Back down to earth

In much the same way as the cobbler’s children are often found in want of shoes, this gardener’s garden is beginning to look a little unkempt. I’d prefer to describe it as naturalistic, but I fear I may be pushing the boundaries of what is generally understood when applying that adjective to a style of planting, unless what is generally understood is a state of affairs in which Nature is striding forth with purpose on all fronts to reclaim the garden for her own.

But I’ve decided not to let it stress me; in fact, in an odd way I’m finding it quite refreshing. There was a moment at Chelsea this year when I was admiring the admittedly fantastic planting on the Hilliers stand in the pavilion; it was almost perfect, but I realised that what I really wanted to see – what would just tip it for me from fabulous to the inspired – was a tendril or two of bindweed cheekily peering over the top of a choice perennial, or the tell-tale texture of a dock about to come into flower catching the corner of my eye. I’ll admit that this is probably not a mainstream point of view, but I’ve come to understand that planting that gives a nod to the way nature would do it is where I feel most at home. I can appreciate and even enjoy more manicured styles – when done well, this kind of thing gives me that frisson you get when you realise you’re feeling challenged by being moved out of your comfort zone – but I get a real kick when the hand of the gardener is perhaps less explicit.

Is this just a case of me trying to justify the state of my chaotic garden? Well, possibly it is. What I know for certain is that while I loved Chelsea this year, I was immensely glad to get back home to my own brand of chaos.

RHS Chelsea Flower Show 2014, part 2

Isn’t it funny how you spend much of your time photographing show gardens waiting for people to get out of shot? At least I do, or did until recently. I’ve come to appreciate the presence of a body or two within the space, it helps to contextualise the garden if there’s a human contingent with which the green stuff can interact, so I was more than happy to press the shutter while people were busily working away, hoovering or sweeping (really), judging, or schmoozing. Of course, what you really need is a couple of kids wellying a football around it, a labrador galumphing through the beds, and I’m still convinced that one year the RHS should insist that all show gardens must somehow incorporate a trampoline.

Adam Frost takes a slightly different approach to a family garden with ‘A Time to Reflect’, the Homebase garden in association with the Alzheimer’s Society. As it’s name suggests, it’s a reflective space whilst at the same time being one which seeks to engage children and adults in the joys of the outdoors. Natural stone boulders, pools and connecting rills reference the countryside in this wildlife friendly environment, and the naturalistic planting does nothing to distract. There are plenty of places to sit and ponder, and also the option to chose different routes through the garden, some quite active, others a little more sedate. All routes lead to a sociable space for entertaining and eating, in the form of a stone and oak arbour with a green roof of heather, complete with a fabulous hooded copper stove/fireplace combination. I found it a thoroughly engaging, wonder-filled garden, one that I’d be more than content to spend time in with family, dogs and god-children, though the latter, whilst possessing a heartening interest in the natural world, will still be requiring a trampoline.

Vital Earth’s ‘The Night Sky Garden’ by brothers David and Harry Rich was a treat, though one which made me wish I was a bit taller, as although the layout of the sinuous stone walls is intended to represent constellations, but I couldn’t quite see over the planting. I imagine a much better viewpoint of this is available from the star gazing platform on top of the contemporary oak and glass pavilion, which is accessed via an external spiral staircase, rising up from among the planting. From here, the pair of dark reflecting pools would be especially impressive on a starry night. For those sensitive to even this modest height, a grassy bowl offers an ideal space to lie on your back, gazing into the sky for a spot of traditional cloud busting. Random scattered boulders give the impression that the garden has grown up on the site of a meteor strike, so there’s a kind of deep energy that pulses through the whole space. Quite an impressive job.

That, for now, is all the song I’ve got to sing as far as the show gardens are concerned. I’m back on Saturday for another look, to see what I’ve missed of the show gardens, and also take a look at the Fresh gardens which I didn’t get round to on Monday. In particular I’d like to revisit the No Man’s Land garden by Charlotte Rowe, which didn’t grab me when I was standing next to it, although the plans and the photographs I’ve seen from within the garden give quite a different impression. It’s worth remembering, particularly when puzzling over some of the medal decisions, that the judges and the guests who have the opportunity to go into the gardens get a very different impression from those of us who have to be content with looking on.

And so on to the Artisan gardens, several of which had a narrative underlying their concept. Call me a stubborn, but I studiously try to avoid hearing too much about this – at least at first – preferring to see if I engage with the space in its own right, and then adding on this extra layer of understanding once I’ve explored my own responses to what’s around me. Is this the correct way to go about garden appreciation? I’ve no idea, but it works for me to make my own meaning, and then to see how or even if it chimes with that of the gardens creator, where that information is available.

Without, then, extensive reference to their respective back stories, three gardens made a particular impression on me in this area, Marylyn Abbott’s ‘Topiarist Garden’, Ishihara Kazuyuki’s ‘Togenkyo – A Paradise on Earth’, and the DialAFlight ‘Potter’s Garden’ by Nature Redesigned.

The first of these was the front garden of a small single story brick cottage with a clay tile roof, raised a couple of feet from the path in front and accessible by a short flight of steps. The tiny space was filled with a joyful assortment of expertly tended topiary forms, interplanted with cottage garden perennials. There was a wonderful eccentricity in the dualism between the tightly controlled topiary and the somewhat ramshackle nature of the cottage, with its relaxed planting. I liked it very much. Hydrangea anomola subsp. petiolaris graced the front of the cottage; I may have muttered “that’ll be up and over the whole house before you know it”. I may have been told off for taking things too literally.

Just down the road, looking as though in reality it could actually be a neighbouring property, was the DialAflight ‘Potter’s Garden’, one of the gardens explicitly referencing the First World War. This featured an abandoned workshop, including an outdoor bottle kiln, a garden path consisting of broken crocks (not one I’d want to walk on barefoot), and several phrases of remembrance carved into wooden plaques. The terracotta elements blended in seamlessly with the loose, cottage style planting, with ferns and digitalis, as well as the native species as the countryside around attempts to reclaim this working space, including a front wall constructed from sandbags.

Ishihara Kazuyuki’s garden is one I want to return to, as it had Toby Buckland and a film crew on it when I visited. I contented myself with admiring the attention to detail I could see by peering around people – all the characteristic elements of this designers exquisite gardens – acers and pines, water, river-washed rounded pebbles, their shape and size mirrored in the small balls of moss being painstakingly spritzed with water by concerned looking assistants. Whether or not I’ll be able to get a better view on Saturday, I’m not sure, but it’s certainly worth sharpening my elbows for.

I’ll be uploading more photos from Chelsea to the grow Facebook page – including images of the fantastic nurseries in the Royal Pavilion

Click here to read the first part of this account of RHS Chelsea 2014.

RHS Chelsea Flower Show 2014, part 1

To the grounds of the Royal Hospital Chelsea, for the 2014 RHS Chelsea Flower Show. An early start, as the RHS Press Office were good enough to give me a pass, meaning that not long after seven a.m. I was working my way down main avenue, camera clicking furiously, getting a good look at the gardens before the crowds, the celebs and, most importantly, the heat arrived.

