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

The little things

Last Monday morning, a mad dash to Wisley where, in addition to charging up Battleston Hill for one final look at the Henry Moore sculpture before it departed, I was bound for the alpine area. An interest in alpines is something I’ve managed to avoid cultivating for many years but, with a creeping sense of inevitablity, it would appear to be taking hold. Is it age, I wonder? Surely not maturity – I do hope not. But perhaps there is some truth in the notion that while a person might be tempted into the garden by the big and the bright and the blousy, it takes time to develop even so much as an awareness of stuff you’d normally walk on, let alone to marvel at the tiny architectural perfection of these diminutive plants.

As with so much in horticulture, this is an area in which I’m almost entirely ignorant. Fortunately Wisley provides an ideal teaching resource so, macro lens at the ready and already anticipating a memory card full of wide-apertured, poorly focused shots, I set off to capture at least a few images that would be worthy of keeping; to examine, and prompt further research. Here they are.

Do please leave a comment below if you’ve any wisdom to offer on any of the plants in the pictures.

Saxifrage, I think. Possibly S. x petraschii

Um...I’m going for campanula

Look at this! Fab colour, well, beige I suppose! So tactile, I love it.

I’m a mug for an epimedium. I think I saw this at Chelsea in the pavillion last year.

I absolutely fell in love with this one...

...and here, a bit closer in. Look at that geometry! And the flowers...

At this point I was getting concerned that a saxifrage obsession could be in the offing

The Cretan Brake Fern, Pteris cretica 'Wimsettii'. Looks like bagged salad. I like it.

Look at those trumpets! PAAARRRPP!!

How perfect is this Oxalis palmifrons from South Africa?

Neat, tribble-like mounds of Acantholimon everywhere. Love the paper thin petals.

Too much of a good thing

Within gardening, as within many other areas in life, it is perfectly possible to have too much of a good thing. I was reminded of this truism as I stood in the woodland garden this morning, surveying the luxuriant layer of fallen oak leaves clothing the ground. Hitherto I have waxed lyrical about the wonders of leaf litter, the benefits of a humus rich soil and the various shenanigans entered into by the detritivores and decomposers who chose to make their home (not to mention their dinner) in these layers of our garden ecosystem, and nothing I’ve recently encountered gives me cause to gainsay such reasonable utterances. However, all things in moderation. It would seem that the autumn of 2013 was not only a bumper mast year (see this post here for an account), but also one in which every tree decided to complement its prodigious crop of fruit with leaves produced in such generous abundance it bordered upon hysteria. These, having at last been shed by the oak trees – which become untypically coy towards the end of the year, revealing their naked forms at the latest possible moment – are now lying several inches thick upon every horizontal surface in the woodland area. This is a part of the garden which, while making no claims to be a naturalistic setting, is nonetheless a very pleasant spot in which to walk a while and ponder; its dappled light, subtley different climate and unique soundscape offerring an intriguing change of pace from the rest of the garden. Of course, it also provides environment in which plants more at home in shadier, less exposed situations can thrive.



Perhaps I am more at home in a woodland setting than anywhere else, and I find things to delight me here in any season; the cathedral like hush under the vaulted green ceiling in high summer, the low sunlight slanting through the branches in autumn, the stark, graphic monochrome stage set in winter. Mosses and lichens and ferns all year round. And spring has its own particuar magic in a woodland setting, as light levels increase, the ground warms up, and the canopy overhead has yet to fill in and filter out the suns rays. At that time, snowdrops, hellebores and epimediums rule the garden unchallenged against a backdrop of marbled cyclamen leaves, in the humble company of early-flowering Ranunculacae; brash celandines or more bashful, delicate wood anemones paying tribute to their larger cousin, the Lenten Rose.

But all that excitement is s a few weeks away, and before then there’s last year’s leaves to remove from the hellebores, and a bit later a similar exercise to carry out on the epimediums; not to mention vast quantities of the afore-mentioned oak litter to cart off to different areas of the garden.

