The Big Green Border

My parents retired to a small bungalow in Portstewart. It was meant to be their peaceful, long-term retreat, but it soon felt too small, too cramped — more like an endgame than a sanctuary. My father quickly decided that the little house in its quiet cul-de-sac was more of a prison than a place to rest. So, my parents looked further afield and discovered The Big Green Border.

It was in Portrush, overlooking the sea — a grand, four-level house with countless rooms. When you stepped inside, a sweeping staircase greeted you, crowned by a chandelier made of crystal glass pieces that caught the light and glittered like starlight. Every room seemed to soar upward, with high ceilings and bright bay windows that filled the house with sunshine and sea views.

In the kitchen, an old panel of servant bells still hung on the wall. If you pressed a button in any room, a bell would ring below, summoning help — a relic of another age. As a family, we found it all wonderfully exciting. Gone was the tiny, cluttered bungalow; here was space, light, and possibility.

But even better than the house was the view. From the front windows, you could see miles of golden beach and endless blue sea — a sight that quite literally took your breath away. Just below was a little enclosed cove known as the ladies’ bathing area, perfect for a swim. I can still picture my sons wading out, chest-deep, trying to reach their grandfather perched on a sun-warmed rock.

Visits to the grandparents became seaside adventures: long walks by the shore, trips to the amusement arcade, and endless treats. We all loved that big green border. Of course, it was too much work. My mother spent hours polishing every brass fitting and vacuuming every carpet, from the gleaming front letterbox to the top floor. Still, the house radiated a sense of abundance and freedom.

My father, meanwhile, loved to sit by the window overlooking the sea and street below, fascinated by the passing scene. By day it was peaceful; by night, not so much. Drunken revellers would stagger past, sometimes stopping to wage inexplicable war on the small tree outside the front door. We never understood why — perhaps because it was person-sized, or simply too defiant-looking.

What amused my father most was that the tree always seemed to win. Its leaves were sharp-edged and could cut the hands of anyone foolish enough to wrestle it. No matter how aggressive the drunk, the tree stood its ground, emerging unscathed while its attackers limped away. It was a cheeky, resilient little thing — its spiky, Mohican-like leaves giving it an air of mischief. We were oddly proud of it, and I always thought it deserved a name.

Years later, when The Big Green Border became too much for my parents, they sold it. We were all saddened to discover that the new owner’s first act was to remove that brave little tree. It seemed so unfair, after all it had endured and the rough street justice it had meted out. Perhaps its wild, untidy shape didn’t suit the new, manicured garden.

Decades passed. We would drive by from time to time, watching as the house changed — new paint colours (some ghastly, according to my mother), a replaced front door, the loss of that gleaming brass letterbox. It was his house now, of course, but the absence of that bold little tree always stung.

And then, this week, more than twenty years later, I walked past and stopped in disbelief. There, just by the front door, a tiny sapling was pushing up through the earth. Somehow, impossibly, it was back. Deep underground, a fragment must have survived — stubborn, unbroken, and full of life.

It will take another decade to grow to its former size, but I felt ridiculously happy to see it there. Against all odds, that heroic little tree had returned — as cheeky, determined, and full of spirit as ever.

Poor Tita

It was my first time living away from the student residence at university. The six months I had spent there had been horrid and frightening. The constant noise, the drunken parties that raged through the night—I could barely sleep enough to function during the day. Faces changed continually, and it felt like living in a busy railway station filled with rowdy football fans caught in a perpetual frenzy.

Realising that sleep was vital, I asked to leave the residence and find quieter lodgings. My request was denied unless I forfeited the entire accommodation fee for the year. Others, with more desperate complaints than mine, were also turned down. I began to wonder—was I living in a madhouse, or was the place itself driving me mad?

Then tragedy struck. The quiet girl in the room opposite mine took her own life. I never knew what burdens she carried beyond the chaos of that residence, but surely the sleepless nights and constant turmoil did not help. In the wake of her death, the university finally allowed those of us on that wing to leave without financial penalty. I accepted immediately, though I could not shake the thought that perhaps she, too, had begged to leave.

I found a small flat in Portstewart near the sea, sharing it with a girl from Limavady whom I knew from school. Our flat was the upstairs floor of a house owned by an elderly lady named Tita. She must have been suffering from forgetfulness, for there were little sticky notes everywhere—reminders to “buy milk,” “turn off light,” “close this.”

White-haired and impeccably dressed, Tita was tiny but indomitable. Every meal, even tea and biscuits, was arranged neatly on a tray with an embroidered napkin in a silver ring, and beside it, a tiny vase holding a single flower. She never used mugs—only delicate, floral cups and saucers. She lived alone, except for a small talking bird that endlessly repeated, “Poor Tita, poor Tita.” It wasn’t surprising; she herself murmured those same words throughout the day.

We learned that Tita had grown up in that very house with her parents and siblings. During the Spanish flu outbreak after the First World War, they had all died, leaving her entirely alone. The local newspaper had once carried the tragic story. Grief had enclosed her life within the same walls, as though she, too, were a bird in a cage.

My flatmate and I were young and inexperienced, and our housekeeping skills must have appalled her. Yet I luxuriated in the quietness of that home and the soothing rhythm of the sea. Walking on the beach brought solace and peace—I could finally breathe, and sleep returned to me.

Then strange things began to happen. Once, we threw out a damp, clumped-up packet of Rice Krispies. To our astonishment, we later found it back in the cupboard. Tita, it turned out, had retrieved the cereal, carefully dried it in her oven, and replaced it in the box. It unnerved us—we began to doubt everything in our cupboards. Other odd happenings followed, and only later did I realise those sticky notes had been signs that her mind was failing. But at the time, in our youthful ignorance, we didn’t understand.

When we finally moved out, we thanked her sincerely for her kindness. I visited her over the following years. Her bird had died, and someone had replaced it—but this new bird did not say, “Poor Tita.” She was heartbroken and could not understand why. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. It felt too cruel to deepen her sorrow.

Life can deal such harsh hands. To that gentle student who died in the residence, and to this lonely, grieving landlady—I often think of them both.

If we truly knew the burdens carried by those around us—our neighbours, our friends, even the strangers we pass in the street—we would be kinder in every way, and look upon them with the compassion they so deeply need.

Nature abhors a vacuum - Aristotle

When Aristotle observed that “nature abhors a vacuum,” he was describing the physical world: how air and water rush in to fill an empty space. Modern science confirms that a true void is nearly impossible, for matter and energy always move to restore balance.

But the phrase also carries a deeper meaning. As one writer put it, “The human soul will not be content with emptiness. If we do not fill it with what is good, it will soon be filled with what is not.” Just as nature resists emptiness, so too do our minds and hearts. A space within us will not remain empty for long — it invites something to enter, whether uplifting or harmful.

When a void opens in life — through loss, change, or transition — something will inevitably move in to fill it. If we leave it unattended, it may be taken over by unhealthy habits, toxic influences, regret, or despair. But we are not powerless: we can choose what takes root. Nothing is permanent, but the act of choosing gives us ownership of what fills our lives.

The Bahá’í Writings offer a profound suggestion: “Love is the secret that fills all voids, that heals all wounds, that gives meaning to all existence.”

And so the lesson is clear: if you do not choose, life will choose for you. To recognise this truth is to take part in nature’s wisdom — to fill the empty spaces of our lives not with noise or distraction, but with what uplifts, sustains, and brings peace.