I’ll try to give an account of those features which made a positive impression on me. In very brief summary, a good show; some interesting show gardens, a handful of exquisite artisan gardens, and, as always, sterling works of wonder being performed by the nurseries and growers in the Royal Pavillion. Although nothing overtly outrageous was to be found, there was a certain smattering of ‘high concept’ in evidence, a phrase which a friend of mine suggested as a kinder way of describing those gardens which I, in my somewhat earthier style, had been referring to as a load of old…

Balls of box were much in evidence, and also in places of beech – the favoured form this year being a slightly squished pebble, rather than a perfect sphere. Imagine a perfect sphere, but with an overly fat, invisible person sitting on it. There are no surprises here, formal elements interspersed with frothy, softer plantings have been with us for some time now, but I did think there was a discernible shift this year, particularly on main avenue, with historical periods in garden history notable for their strong formality explicitly referenced in the design, but softened by a more contemporary understanding of naturalistic planting. This was clearly seen in Cleve West’s M&G Garden, a 21st century interpretation of a Persian paradise garden, but also in the Italianate roots of both Luciano Giubbilei’s Laurent-Perrier Garden and the Telegraph Garden, designed by Tommaso del Buono & Paul Gazerwitz.

Most unequivocally this was evident in Paul Hervey-Brookes’ garden for Brand Alley, which combines the three periods of the Italian Renaissance in a single design, an immense, long reflecting pool with an ox-blood red loggia at the far end, formal hedging and statuary to the left, softer, mediterranean planting to the right. It’s bold, almost stark when viewed from the front, and I’m not sure most visitors to the show will get it, but I rather like it, particularly viewed from the side, which gives a more nuanced prospect.

The Brand Alley Renaissance Garden, by Paul Hervey-Brookes

Three of these gardens shared essentially the same structural element – a tall evergreen hedge running the entire length of the long boundary of the garden, unbroken except for a full height stone panel at some point along the length. Ok, it’s not the same panel, or the same hedge, and it doesn’t perform the same function within the respective designs, but it’s something I found rather odd pouring over the visuals before getting to the show today, and haven’t found any less odd having seen the gardens up close. Just one of those things and entirely coincidental, no doubt, but especially notable when two of the gardens are on adjacent plots.

Cleve West’s Persian-inspired garden for M&G

The Telegraph Garden, by Del Buono/Gazerwitz

The Laurent-Perrier Garden, by Luciano Giubbilei

It’s at this point I realise that I should have earlier mentioned the inevitable caveat when talking about show gardens, namely that it’s impossible to judge the success of a garden – any garden – while being unaware of the intention of its creator, and that without having had sight of brief to which a designer’s been working noone can say how successful they’ve been. All I can comment upon is how a particular garden makes me feel, and whether this or that aspect appears to me to have been well executed. It’s a personal response, and yours may well be entirely different. Which brings me on to some of the planting.

I’m a big fan of the gardens of Luciano Giubbilei (he does contemporary formal with great skill), and I’m sure I’ve seen or heard him comment in recent years that he’s only recently beginning to embrace flowers in his designs. This year’s Laurent-Perrier garden is a much more feminine garden, with far fewer straight edges and more natural forms in evidence. The clipped forms are still there, but now we have the rounded, loose forms of beech, and the branching of the two amelenchiers is pleasingly informal. It’s still all tightly controlled by the hard landscaping, though, framing the trees, the water courses and the pool, and tightly confining the herbaceous planting to two rectangular areas. And it’s these areas of planting that didn’t quite work for me – here I must slip in to describing feelings again – adjectives like ‘competent’ and ‘stolid’ spring to mind, almost as if the individual plants were being placed by an informed and precise hand, but without the fluidity and finesse in evidence on, for example, the Cloudy Bay Sensory Garden from the Wilson McWilliam Studio.

Clearly, this is a comparison of apples and pears, but it’s nonetheless one I’ll persist in making. Photos tweeted showing the progress of the planting here have been making me drool all week; a monochromatic layer of blueberry mauves, alliums, verbascums, salvias and aquilegias, all nestling among swathes of delicate deschampsia, with brighter splashes of oranges and reds above, wending their way around two multi stemmed hazels – a crazy meadow that made you want to sprawl out in. Of course in reality you wouldn’t want to for fear of snapping or squashing some choice specimen, but the truly skilled manage to create the impression of a community of plants; even if it’s a bonkers community, they look like in some world they could exist growing together. The colours here were illustrative of the fruitier notes within the sponsor’s wines, a theme continued with the towering charred oak panels creating the backdrop. The scale of these panels was bold, several metres (four?) high. It shouldn’t have worked, but somehow it managed to entirely avoid any feeling of looming bulk. Across a rill in which bottles of wine were being invitingly cooled, a limestone terrace provided space for socialising. This too worked, though the shift is rather sudden, wafty colourful meadow to unapologetically crisp, clean cut terrace. Perhaps that’s why it worked – audacity. And a simple concept clearly articulated, which prevented it from being a garden of two halves.

Talking of which, there was Alan Titchmarsh’s ‘From the Moors to the Sea’, a garden celebrating 50 years of Britain in Bloom and the designer’s half century in horticulture. Aside from the sudden transition from the moorland element (which was beautifully realised, wildflowers, drystone walls and all) into the coastal environment, complete with echiums and beach hut, I very much liked this garden. I wonder if a more gentle transition – salt marsh, perhaps? – might have established a greater rapport between the two. Splitting hairs really, I liked it.

The Brewin Dolphin Garden, designed by Matthew Childs grew on me during the morning, perhaps in spite of the hard landscaping materials – square, copper arches and slate grey stone, all very grrrr. But either the sun made it come alive – suddenly all the different textural details were thrown into relief – or by mid-morning I'd finally woken up. This was a garden with real depth, which is a feature I always enjoy in a show garden – the longer you looked, the more you found yourself drawn in. The planting was lush and had that fresh May green look, which the flowers of Viburnum plicatum (a plant much in evidence this year) complemented beautifully. I was also rather taken by the mounds of Cryptomeria globosa nana used throughout, which echoed the low, rounded boulders within the planting.

The Brewin Dolphin Garden, by Matthew Childs

The Brewin Dolphin Garden, by Matthew Childs

The Brewin Dolpin Garden, by Matthew Childs

There’s a lot to see, and as I’m keen to post something this evening, I’ll continue in another post tomorrow!

What are your thoughts on Chelsea this year? Do leave a comment below.

May Day

Bank holiday Monday, and the afternoon air is a cacophony of birdsong and lawnmower engines, aircraft circling over Gatwick, and the distant whine of motorbikes heading down the A21 for the annual May Day meet in Hastings. A ridiculous bluebottle careers off mirrors, picture frames and windows in a desperate fusion of frenetic industry and hopelessness. Three feet away the door to the garden is wide open. Bill raises his head from his afternoon nap, regards the idiot fly with apparent disdain, and returns to his philosophical canine deliberations: Cats – What’s Their Problem? and Why a Stolen Sausage Tastes Better than a Sausage Freely Given. Outside, a few weeks earlier than usual, the garden has exploded.