Not all of this is strictly necessary from a horticultural point of view. Emerging shoots will have more than enough oomph to push through the insulating mantle of soggy leaves, and fresh spring flowers will be supremely unconcerned about sharing the stage with the previous season’s vegetation. These hellebores are healthy and as yet show no signs of the blackspot fungus Microsphaeropsis hellebore which does require old leaves to be removed and burnt, and so the exercise here is carried out largely for aesthetic reasons. My clients quite like to be able to see what’s emerging at this time of year, a preference which seems quite reasonable to me. Anticipation is a huge part of the joy of gardening – never more so than during the winter months – and who would deprive themselves of a few extra days of delight by forcing their plants to remain hidden that much longer under superfluous inches of decaying sludge? Not I.

Lurgy on hellebore leaves at Wisley this morning. Just for reference, you understand.

Passing over

The wind sounded like the sea this morning. That wide-throat white-noise roar of rollers beating themselves on the beach, somehow echoed miles inland by air raking through bare winter trees, singing the telephone wires, bursting out into wide gardens through the narrow alleyways between houses, and breaking in waves on the lawn.

It is oddly mild and, muffled against the gusty wind in the not quite light I can see that the ditches though full are not overflowing, and the fields are largely free of surface water. The ground is nonetheless saturated, every air pocket and worm worn burrow awash. The worms themselves, lacking lungs and unable to drown, can stand a week or two of being submerged and wait it out patiently, five hearts beating time away till the waters recede and the soil returns to a more pneumatic state.

The forecast for Kent suggests that we may be nearing the end of this chain of rotten weather systems. I’ll dare to hope that these winds blow the rain heavy clouds away as predicted and give us at least a few days of relative calm, before – who knows what? Maybe we’ll be next in line for the freezing conditions presently gripping the east coast of the US. Maybe we’ll just be in for traditional mild sogginess, but a chance for the ground to dry out would be just the thing.

In the meantime, I’m taking great comfort in the clouds passing over, happy to let the boisterous winds blow these last few weeks away.

Floods and frosticles

Awoke to frost, and finally it feels like winter. God knows we’ve had enough of mild and wet days, particularly here where storms and flooding have taken a harsh toll over Christmas. The river is bound by its banks once more and neighbours are starting to return to sodden homes, allowing us to welcome the most decorative incarnation of the third element with a combination of gladness and relief.

Fields that only a few days ago were under several feet of water have now drained, crisp tussocks of frosted grass receeding into the distance in the morning sunlight, instead of a stretch of eerily silent water. Things, it would seem, are getting back to normal; pasture and gardens will survive relatively unscathed, and the amazing resiliance and cheerfulness exhibited by even our worst affected neighbours suggests that it will take more than tempest, storm and flood to subdue the holiday spirit in this part of Kent.

26 December: Boxing day floods

29 December. Business as usual, albeit frostier

Cold and crisp in the garden this morning...

...and just as nippy in the fields

All this being said, I can’t escape the feeling that last December’s Frosticles were more impressive.

Planting hedges in the mist

The shape slumped in the doorway was unrecognisable in the early evening gloom. Reversing the land rover onto the drive, I allowed a minor curse to escape me, directing it towards remote sensor for the porch light which since the start of the recent damp weather spell has been working only intermittently. I’d been expecting a delivery but had left instructions for it to be left around the side by the log store, so The Shape by the front door was either what I was hoping for, but in the wrong place (a minor thing), or...something else. It was not something else. The shape in the porch was a large polythene sack containing 50 bare-root yews and an assortment of similarly naked dogwoods. In essence, a nascent wood, in a bag. Just add soil.

The yews I had ordered for a gap-toothed hedge which I’ve been looking forward to rectifying all year, while the majority of the dogwoods, Cornus alba 'Sibirica' AGM, were destined for a particular long border in the same garden, red stems forming a rosy thicket about the large-lobed, rusty winter foliage of Hyndrangea quercifolia. Come spring and summer we can look forward to the leaves of the dogwood – a green of particular freshness and intensity – providing a backdrop for the white pyramid flowers of the hydrangeas. These shrubby cornus species are not grown for their flowers, unlike their more showy cousins (the kousas and the floridas, for example) and, while the flattish florets of creamy white flowers and blue berries are incidental as a garden spectacle, they are welcome all the same as an interesting detail and an additional food resource for birds and insects.

