowth and the calls from the hidden treetops.

A new man came to the house. He brought his family and his knowledge of foreign lands. They delighted in the gardens and the richness of the design and the planting. They loved the cleverly created walkways that led to stream which skirted the grotto at the garden’s end. There was ample space for their play and their entertaining. After a period of settling in, one of the children discovered the gate. She wanted a way to follow the stream down river. She tried to move the dishevelled structure, but it would not budge, impeded by its own strong gateposts. She called her father, and together they set about the task of renovation.

First of all they took the gate off its hinges and cleaned it lovingly, appreciating the simple wood, honouring its purpose. They reset and re painted the latch, secured and repainted the hinges, and then gave the wood many coats of oil till it began to glow. Then they struggled with the gateposts. The first lifted up easily and needed to be firmly rebedded. The other resisted their efforts to right it. They had to dig deep to loosen the soil’s grip and the roots’ clutches. Eventually, with both posts treated and secured in their rightful positions, the gate was ceremoniously lowered onto the hinges’ prongs and swung majestically backwards and forwards, held constant with the uprightness of the gateposts’ certainty. A new hook was put in place and the latch clicked with that old familiar air of comfort.

The gate had proudly come to life again; ready to open, once more marking that fine line between here and there. All that remained was the discovery of the path and where it might lead. The gate relished the prospect of returning to busy times ahead.

I would be delighted to hear from you regarding your experiences of this. Do email me on fran@nlpand.co.uk

All the best

Fran Burgess
Director of Training