Only the first week in May, but this rapid burgeoning of everything in the garden began in the middle of April, and was well into its stride last week. The transformation of the geraniums first heralded the acceleration in growth rate; every year the speed at which this happens takes me by surprise – one moment a sprawling, untidy looking patch of straggly vegetation, the next, perfect, plumptious domes of foliage rising from the borders. It seems a miraculous transformation – standing still for long enough, you would surely see the plants growing even as you watch. But standing still is not a thing to be done in the garden at this time of year, unless that is you have a particular desire to be claimed by Mother Nature as a living sculpture, rooted to the soil by speedwell, smothered in goosegrass and hemmed in on all sides by tall docks. Borage, comfrey, and forget-me-nots join forces with the spanish bluebell – ugly fat leaves and ill manners temporarily overlooked – creating a striking, frothy blue understory around your tethered feet, mirroring the sky for now still visible through the canopy overhead, until the trees and shrubs reach full leaf  in a few weeks time.

May, then, is already green, glorious, and groaning with abundance, and not just in our gardens, but in the woods and the fields, the hedgerows and the roadside verges all around us. English bluebells which clothe the woodland floor came early into flower, but fortunately this seems to have extended the season rather than simply moving it a forward, the flowers making the most of the warm spring temperatures and greater light levels. Cow parsley too is already reaching statuesque heights, at least in those places as yet unreached by the brush cutters of the over-zealous maintenance contractor. How ironic to think of the understandable ubiquity of Anthriscus and other early flowering umbellifers at Chelsea in recent years, due to several late springs and the reluctance of many of the planned plants to come into flower, while this year everything is a good fortnight ahead – quite the opposite problem. Throughout the nation, virtuoso performances of the Chelsea Chop this year may well precede the eponymous flower show by a matter of weeks.

Pot shopping and garden gawping

A well made terracotta pot is a thing worthy of admiration in its own right. That such an object can itself be filled with the choicest specimens of the plant kingdom in an association of synergistic scrumminess* is a phenomenon for which we can all be truly grateful. Being a firm believer of the verisimilitude of the foregoing, it was with some excitement that I discovered that Whichford Pottery were due to make a trip to a spring fair at Loseley Park in Surrey at the weekend; still just over an hour away, being in the same neck of the woods though a little further on than Wisley, but considerably less effort to get to than the pottery itself in Warwickshire.

Having negotiated the M25, and then the quagmire of a field being used for the car park (“there’s some slight surface mud”, warned the steward at the entrance – my, how we laughed), we found that the Whichford folks had taken over the walled courtyard before the entrance, and so we dashed straight in to see if anything was left. Alas, all the seconds had been snapped up, but I hadn’t really come for those. I was after some straightforward, solid, wide-based pots, either from their Wisley or Buxus pot range, and we managed to lay claim to three buxus pots, a delightful small pot with a bee design it, and a seed pan. While paying for them, we noticed that our crafty Whichford friends had brought with them an assortment of ceramics from the shop, and we somehow managed to add five earthenware coffee mugs to our haul. We were pretty close to buying a larger pot from the new Shakespeare range, but since we couldn't agree on Love’s Labours Lost or Cymbeline, that will have to wait for another day. And perhaps a trip to Warwickshire, which will then give me an excuse to visit Fibrex Nurseries in Stratford and drool over their pelargoniums.

Pots paid for and left at the till, we had already achieved the purpose of our visit but, the weather having by now cleared, we wanted to pop our heads into the garden (via, of course, the gift shop for essential ice cream-based sustenance). The gardens don’t officially open until the first weekend in May, so the Spring Fair attendees were being treated to a preview. I was trying out a new camera lens, and so I confess to not wandering around the garden in an analytical frame of mind, content to let the experience of the place wash over me. This is after all my preferred mode when visiting a garden for the first time. That said, the impression I gained was very positive. Two and a half acres of walled garden, with tightly clipped box and yew, fruit trees, pleached hedging, razor sharp edges, well-managed compacted gravel paths and colours so vibrant they burst through the camera’s lens – the bright greens of the fresh growth on the box, chartreuse euphorbias, clouds of blue forget-me-nots, tulips in shades of oranges and reds. Not to everyone’s taste, perhaps, but the combination of formality and joyful exuberance very much to mine (and, rather uncomfortably, bang on trend if what I’ve seen so far of Chelsea 2014 is anything to go by). I’m looking forward to coming back and giving the garden the attention it deserves.

* for examples of synergistic scrumminess, visit the blog of Whichford’s Head Gardener, Harriet Rycroft, at whichfordpottery.com/main/potting-up/. Or better still, pop in to the pottery to see the pots and the plantings in all their glory.

Notes from the greenhouse

Mission Control has been looking a little sorry for itself of late. A wet winter and a less than watertight structure have taken their toll on the end of the greenhouse where I station myself to sow seeds, pot on, check the temperature, listen to the radio and drink tea (although the last two activities invariably occur wherever I find myself in the garden). This isn’t to say I’ve not been using it – far from it – but ‘making do’ has very much been the order of the day, as I’ve watched with a growing consciousness of my own inadequacy the seemingly endless stream of tweets testifying to the ruthless efficiency of my gardening friends, all of whom have appear to have cleaned, repaired and rearranged their greenhouses in good time over winter in preparation for the new season. Social media is wonderful for providing support and encouragement, particularly I’ve found in the gardening world. Just sometimes, it reminds me that I’m still very much a journeyman at this game.

My greenhouse, of course, couldn’t agree more. The leaky roof has decided that the main cascade is shown to its greatest advantage when falling directly over the potting bench, the plywood surface of which became badly waterstained, the grain not so much raised as mountainous. The max/min/in/out thermometer has been staring at me blankly for weeks, due in part to the absence of a sensible battery compartment, necessitating the irksome removal of six fiddly screws and a rubber gasket just to discover what manner of exhausted power source lurks within. It doesn't sound like much of an obstacle to overcome, but by the time I’ve made the short journey along the wavy grass path back to the house, I've passed several other more pressing things-which-need-doing along the way, and all thoughts of batteries and screwdrivers have been forgotten.

Clearly some TLC was in order, and so making the most of the extra hours of light we’re now enjoying, the potting bench has now had a rub down and several fresh coats of Briwax, which ought to see it through for a while longer. The thermometer is restored to an operational state (triple A cells in there, who’d have thought? I was expecting those annoying watch batteries), and I’ve built a new shelf above the bench for essentials so I can keep the working surface clear. Suddenly, it feels like a much more efficient operation.

I’ve also got a plan to add in a lower level of staging to create a third tier – there won’t be the height for anything taller than moderately sized seedlings, but then there won’t be the light levels for anything that’s exhausted its onboard store of energy, and by the time the first pairs of true leaves are unfurled and seeking out the sun I’ll be needing to pot them on anyway. It will just give me an extra (slight) defence from the mollusc army, though it is tempting to clad the vertical surfaces in copper. Now there’s a thought... but perhaps I’m getting carried away.

If the weekend stays sufficiently dry, I shall attack the roof seam with some silicone, a slightly fiddly process as I need to do this from the outside rather than from below to prevent the water from gathering between the roof timbers and causing them to rot. I’d rather be sowing seeds.

What’s growing in the greenhouse this month

Sweet peas in root trainers. Sown these into Carbon Gold GroChar seed compost, which I think might have been a bad idea due to the length of time they’ll be in there –they’re beginning to show signs of nutrient deficiency. Silly me; I’ve given them a shot or two of Maxicrop seaweed-based plant tonic and will get them into the ground in a few days.

