The Ballykillduff Jungle
The Crazymad Writer’s Ballykillduff Jungle
A tropical saga in County Carlow
Chapter One – The Mad Idea
It all began on a wet, windy Tuesday. I gazed out at the grey drizzle soaking Ballykillduff and thought, what this place needs is a rainforest.
“Are you daft?” asked my neighbour, catching me sketching palm trees on the back of a Tesco receipt.
“Absolutely,” I replied, “and that’s exactly why I’m the man for the job.”
I pictured banana plants swaying, palms towering, parrots squawking (though the only bird likely to arrive was a drenched crow from Rathvilly).
Thus began the Ballykillduff Tropical Project.
Chapter Two – The Banana Wars
Banana plants were first. I ordered three, each more expensive than the last.
Banana One collapsed in a fit of frost.
Banana Two vanished overnight, leaving only suspicious slime trails (a slug was blamed, though a cow in the lane looked guilty).
Banana Three caught the wind and went surfing down Curran’s Lane like a leafy surfboard.
By May, my “banana grove” consisted of one shrivelled stump and a worried robin.
Chapter Three – Cordyline Calamity
“Cordylines are indestructible!” swore the garden-centre man.
Ha! He hadn’t met Ballykillduff gales.
Within a week mine had been bent into an ‘L’ shape. I straightened it and tied it to a fence post. Then the wind changed direction, and it bent the other way.
After a month it resembled a question mark, which seemed fitting.
Chapter Four – Palmageddon
Next, I planted palms. Tall, spiky, expensive.
The first week, a crow built a nest on top. The second week, the wind blew the palm over entirely, leaving the nest (and one very confused crow) balanced on my shed.
Now I water it with a watering can while it lies horizontally across the lawn. “It’s a reclining palm,” I tell visitors. Nobody believes me.
Chapter Five – The Gunnera Monster
Ah, gunnera manicata! The monster leaf of South America!
I planted one by the ditch, and by June its leaves were so enormous they could have doubled as umbrellas for an entire wedding party.
Mrs. O’Driscoll complained her washing line disappeared under a leaf. The local postman reported “a triffid-like obstruction.”
I used one leaf as a tablecloth. It wilted, but only slightly.
Chapter Six – Pampas Grass: Murder in Disguise
It looked soft. It looked fluffy. A plant that whispered romance and swayed in the breeze.
Then I tried to prune it.
I emerged bleeding, scratched, and traumatised, as if I’d fought a wildcat armed with cutlery.
The pampas grass stands untouched ever since, guarding its corner of the garden like a feathered assassin.
Chapter Seven – Miscanthus Madness
I bought miscanthus giganteus for privacy.
By July it was three times taller than me, whispering ominously whenever the wind blew.
“Don’t go in there,” warned my niece. “It’s like Jurassic Park.”
She wasn’t wrong. I half expected velociraptors—or at least a stray goat—to lunge at me.
Once, I lost my wheelbarrow inside it for a week.
Chapter Eight – Bamboo: The Invader
At first, bamboo seemed innocent. A few graceful canes in the corner.
Then it spread. And spread. And spread.
One morning, I found shoots poking up through the lawn, the flowerbed, and disturbingly, the kitchen floor tiles.
Neighbours swore they saw a culm sprouting near the chapel.
“Kill it before it reaches Rathvilly!” cried Mrs. O’Driscoll.
I hacked it back with a breadknife, but it laughed at me in rustling tones.
Now I sleep with one ear open, waiting for the creep of the bamboo.
Chapter Nine – The Neighbourhood Meeting
By late summer, my “oasis” had become the talk of Ballykillduff.
A delegation of neighbours arrived, armed with clipboards.
“Your giant lettuce blocks the lane. Your pampas is lethal. The miscanthus is eating the dog. The bamboo is attempting world domination. What do you say for yourself?”
I considered. Then I declared proudly:
“At least it’s not boring!”
Chapter Ten – Paradise, Sort Of
Now, when the sun peeks through Ballykillduff clouds, my jungle glistens. Palms flop sideways, cordylines bend like punctuation marks, and the gunnera looms like a green monster waiting to pounce.
Children dare each other to run through the “Ballykillduff Bamboo Maze.” Tourists stop for photos. Even the cows in the field watch with bemused admiration.
It may not be the Amazon, but it’s certainly the strangest garden in Carlow.
And as I sit in my deckchair, sipping tea from a coconut cup beneath a palm (plastic, but don’t tell anyone), I smile.
Because in Ballykillduff, the only truly tropical thing is me—
The Crazymad Writer.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 