The previous owners of my house left all sorts of DIY-type tins and bottles here. Added to these, I too have accumulated pots of paint and varnish and other household remedies – usually purchased for a one-time urgent task, but long since forgotten about until I buy another to do a ‘very useful thing’, and then, as I come to put it away, realise I already had some half-used dregs that will now continue to fester. Not like my father’s approach. His shelves of paint stripper and creosote probably date back to the 1960s – or indeed before that, if there were things inherited – and they are still in use, almost daily. There’s something approaching being bereft when a jar or tub is finally emptied.

Anyway, my assortment of containers, like my father’s, live on quite an organised set of industrial metal shelves at the back of the garage. Sections for paint – emulsion, gloss, bathroom; remover – white spirit, turps and Swarfega; wood – varnish, creosote, preservative; glue – epoxy resin, sealant, fixative; things to stave off mould or pests… It’s quite the treasure trove. The shelves also incorporate all manner of decking remedies. Or at least they did, until this week.

The previous house owners also left me a lovely deck outside the back door. Higher up than other homes in the row and facing west, standing on my decking is like being on the bow of a ship, looking out to sea over the glorious gardens of Duncan and Toftwood Road, billowing washing lines the passing ships’ sails. I see the seasons change as I stand here. The cherry tree just past its abundant pink best, the deep red camelia pruned too vigorously last year, the early forsythias dotted along the whole route, the deep purple lilac next door, and the unfortunate leylandii that don’t respond well to a haircut and really need replacing with trees more life affirming. The sunsets are glorious, and I notice the year pass as the sunset moves slightly south to slightly north, often punctuated with reds and pinks and oranges and shining whites, occasionally by angry dark clouds or silent snow, or lashing gales. It is a motorway for birds. Starlings, house sparrows, goldfinches, pigeons, blue tits and blackbirds zoom up and down. Their songs fill the air, occasionally disrupted by the magpies in the holly tree two doors up, less often by an aeroplane, sometimes of a sort like a giant weightless beluga whale. I try to match the birdsong with music that I know (the blackbird’s familiar refrain is particularly puzzling – da da da-da). Some of my feathered friends don’t even notice my presence: they bathe in the birdbath, nibble the bugs in the teasels, and splash about in the conservatory gutter water. I love being here. Watching. I am waiting for the return of the swifts.

Since moving in, I have re-laid this decking. Or rather, I got someone to do it for me one winter, when they also had to put up a gazebo on the grass so as not to get washed away by the rain. And since then, I have done very little by way of looking after the wood. So this, being a gloriously sunny week, with no sign of rain forecast, seems the perfect time to sort out the pots of malnourished herbs, gone over wallflowers, and messy weeds in old soil. I have visions of my new arrangement being both edible and floral, handy for the kitchen: red, pink, white and green. Strawberries, tomatoes, herbs, geraniums. Of course, every job leads to a hundred more jobs, and this is one such.

In order to turn my deck into the glorious vision in my mind’s eye, I have to start from the beginning. This means venturing into the garage, seeing what sorts of things there are for ‘doing’ the decking, and being brave enough to use the ancient pots to restore and revitalise the wood. I find something called ‘decking restorer’, four half empty pots of teak oil all different brands and vintages, and half a large pot of ‘decking protector’. These will do.

I start by removing all the things on the decking. The beige metal table and two matching but much heavier chairs that were free via an online local sales and swaps site, the various bedraggled pots and the little plastic feet I keep them on (supposedly to avoid the deck rotting underneath), the rubber back-door mat, and the plank leftover from the previous decking with a sort of green fake grass that Twist used to enjoying scratching, and I couldn’t bear to throw away in case she missed having her own astroturf. It is all clear. A plastic broom will have to do (not the recommended stiff metal brush) to remove the detritus: bird poo, green growth, bits of moss.

I prise open the tub of Ronseal decking restorer, lazily using the nice cake slice from a handy kitchen drawer. Unlike most things from the shelf, this pot is brand new. I mix it about a bit. It doesn’t give off a smell, and seems to me like glorified soapy water. Perhaps that’s all it is. I reflect that I don’t think I would pay for this. Yet I begin painting it all on. It’s surprising how tiring this is. At least I can see which bits are done and which aren’t as the wood darkens when wet. And then, once the whole deck is covered in the stuff, the instructions say to wash it all off. Just like that. Another job to get the hosepipe out and stand in the kitchen doorway to attach it to the outdoor tap. I turn the nozzle to jetwash. It isn’t really a jet wash by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s lathering up nicely. I keep going until the bubbles disperse. It is evening now, and the instructions say I now need to leave it to do who knows what for a couple of days.

The previous owners were extremely proud gardeners. (And proud gnome owners, but that is a story for another time). I am too, although I have a penchant for dandelions and letting things live, and learning by experimenting, which I suspect would have been too much for their secateurs and fondness for putting pebbles and gravel over every single bit of earth to avoid weeds (and thus making weeding and composting be riddled with the additional pain of removing bits of gravel). The front garden is now full of pretty little self-seeded violas, poppies and dandelions growing out of the gravel. I’ve previously weeded this area, but it is back-breaking work, and why should the bees miss out if I pull up their nectar source? So this year, I am leaving it to grow, and trying not to worry what the neighbours think.

On the second day after the grand deck washing ceremony, I take the pots of teak oil, and mix them together in an old paint bucket. The smell is overwhelmingly delicious, and not the poisonous spirit-y aroma I was expecting. Linseed and summer. Although teak oil is not really for something as big as decking, but rather more for garden furniture, I’m taking a gamble that it will do the job and won’t ruin the wood. It turns out that it seems to work rather well. I get particular satisfaction in the fact that I will have touched every part of the decking, carefully brushing it with the mixture, intimately inspecting every crack and knot. Little joys. I put extra oil onto these slightly weathered patches, and I am pleased with myself for working out the logical route across the decking, so as not to miss any bits, while ensuring I can use the front door rather than needing to step on my handiwork by having to use the back door. Twist only temporarily pops out, lying in the shade to oversee the process.

It does not take very long. Miraculously, the remains of the four pots contains the exact quantity of coating I need, and I use the fifth pot labelled ‘decking protector’ for the remaining vertical bits and steps. I leave it to absorb.

I’ve already planned a list of plants I want to buy, and some colour and height schemes for various areas. I have been acquiring various things over the past few weeks, from plant sales, a random bookshop, and as freebies. I nip out to get some geraniums. I’m not good at looking after these over winter, so previous years’ crops have all died of frostbite and their stems will end up on the compost heap. I’ll try harder this year. 

I think about this process: the preparation needed in order for something to grow and flourish; the pride in Doing It Yourself; the tidying and sorting of the right tools; the attention to detail (mixed with knowing it won’t stay like this); the using up of materials already in the store cupboards; the building of a platform from which it will all emerge anew. And all that (which is really quite exciting in itself) before the most exciting bit of all happens. I reflect on this metaphor. The decking and the garden in which it sits are perhaps a bit like this adventurous period in my life. There’s a lot I’ve had to strip back to essential parts, to put into tidy compartments, to then mess up again, taking this risk and just seeing what happens, without knowing what is going to emerge, and really with no planned outcome other than exploration. 

So now, on this glorious May Day afternoon, I’m ready. Ready to step back out into my sunny garden once more. To empty the old pots, and put in fresh soil and new compost. To plant things. To arrange them. To see what will sprout and flourish. To not know what it will all look like, but to relish this opportunity to experiment, create, and let grow.

*(not to be said in a New Zealand accent – thank you to Laura T for making me laugh with that!)