Tomatoes in modules – these need potting on now. A snail got up onto the staging and munched all the 'Gardeners Delight'. Only one of the measley eight-in-a-packet 'Red Robin' have germinated (a new variety for containers), so I’d better look after this. All the 'Moneymaker' look good.

Cleomes – germination rate rather good, and potted on now into 9cm square pots. These were also looking a bit yellow (also sown in GroChar seed compost. I think it might only be good if you’re sowing into seed trays and pricking out fairly swiftly after germination, I tend to sow into modules and so need more food for the seedling as it’ll be in there for a while. I will stick with the GroChar but use sieved multi-purpose I think).

Butternut squash and courgettes – the first signs of life just showing, sown straight into multi-purpose in 9cm pots.

Hanging basket of petunias waiting to go out the front of the house, for some retro gardening cool!

A knackered looking melianthus in a 2 litre pot, a favourite plant I was intending to plant out till I discovered its toxicity to dogs.

Not to mention the posh pelargoniums, astilbes and misc cuttings/splittings, which all need some attention.

The cosmos will get sown today. Or maybe tomorrow.

What’s in yours? Do leave a comment, or send me a tweet!

If he’s not going to hurry up in there, he could at least let me in to munch on the astilbes

Inner Temple Gardens

To London on a grey and rainy day, to visit gardens of the Inner Temple. These are found on the north bank of the Thames, midway between Waterloo and Blackfriars bridges, and occupy about five acres of that strip of land between Fleet Street and the river.

The walk from Charing Cross station allowed me to revisit a favourite old haunt, the Victoria Embankment Gardens, where I’ve whiled away many a happy lunch time reading a book or just strolling beneath the canopy of the enormous London plane trees (Platanus x hispanica). Before I knew anything about gardening, I remember marvelling at their colourful, flaking bark in camouflage shades, hung in winter with brown seed balls like Christmas decorations, which disintegrate in spring to release a blizzard of parachuting seeds. I’m sure that it was also here that I encountered my first fatsia – there are some mature species of impressive size by the gates to Villiers Street – impressed not only by the handsome foliage but also by the astonishing white inflorescences, spherical umbels on similarly blanched pedicels. I remember escaping here from my office in the middle of one particularly fraught project, watching the gardeners lay out the bedding schemes with no little envy, thinking to myself; ‘gardeners must exist in an entirely stress-free world. You can’t exactly shout at a bulb to come up any faster than it wants’ I may have been on to something – while I don’t think any occupation is stress-free, or indeed should be, it’s certainly a more positive, constructive type of stress I feel now than in those suited and booted years in the air conditioned offices of an oil company.

I was glad to see the gardens here in such excellent condition, with much evidence of restorative work and even some new hard landscaping in the form a curved stone wall behind Steell’s sulpture of Robbie Burns. Why it is I gain so much pleasure from the bedding schemes here, when normally the very notion of them fills me with horror, I have yet to work out, but the sight of white tulips in a sea of pink myosotis was a cheering prospect in the afternoon drizzle, albeit one that reminded me of coconut ice. Crown imperials peaked out from more tropical plantings, and the plane trees have yet to release their seeds in earnest, though the brace of gardeners with backpack blowers keeping the paths immaculate suggested that they might be about to start.

At a leisurely pace the walk lasts about ten minutes, taking you under Waterloo Bridge, along the front of Somerset House and past Temple tube station, and the smaller sections of the embankment gardens. One of the four Inns of Court (the others being Middle Temple, Lincolns Inn and Grays Inn), the Inner Temple has existed since the fourteenth century, but evidence of a garden on this site dates back some two hundred years before then. The present gardens were laid out in the seventeenth century, with significant changes to accommodate contemporary fashion in the 1700s, but the enlargement of the site due to the construction of the embankment in the nineteenth century resulted in the amended layout which forms the basis of the gardens today. What follows here are my first thoughts and impressions of the gardens, which I look forward to researching in more detail and indeed visiting again in the near future.

Entering through the iron gates on Crown Office Row and descending semi-circular steps to the upper level of this sloping site, you are faced with three acres of lawn, bounded top and sides by the Temple buildings, and at the bottom by the embankment and river beyond. A row of benches lines the upper path, bisected by the central axis running from the gates, through the eighteenth century sundial, and down the steps which lead from the upper level to the lawn, at which point, rather oddly, the central axis disappears in a sea of green turf. Without wishing here to get into the discussion of where a park ends and a garden begins, there are definitely elements of park here, notably the expanse of lawn, the selection of mature specimen trees, and perhaps also the relative dearth of formal elements, those that exist (the paths, the steps) being pushed out to the boundaries. Given the purpose of these gardens, its park-ness is entirely appropriate, and had I been visiting on a sunny day perhaps a wander across the lawns with my lunch would have been a perfect way to spend an hour or so. On a rainy day in April, I  found myself wanting a big path down the middle, and something to continue the formality created at the entrance down through the site to the river. As it was, I stuck to the path and skirted the edges.

And as I circled the space via its peripheral edge, my gaze was held in the main by the circular fountain area. Of all the structural elements, this is the one which I found hardest to reconcile with the rest of the garden. Marooned in the lawn, it’s eccentrically off centre in a setting which calls either for formality or a purposeful rejection of the same, without quite gathering the confidence to be stridently informal. In addition, I think that it might be too small for the space – it seems a little apologetic, neither classically proportioned nor vulgar in its enormity, but too large and ill-sited to be quaint. My hope is that the planting will in time soften those aspects of the fountain that I find jarring – it doesn’t as yet, perhaps not helped by the mismatched hard landscaping materials – modern red brickwork, pale stone flags, blue-grey zinc planters with wooden benches. I think my attention was so drawn to this area I missed some of the detail in the planting by my feet, particularly on the broad walk that runs along the bottom of the site, bounded on both sides rows of huge London plane trees underplanted with, I think, liriope. I shall visit again to give this area the attention it deserves.

Reading about the complex history of the gardens*, it becomes evident why it feels as if there is no overarching plan to their layout – there hasn’t been one, at least not for several centuries and certainly not for the garden in its present form, and so perhaps a piecemeal approach to the design is understandable. The broad walk was laid out in the nineteenth century, the high border has come, gone, and come again, the steps that go nowhere were added in the sixties, and the combined efforts of fire, plague, Victorian engineering and two world wars have taken their toll.

That said, none of these comments on the layout and structural elements should in any way detract from what the head gardener and her team are managing to achieve here. Their skill and dedication is evident in so many areas, from the long herbaceous border running along the very top – packed so tightly I’d have a job insinuating a credit card between the plants, let alone my own sturdy, lumpen-footed frame – to the artfully arranged display of pots by the greenhouse, and the lush, shade tolerant plantings in the ‘woodland area’, where paeonies jostle with ferns, dicentra/lamprocapnos (I’m still getting the hang of that one!) and astilbes. There's a new planting of ferns around the base of the old black walnut tree – pleasingly a thick bark mulch path had been laid here encouraging you to step off the path and walk among the plants. I had the distinct impression that the new planting area had encroached some way into the turf – could it be that the gardeners are putting in place the initial phase of a stealthy coup to claim space from the tyranny of the lawn? I rather hope so.

