Free The Attack of the Killer Rhododendrons by Glen Chilton Page B

entrance by a delightful lady who gave the impression she felt more at ease in her rubber boots than she would in stilettos, and felt closer to God’s heart in a garden than anywhere else on Earth. Cats circled her feet. Explaining that I had come to Annes Grove to see the rhododendrons, I was told I had arrived at exactly the right time. Although they had lost some of the larger blooms to a late frost, I was assured that at this time of year “the rhododendrons go off likefirecrackers!” I told her I would keep my head down and wear protective eyewear. In exchange for €6, I was given ticket No. 008466, a descriptive brochure, and instructions to proceed to the car park “six or seven kilometres down the way.” It was two kilometres. Perhaps my host hadn’t fully come to terms with the metric system.
    The gardens are described as “a supreme expression of gardening in the Robinsonian manner,” which, I gather, means an amalgamation of native and exotic plants with little concern for formality. This was a spot without pretension, without artifice, and without any other visitors. In a walled garden rich in small surprises, I was greeted by the din of birdsong. Backswimmers dodged patches of duckweed in a water feature, and low topiary showed the results of loving attention. I wandered past cedar, magnolia, and arbutus, skipped between patches of bamboo and carpets of ivy, and slipped by a couple of skulking Ring-necked Pheasants. A few steps later I found a couple of shotgun casings, and wondered if they had been used to nab a pheasant for a traditional Christmas dinner.
    I can imagine some visitors complaining that there is nothing to do at Annes Grove. There are no interpretive signs, no labels, no interactive displays, no café, and no gift shop. To me this was part of the site’s great joy. All alone, I was reluctant to tread too heavily, and even the click of my camera’s shutter seemed thunderous.
    But click I did. The previous day’s encounter with
Rhododendron ponticum
hadn’t even hinted at the variety available in the world of rhododendrons. From twiggy saplings through vast shrubs and on to towering trees. New words will have to be coined to describe the range of colours and hues of rhododendron flowers, all vying for the attention of pollinators in the dappled morning light. I was surrounded by tiny flowers in small bunches and huge flowers in enormous displays.
    Then I traipsed down the hillside, through a bog, and on to the Awbeg River, which was in no special hurry to get anywhere. I spotted trout (
breac
) lazily holding their position in the current. They were brown spotted fingers against the brown rocky riverbed, and as they twisted they provided silvery flashes from scales on theirbacks. I took them to be rainbow trout, one of about a dozen freshwater fish species introduced to Ireland.
    I started to envy the trout. Before departing Ireland, I still had to find lunch in Castletownroche, and would then have to face a five-kilometre tailback at Fermoy brought on by roadworks. Interchange construction at Cork city (Corcaigh) meant that all of my road maps would be useless. I would then have to navigate the streets of Kinsale (Cionn tSáile), never designed for vehicular traffic, and battle for the one parking spot that hadn’t already been nabbed, before searching for Ireland’s best-hidden hotel. The next morning I would face a hellish delay brought on by crushing fog at Cork airport, requiring travellers to catch coaches to connecting flights in Kerry and Dublin. In contrast, with the least flicks of their tails, trout in Awbeg River could remain in one spot, facing the current, and have everything of value float downstream to them.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Last of the Mynas
    REASON NUMBER FOUR FOR INTRODUCING A FOREIGN SPECIES: BECAUSE I WANT TO TAKE MY PET ALONG WHEN I LEAVE HOME.
    I HAD A ROMANTIC VISION of what it would be like to engage in a quest for Crested Mynas in Vancouver. My wife, Lisa,