The Knowing

Lessons from Devon, Tomatoes, and a Life Lived Widely

By Tarka Robin Padbury

The journey of my life began in two third-world countries shaped by revolution and regime change: South Africa and Zimbabwe. I’ve since lived in the U.S.A. and Britain. To me, these Western lands always held the promise of opportunity — a place to find actualisation. Societies built on institutions that had stood the test of time.

In contrast, South Africa and Zimbabwe were places of physical conflict. Yet Western societies now face their own struggles — battles over civil liberties, especially the freedom to think and speak freely.

I left the quiet, simple life in Devon to pursue a career in horticulture. I thought that by gaining a trade I’d secure a place in British society — maybe meet someone, build a life. Writtle College, near London, seemed perfect. Alan Titchmarsh was patron, and the college had an international feel. Perhaps I could aim for Chelsea, the Royal Horticultural Society, maybe even Gardeners’ Question Time.

But a few months ago, back in Devon, I had a quiet conversation with an elderly allotment holder. We mostly listened. He spoke about his late wife, who stayed by his side for nearly fifty years. They’d never travelled. “Why leave a place like this?” he said. “I’ve got all I need here.”

He worked in factories, never read much. But his insights into growing tomatoes were astonishing. Right then, I realised: this was knowledge no textbook could offer. I’d spent years — money, time, energy — seeking answers from institutions. But here in Devon, a quiet man on an allotment held wisdom deeper than most lectures.

Though I married and had children, I now find myself back in Devon, alone. I live with the grief of that disconnection, that loss. It’s the kind of grief that makes small discoveries feel sacred.

After our chat, I planted my tomato seedlings. On a whim, I left one plant completely alone — no watering, barely any weeding, no pruning, no tying. It lay flat on the ground, forgotten. Then on July 30th, I lifted it and tied it up. To my surprise, it was heavy with healthy fruit.

You won’t see that method at the Chelsea Flower Show. You won’t find it in textbooks. But it worked. And it reminded me that some truths are only learned by living. Some growth happens best without intervention. Some knowledge lives in silence, soil, and people.

Here in Devon — in the land, in the voices, in the stillness — I’ve found a new kind of knowing. Not the kind earned by climbing ladders, but the kind grown slowly, through presence, through pain, through love.

“Passing cars on busy roads wind their windows down.
Don’t be alarmed — it’s just a chance to say hello.”
— Tarka

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This song is about returning to sleepy Devon.
It’s the story of a man who’s travelled, loved, lost — and come back to start again.
Wiser, still full of questions. Motivated, but cautious. Faithful, and still searching.