The presence of the gardeners was palpable, even while they themselves appeared to have been spirited away. I passed two wheel-barrows clearly abandoned mid-task, one by an obviously well tended working seed bed, and another on the other side of the gardens, where an invisible horticulturalist had evidently been in the process of weaving intricate hazel supports for the paeonies. It was, after all, lunch time (the gardens are only open to the public from 12.30pm – 3pm), and a gardener has to eat.

Perhaps there's something particularly dynamic about a place where the gardeners are necessarily battling against less than ideal design – after all, isn't that what many of us do every day? Here, it clearly draws out a certain flair and panache that makes this space an interesting one in which to linger. Now, a few days after my first visit, the guidebook has arrived in the post, and I feel I’ve at least begun to get the lie of the land. I’m looking forward to my next trip to the Inner Temple Gardens – I have a suspicion it won’t be long before I’m back.

* In The Great Garden: a History of the Inner Temple Garden from the 12th to the 21st Century, Hilary Hale, The Honourable Society of the Inner Temple 2010.

Spring green

The garden astoundingly fresh today, all around that vibrant, luminous spring green that bursts upon your vision and fills you with an extra dose of life. All the natural high you could ask for.

In the woodland garden, sticky bud scales on the horse chestnut have parted to reveal new leaves in the process of unfurling. Yet to be raised into their final orientation, they hang drooping from slackened ribs like the infant wings of some freshly hatched dragon.

You can almost hear the sap pumping through the vascular system of the garden. Even as you look, it seems to be spreading through these veins of the russet epimedium leaves.

Hellebores are promiscuous things when happy, and they love this dappled shade. Ovaries swelling with their precious cargo, some manage a novice-like air of serene piety, while others just look fit to burst.

And out in the orchard, the snakes head fritillaries are having a field day, offering up a variation on a green, with their more glaucous shades perfectly offsetting the mottled pinks and plums of the flowers. What a day.

Waiting game

March has done us proud. Sunshine, just the right amount of rain, enough of a breeze to aid the drying of the ground but insufficient for any real chilling of the bones. And now, for the very reasonable price of one lost hour at the weekend, British Summer Time has arrived, the days lengthening perceptibly and, with the change in the clocks, remaining light until almost eight. The effects of photoperiod on the flowering of plants is complex, though well documented. Its effect on gardeners, while more anecdotal in proof is, I am convinced, no less true for that, the equation being expressed in the following manner: a longer day equals a happier gardener.

And with the light comes the heat – if anything, the temperatures over the last few weeks have been slightly above average. Try telling that to the tomato seeds I’m stubbornly attempting to germinate in an unheated greenhouse. Just as stubbornly, they’re making me wait, of the three varieties only the stalwart  'Money Maker' is showing much sign of life, although, peering very closely, I think I may have seen some embryonic roots emerging in the other modules today. Possibly, just wishful thinking. I tell myself any delay actually plays to my advantage; in previous years I’ve sown indoors both too generously and too early – just becuase you can sow tomatoes in February, doesn’t necessarily mean you should. The resulting small forest of lanky plants never really got away as well as those started a few weeks later. This way, I tell myself, as long as I can protect the tiny seedlings from any late frosts (fleece at the ready in the greenhouse), the timing will be just right. We shall see.

And whie I’m waiting for the tomatoes to do their thing, I can cheer myself with more cooperative characters, among them cleomes (new for me this year), salad leaves and of course the sweet peas. Stil loads to sow, and running rapidly out of space.

Plant identification

Identifying plants can be a minefield. It’s one thing when you haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re looking at, but quite another when you have a sneaking suspicion. Nine times out of ten, you should probably go with your gut.

Last Friday, I found myself in such a situation, up to my eyeballs in creeping buttercup, and faced with something that initially felt not altogether different. Perhaps if I’d stuck with the same order, Ranunculales (admittedly quite large, including buttercups and anemones and celandine but also –perhaps less obviously – hellebores, poppies, aquilegias and clematis, amongst many others), I’d have identified my mystery plant more quickly. But unfortunately I allowed my brain to get in the way, which sent me off on quite another route. With no tell tale flowers to help me, I became distracted by the cut leaf and stubbon, longish single root, which reminded me of something like cow parsley, Anthriscus sylvestris, and although I knew it wasn’t that, I wondered if perhaps it was a member of the same umbellifer family, the Apiaceae.

Just to add insult to injury, I elected to live tweet my mental process as I painfully worked things through. In verse. Nothing like public, self inflicted humiliation. But for those of you who missed it, here’s an account of events, more or less as they unfolded. You need never feel bad about misidentifying a plant again.

Ode to an Umbelliferous Thing

O Umbelliferous Thing, it’s my belief
your great tap root and compound leaf
should lead me, ’fore the morning’s old
to cry your name out, loud and bold.
More numerous than buttercup
and twice as tricky to pull up,
why is it not so plain to see
the truth of your identity?

Not Hogweed, then you would be hairier.
P’raps Aegopodium podograria:
Ground elder? No, the root’s all wrong
You clearly sing a different song.
Not knowing irks me; hands all clammy.
Maybe you’re spawn of summer’s Ammi?

Can’t be, that really would be queer
We planted none of that last year.
A brutish Carrot? Here? How raucous
would be the cries. Daucus –
in the flower beds – how fey!
It’s not a bleedin' pottager!

So neither chervil, parsnip, parsley...
but here a thought intrudes-how ghastly!
A nagging doubt, at first quite small...
...WHAT IF NOT UMBELLIFER AT ALL?!

This one here has a thing quite odd;
A longish stem and seeded pod...
Umbellifer, this plant is not.
If that’s the case, the question’s: WHAT?
There’s many a plant – genus, to boot –
compound of leaf and long of root,
I clearly was too quick today
to take the Apaiceaen Way.

I’ve really been supremely soppy
It’s Meconopsis – a Welsh Poppy!

Meconopsis cambrica, via a very circuitous route

Buzzing

Male catkins of the goat willow Salix caprea – also known as pussy willow for the soft furriness of the unopened buds. My ears detected a steady buzzing as I wheeled the barrow back from the bonfire area towards the end of the day; the sun was about to set, the temperature had noticeably dropped, but there was a distinct sound of activity coming from one of the four large multistemmed trees which preside over the hazel coppice. The source of the sound was at first difficult to locate, but the richness of the tone suggested a significant number of individuals, reminding me of standing below a hornets’ nest as countless creatures flew in and out, completely ignoring me in their determined industry. A bit early in the year for hornets, I thought. Surely early too for bees to be swarming – I silently berated myself for not knowing more about these fascinating things, resolving to buy Dave Goulson’s A Sting in the Tale, on my wish list for months, without further ado – and, look as I might, I could find no sign of a nest. But still, the closer I got to the tree, the louder the insistent thrumming noise. Only one direction left to look, then...

And there they were. A cloud of what looked from the ground like fat bumbles (though I couldn’t be sure), making the most of the pollen and nectar from this early flowering tree – good for them. And, by extension, for us.

Battling the borrowed view

Wednesday’s garden takes the notion of ‘borrowed view’ to an entirely different level. It’s one thing to appropriate visually your neighbour’s Betula utilis var. jacquamontii as a focal point for a particular view in your garden. It’s quite another when your every boundary is surrounded by the most breathtaking scenery; turn one way for the rolling downs with their patchwork fields and woodland; turn another to gaze out over the village church and country cottages, oast houses and orchards. In a very obvious sense this location epitomises what it is to be gardening in the Kentish landscape; look up from your weeding and it’s there, rolled out before you in all its glory.

It would be misleading to suggest that this borrowed landscape intrudes; it’s too pleasing a view to be unwelcome in any respect. If there’s any downside in being surrounded by such a generous expanse of loveliness – and, being British, I’ll have a good stab at locating any downside – it’s that any sense of ‘garden’ you try to establish can all to easily become overwhelmed by the wider context of the glorious countryside. Tall hedges and structures artfully arranged to create a sense of enclosure, opening up at strategic points to provide choice glimpses over the surrounding weald would certainly be high on my list of solutions for starting to address this tension. But other factors are at work – cost, time, client preference – calling for approaches of a subtler nature.

I think that’s why the area in the photograph is one of my favourite spots in this garden. Out of shot to the left, and down a rolling bank, a group of sedate birches provides a visual stop, while a mature purple smoke bush (Cotinus coggygria 'Royal Purple') provides the top and right hand edge of the frame. Standing here, the landscape beyond is perfectly visible, but you are conscious of having to look through the garden to see it. It’s a sensation that lasts only fleetingly – a few steps down the slope and you’re back out in the open, glorious rolling Kentishness on all sides, but it gives a hint as to what can be achieved without having to resort to great blocks of evergreen hedging.

As for the spot itself, it’s an area into which a fair amount of thought and work has gone, though perhaps you wouldn’t know it to look at it. The image shows the cotinus in semi-recumbent pose – a combination of waterlogged soil and winter winds have done their best to fell the old soldier, but we’re hoping he’s made of sterner stuff. The majority of the root system is in the ground, and we’ve done our best to protect that which became exposed. I’ve also elected not to perform my annual hard prune for larger leaves at the expense of the smokey flowers – the plant has been under enough stress as it is and, in any case, the loss of some of the roots will inevitably lead to a degree of self pruning in the aerial parts, if it survives at all. So far the signs are good, with the tiny dark red buds emerging with encouraging vigour. The foot of the shrub has been rescued from a tangle of uninspring vinca, no doubt planted due to its chief quality of being decidedly unappetising to rabbits, from whose attention this garden suffers greatly. In the rich soil, however, the vinca can quickly become rampant, and an unruly mound of its arching stems did nothing visually. Wisely, the furry critters have also chosen to leave un-nibbled the native digitalis and hellebores that have replaced the periwinkles. The lilac coloured primrose, not somethng I’d normally choose, seems to have settled in of its own accord, and I think it can stay, certainly for the moment. While I decide what to do about it, it can be left to enjoy the view – although, apparently unimpressed, it appears to be facing entirely the wrong way. One presence here, at least, that would rather gaze into the garden, than out to the landscape beyond.

What’s so good about: crocuses?

I took some cracking photos of crocuses this week and, though I tweeted them instantly, I wondered if it might be too much to post them to the blog, having featured an image of a crowd of crocuses at the head of last week’s post. Well. Poo to that with knobs on. The sun’s out, fast fading snowdrops are old news, and the crocuses are coming into their own.

Crocus. It’s an awkward word, isn’t it? It’s much more satisfying to pronounce the Greek word from which it derives (krokos), although this itself apparently has its root in the semitic languages of the mediterranean area, and refers explicitly to the saffron for which the stamens are harvested (from Crocus sativas, which is the autumn flowering saffron crocus and not, confusingly, the autumn crocus Colchicum autumnal which – to confound matters further – isn’t in fact a crocus at all, but a member of the lily family. The crocus, as any fule kno, is in the iris family). I’m also aware that the plural should almost certainly be croci, but can’t quite bring myself to write it, let alone say it. Crocuses it is, then.

What do I like so much about crocuses? Aside from the colours – white ones and cream ones and orange ones and mauve ones and deep purple ones and even stripy ones – I’m rather fond of the leaves. Described technically as ensiform (sword shaped), the leaves are long, thin, and grass like, although there are considerably fewer leaves to each corm than there would be to a tuft of grass, so you’re unlikely to mistake one for the other. Quite apart from which, the leaf of the crocus usually features a central silvery-white stripe along the whole length. If I’m honest, they are not things of great beauty; but their appearance in February is a sign that some colour is about to appear in the garden. Unless you spend an awful lot of time staring at the ground as I do, it won’t be the leaves that you notice, but the flowers. Each flower has six petals, two whorls of three, one cupping the other; the outermost often being slightly larger. When closed, these give the flower its characteristic goblet shape, but in full sun some species – particularly C. tomasianus with its longer, slender petals – will open out fully, exposing stigma and stamens in colours ranging from golden yellow to a deep, egg-yolk orange. Welcome, bright splashes of colour in drifts across the garden, just the thing to banish the winter blues.

Where to plant?

Lawns are better than beds or borders, where the corms may be disturbed by weeding and planting activity. Most crocuses appreciate full sun – many will sulk and refuse point blank to open their flowers without it. Drainage is important – although you can grow crocus with a degree of success on clay soils, incorporating grit is a good idea, as is avoiding areas which become waterlogged.

How to plant?

In short, in great numbers. “Splurging is the only way with crocus,” writes Anna Pavord in Bulb, and you can’t really argue with that. Anything less than a generous expanse looks plain silly, like an afterthought. Plant each corm to a depth three times its own height, and one and a half times its width apart (as the corms are not large, this is close, meaning that one or two bags from the garden centre won’t achieve much of an effect. It’s best to buy in large quantities from a bulb wholesaler, which works out at under ten pounds for a hundred corms). The drifts will bulk up by seeding, but it is important to remember not to mow the grass for a couple of weeks after the foliage has died back, a period which will allow the seed pods resting on the ground to open and release their cargo into the sward.

Crocuses also look wonderful planted in containers, which can be brought into the house to enjoy their scent as well as their cheery flowers. Use a free draining compost, incorporate a sprinkling of bonemeal and top dress with fine grit.

When to buy?

Autumn flowering varieties should be available as corms to plant now. Spring flowered varieties are usually available from September.

Autumn crocuses of note

In addition to C. sativas grown for saffron, the autumn flowering crocuses also include one of the bluest flowered species, Crocus pulchellus, while the award for the craziest stigma (the orangey lady parts of the flower) goes to Crocus tournefortii. Autumn flowering varieties should be available as corms to plant now. Spring flowered varieties are usually available from September.

The Good Taste Brigade

A word of warning with which to end. There is, as with many things in the world of gardening, an element of snobbery regarding certain varieties. The larger flowered crocuses – cultivars of C. vernus – appear to be considered by some to be rather uncouth. Particularly the all white 'Jeanne d'Arc', and the cheerfully striped 'Pickwick'. I think Pickwick’s rather fun, and Joan of Arc is splendid. Perhaps care should be taken not to plant these with more delicate forms. But then again, perhaps not.

A fistful of snowdrops

Galantho thievery

What is it that’s so satifying about having a fistful of snowdrops? I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that some people are willing to pay silly money for bulbs of the rarest and most desirable varieties (over £700 for Galanthus woronowii 'Elizabeth Harrison' in 2012 - which has golden markings on the petals and a matching golden ovary at the base (well, top as you look at it) of the flower). Maybe it’s just the feeling of having your hands around such a delicate and iconic plant, as if you’re somehow holding the key to spring itself. Whatever it is, it’s a sensation that caught me off guard today, as I carefully moved clumps of self sown plants into one area in preparation for revamping this particular bed. Normally, I don’t touch them until they’ve done their thing, if at all, but I don’t want them getting lost in the melee. I tried where possible to take as big a rootball with the plants as possible, although in separating out some of the intermingled undesirables, the odd bulb was displaced, and it will take a little longer for these to reestablish in their new positions, as they’re not hugely keen on root disturbance.

A snowdrop nursery would, I’m sure, be happier to move plants during the dormant period, rather than ‘in the green’. Just imagine working in a place like that, where you’re shifting the things about all the time. That’s a job I’d be happy to do. For a few snowdrops more.

Winter’s end

The sun is playing hide and seek. Magnolia peeping, cherry blossom beginning to froth the boughs. It is, after all, the last day of February, a milestone marking in my mental calendar the end of the hivernal trimester. In reality, the seasons are hardly so orderly, and signs of spring have for weeks been coexisting with a mild but stormy winter. March is a time of bitter winds – oddly, rather than images of windswept rural landscapes, the arrival of that month conjures memories of walking up Bishopsgate, hunkered down in scarf and coat against icy blasts seemingly intent on keeping me from the office. Perhaps the wind was trying to tell me something – turn around, get back on the train; leave the city behind, pull on your boots and get out in the open where you belong. I’ll be no kinder to you when you’re surrounded by trees and standing on soil instead of stone, but you may feel the benefit of a warmth of a different kind. An inner warmth that comes from knowing you’re where you belong. Odd, for a London-bred lad. But a few months later I had taken a part time job closer to home allowing me to volunteer with the garden team at Scotney Castle while studying horticulture at the local college.

So, we have March winds to look forward to, and the long range forecast is talking of colder conditions arriving in the south east – there is plenty of time yet for frost to nip off the over eager shoot or bud. But the earth needs a spell of freezing, and the cold temperatures are essential for controlling the less desirable elements of our local ecosystem, including a host of plant pests and pathogens. The arrival of frost also suggests clearer skies and brighter, drier conditions. Coupled with the steadily increasing daylight, I think that can only be a paticularly good thing.

Remembering snow

Wednesday morning. Birdsong, drizzle. The constant background roar of the bypass, the occasional metallic ululations of a passing train transporting early-morning commuters into the capital. A typical Hildenborough morning soundscape in early spring. While not understanding the mechanics of the process, I have noticed how rain – all rain, but particularly a thick curtain of fine rain or mist – magnifies the sound of the distant trunk road and the railway tracks that bisect the fields behind. Pondering on these things, I realise why I have missed the snow, why I always long for the snow when it seems that all around me dread the faintest rumour of its arrival. It’s not so much the excitement of looking out of the window in the morning to discover your world blanketed in white. Nor is it the prospect of snowball fights and sledging, of watching Bill testing the alien coldness with a tentative paw before diving in, tail up and head down, nose bent to the trail with that degree of focus and determination only seen in snow or after a heavy frost. Nor even is it the pure, childish pleasure of being the first to arrive at some virgin drift, boot-clad feet breaking through the taught crust, descending through the powder beneath, crushing and compacting ice into chunky treads. I love that about a good, deep fall of snow. But it’s not what I miss most.

It’s the silence.

I miss the silence. In order to maintain a sense of balance I need to spend a good proportion of my time outside, working in gardens, running or walking through woods and fields, and I’m aware how fortunate we are to live in a county where this can be a daily reality. But appreciative as I am of our surroundings, I can’t fool myself for long that this is anything approaching wilderness. Stand still and listen, deep into country footpaths almost anywhere in Kent, and beneath the sound of the birds and the animals, and the wind in the trees, you’ll almost certainly become aware of the noise of the transport systems that crisscross the countryside, not to mention the ever present rumble of air traffic far above. Much of this is necessary to maintain the lives we live – I don’t dispute that. But a heavy fall of snow stops the lot. Inconvenient, undoubtably. But, for a few days, silent.

I wonder if the snow will come this year? I think probably not. But I take comfort in remembering.

5 ways to overcome garden inertia

Having a garden is supposed to be a good thing. But all too often, it can become a source of bewilderment, guilt and even stress, particularly for first time buyers and those juggling the pressures of work with young families. The majority of the garden media spreads before us lavish images of beautiful, perfectly manicured plots – aspirational, certainly, but seemingly unattainable and remote. Even those helpful articles with titles like “10 things to do in your garden this month” – clearly intended to offer sound, step-by-step help and advice – can often seem to be giving you ten more reasons to beat yourself up for your lack of achievement. The knowledge that over two million homes in the UK are without a garden probably only increases the guilt, rather than reminding us how lucky we are to have a garden of our own. We should be doing better with the resources which we’re so fortunate to have. Faced with a yawning chasm between what our garden could be and the reality of what it is, who can blame us for falling into a state of denial, and closing the door to our outside room, particularly in winter. But anyone who's tried this approach will tell you that there's a catch. The more we put off taking action, the more there is to be done. You think you can get away with ignoring your garden in winter. By May, it’s a monster.

If any of this sounds familiar, you’re not alone. It’s something I increasingly encounter; if I’m honest, I even feel this way myself from time to time. If someone for whom gardening is both passion and profession can feel this way, you should know you’re in good company.

Practical advice

Which is all very well, but what do you do if you find yourself in a similar situation? Here are five ways in which you can overcome your inertia, and being to gain some traction in the garden.

1. Take baby steps

Waiting until you just can’t stand it any more, and then rushing about the garden like a whirlwind might get a lot done in one morning, but it’s hardly a sustainable way of keeping on top of things. For a less ‘pressure cooker’ approach you need to incorporate small, manageable tasks into a your weekly routine and, in that way, you’ll start to create a long-term strategy that will soon pay dividends and have you feeling more relaxed about the garden. Laetitia Maklouf (author of The Virgin Gardener and Sweet Peas for Summer ) uses her daughter’s hula hoop to define a small area which she clears whenever she has a moment in the day, concentrating solely on the area bounded by the bright pink edge. It’s a really practical illustration of how a ‘little-but-often’ approach can go a long way.

2. Work in zones

Tackling the whole garden in one go can seem an overwhelming prospect. But what if you were to split it into smaller areas, each of which you could treat like a mini project? This would allow you to assign a timescale to each discrete zone, making the prospect of tackling the entire space far less daunting, as you’ll no longer feel it needs to be accomplished in an instant transformation. “Never take on the whole garden at once,” writes Alys Fowler in The Thrifty Gardener . “Start from the back door and work outwards.” This approach also has the benefit of ensuring that you always have something cheerful to look out at from your window, rather than having to peer down to the end of the garden to see the point at which chaos gives way to order.

3. Get tidying

This one sounds incredibly obvious, but it makes such an immediate difference. When we’re suffering from garden inertia, it’s often the case that our outside space can become a little...cluttered. Particularly true for those renovating a new house, when you soon find out that the garden can absorb a huge amount of stuff that you really don't want to be looking at all the time. And it’s true, gardens are great storage areas, but really... that’s what sheds are for. That pile of bits and bobs you've been meaning to take to the dump? Nine o’clock, this Saturday morning – make a date and just do it.

4. Use Freecycle 

For large, and not so large stuff that you really don't want any more. It’s amazing what people will gladly take off your hands, from old bricks, hardcore, wooden palettes to larger garden buildings. Several friends have spared themselves the effort of having to dismantle and dispose of a greenhouse that’s in need of some TLC by advertising it on freecycle, whereupon they’ve been inundated with people only too keen to take it off their hands. So, find your local freecycle group, and join up. The only hard bit is deciding which of the many responses you receive will be the lucky winner of your old shed.

5. Throw a party

It can’t be denied that sometimes there is just too much to be done without help. I’m a firm believer that that’s what friends are for. It’s hard to overstate the good will generated by a group of like minded folk coming together with one common aim, and if you can provide food and drink in exchange for an afternoon of your friends’ labour, I guarantee that you will achieve a huge amount in the time, while creating an occasion to look back on with fondness. Surely one of the very best things about a garden is that it is a space in which happy memories are created. If the weather’s up to it (and it should be if you’re asking a load of people to come over and work outside), a barbecue is ideal for this. Just make sure the gentlemen in the party concentrate on gardening, rather than fire making. Ugg*.

Have you come up with strategies of your own for overcoming inertia in the garden? Leave a comment below or tweet @growgardencare.




*A shameless instance of outrageous gender stereotyping. But not necessarily inaccurate for all that.

Alarm call

Hmm. Looks cold up there. Might stay under this leaf for a few more days.

A blackbird is singing outside my bedroom window. The morning creeps into the room, a faint grey glow seeping around the edges of the blinds and pooling in the corners where wall meets wall, and the sound of birdsong, gentle at first then more insistent, draws me into consciousness. Hurry, it is day now. Quick, now, quick! Spring is on its way.

And, spring is on its way. February is come, and suddenly, just when we thought winter would never end, we’re more than half way through, and hellebores and snowdrops, eranthis and crocuses are forcing their way out of the ground to shake themselves out of slumber. There’s more wet stuff on the way – another nasty front coming in tonight if the forecast is to be believed. But the birds are singing, the bulbs are up, and I’ve got a spring in my step this week.

Regreening the front garden...what to do about block paving. 1.

Somebody has stolen my front garden. Where once there would have been lawn, borders brimming with flowers, a functional but nonetheless charming path to the front door and a low wall with railings to the street, there is now an expanse of characterless block paving and a dropped kerb. And we’re not the only ones to have become victims to the front garden thieves  – there’s a rash of it breaking out along our road, and the word on the street is that it’s a phenomenon that could soon reach epidemic proportions across the nation.

Perhaps I overdramatise; this isn’t something that happened overnight – in fact, the block paving’s been at our address longer than we have, and the absence of the original front garden was not a sufficient obstacle to prevent us from buying the house which we chose to make our home. But this fact doesn’t prevent me from gazing with slight longing at the gardens of the few neighbours who have managed to resist the lure of a paved frontage, nor from feeling alarm at the ever increasing number of homeowners who are choosing to grub out all plant matter and cover over every inch of bare soil with paving from one boundary to the other.

You may ask, what’s the big deal? Most houses with front gardens were built at a time when levels of car ownership were significantly lower; it makes perfect sense to use this area for off-road parking and, quite apart from which, who has time to tend a garden in the front of the property as well as the rear? All of which are perfectly valid points, which would appear to suggest that paving over a front garden is an entirely logical solution to a modern day first world problem, perhaps even a socially responsible one, as we opt to park our vehicles within the bounds of our own property rather than clutter up the public highways.

So why am I getting myself so worked up about people paving over gardens? I have reservations about the trend continuing along the current trajectory, for reasons both aesthetic and environmental. Let’s deal with the effect on the environment first, something which has been thrown into sharp focus on several occasions in the UK over the last decade, most recently with the very recent weather patterns we’ve been experiencing since Christmas.

The main issue here is one of urban runoff; the more we pave over land which, left in something approximating its natural state, would safely filter, capture and direct rain water, the more we put ourselves at risk of flooding. This is a state of affairs only exacerbated by the apparently irresistible urge of house builders and planners to construct developments on floodplains. Building and planning regulations now make reference to the permeability of hard surfaces, but in practice this is little more than greenwash, and while everyone who knows about these things agrees that building Sustainable Urban Drainage Systems (SuDS) into our towns and cities is a great idea it has yet to become a legal requirement, with government and industry wrangling over who’s going to pay for it. Currently, the financial cost of ignoring these best practice technologies is being shouldered by the insurance trade, while the emotional cost weighs heavily on those families and business owners who become victim to the inevitable floods.

Against this background, I can’t help wince at every front garden I see being paved over.  Perhaps this reaction is caused by frustration and moral outrage at the environmental cost – that would be the noble explanation. But I think it’s at least partly because I think so much of it just looks awful.

I don’t have anything against block paving per se. I just wish it wasn’t quite so ubiquitous, and that more installations sought to add interest by incorporating a greater variation in texture, whether by using a wider palette of materials, or by including planting areas, from more traditional raised beds for flowers and or shrubs or – I don’t know – perhaps ground level gravelled areas for mediterranean type plants. Just something to break up the monotony of relentless, often deeply unlovely paving. As for the pavers themselves, it would be encouraging to think that some thought could be given to selecting materials and colours which complement those used for the house itself. I don’t think it would be too much to ask that these considerations be made statutory requirements, and that any householder or landscaper found flouting them be whipped naked through the streets as a warning to others.

As someone who has acquired a paved driveway, there’s one more niggle – the maintenance. I realise that this is a particularly personal point of view, and that the time spent looking after a proper garden in front of the house would be far greater. But keeping block paving in anything other than a frankly derelict condition (and I have tried this as an option) requires periodic pressure washing and redressing with sand, and either a frequent application of herbicide or a several hours of shuffling along on your knees pulling weeds and grass out of the cracks. None of these are activities which I find particularly nourishing to the soul. And it’s so – well...not-green – that it almost makes me weep. 2014 then, I have decided, is the year in which Something Must Be Done.

In a series of posts of which this is the first, I don’t plan to make a case for or against paving front gardens, nor am I intending to explore the countless different options available to a householder considering a redesign of this space. What I will be doing – because this is the position in which I find myself – is considering ways in which to bring some green life back to what in many cases is an unwelcoming, bleak and sterile area.

And so, approaching the front door and looking with some dismay at our drive, I find we’re faced with the following options:

1. Clean it up.

2. Dig it up.

And then, possibly a third:

3. Something else.

It’s that ‘something else’ that we’ll be deciding upon over the course of the year. I’ll let you know how it’s progressing in the next post.

Further reading

Guidance on the permeable surfacing of front gardens, Environment Agency, 2008

Spaced out: perspectives on parking policy, RAC Foundation, July 2012
A report including statistics on domestic parking space across the UK

SUDS, What’s it all about? pavingexpert.com, last accessed 28 January 2013

UK’s front gardens paved over for parking spaces, The Guardian, 18 July 2012

43 reasons not to pave, Ealing Front Garden Project, last accessed 28 January 2013

New planning regulations for front garden paving, Healthy Life Essex, last accessed 28 January 2013
A good general summary of the issues, legislation and technologies available, with some design ideas for front garden space.

Sustainable Urban Drainage System (SuDS) rules: delays could leave developers high and dry, Mondaq, December 2013