Cornus alba 'Sibirica' in early spring

Frosted leaves of Hydrangea quercifolia

The final occupants of the large plastic sack – a handful of Cornus 'Midwinter Fire' – are to find a home in our own garden where over the years no doubt we will increase their numbers with hardwood cuttings. I remain entirely unapologetic about my love of a bed full of fiery stemmed dogwoods over the winter months; the more I can cram in to the allotted space the more content I feel about the prospect. There are plenty of other views within the humble plot that excel in presenting monochrome vignettes in drabs and browns, and so it’s welcome to have a splash of flame at this end of the year to echo autumn bonfires and the more distant, hot colours of late summer blooms.

Thick mist lay heavily across the wealden landscape the next morning, and persisted for most of the day. Perfect conditions for hedge planting; the ground damp but workable, water hanging thickly in the air all around, like a fine persistent rain, but one in which on closer observation the droplets of water appeared reluctant to obey the laws of gravity, seeming to travel sideways as often as downwards, and apparently even upwards on occasion. This is a garden on a high ridge where often it’s unclear whether a cloud has descended to envelop the hill, or the mist has risen to achieve the same effect but, whatever the cause, I knew there was little need for concern that the young sapling yews would lose moisture through their bare roots while they waited to be lowered into their planting position. In any case, immediately upon removing from the plastic sack, each fresh batch of ten plants was plunged into a large tub of water to help rehydrate them after their journey from the nursery’s fields at the other end of the county.

Bare-root hedging plants are tough as old boots, and native plants such as yew have formed part of our familiar hedgerows for centuries. With relatively small plants such as these (60cm in height), a perfectly acceptable way to plant them is to make a ‘slit’ in the ground with your spade, rocking the handle to enlarge the opening and then, once the spade has been removed, to insinuate the roots of your plant into the hole to the same depth as the plant had been grown in the field (the mark between the aerial and the subterranean parts of the plant is quite apparent once you get your eye in), finally closing up the hole with your booted foot. For several reasons, I don’t use this method, trie, tested and ‘old country’ as it may be. Firstly, actually I find it a bit of a faff. Secondly, I’m not usually planting in an open field, but often in areas where previous plantings have had to be cleared. And thirdly, while I know there will be a pretty good success rate with plants grown in this way, somehow it doesn’t feel like a particularly auspicious beginning for a garden feature you’ll be looking at for decades to come. Planting a long line of hedgerow as a field boundary would be an ideal time to use this slit planting method but, in a garden, I like to be sure that everything I plant gets off to as good a start as possible. I include a couple of soil conditioning products; a handful of bonemeal as a slow release organic fertiliser, and also a sprinkling of myccorhizal fungi – sold under license by the RHS under the brandname ‘Rootgrow’ – over the roots. This fungi forms a symbiotic relationship with the plants via its roots, exchanging nutrients taken up from the soil through the fungus’s wide network of hyphae with sugars synthesised in the plant. My usual method is to sprinkle a small amount over the roots with the plant in its final position before backfilling the planting hole, although I noticed in this pack that the manufacturer is now including a sachet of a wallpaper paste like substance (actually, I think it might be wallpaper paste, hopefully without the anti fungal additive) which can be mixed with the Rootgrow crystals in a bucket to form a dip for the roots.

Yews planted and trenches backfilled, I mulch with well-rotted manure – compost would do if it’s not too weedy, otherwise it largely defeats the object, which is to supress competition from weeds while the new hedge is getting established); likewise woodchip would be fine if, again, well rotted, as fresh organic matter will rob the establishing hedge of nitrogen. There is just time to plant the cornus at the top of the garden, as the sun begins to set and the mist starts to thicken, visible across the valley like a white, fluffy sea surrounding islands of bare trees.

And then all of a sudden the mist is gone, and golden sunshine glints and sparkles from a million tiny lenses on dew laden grass and leaves. For a moment, it is breathtaking, and I remind myself; this is my office. What a lucky so and so.

Lords and ladies

The first week of December and, rather late to the party, Arum italicum makes an appearance in the garden, just as everyone else is leaving. So late in the year is its appearance that one could almost consider it indecorously early for spring, but advent has barely begun and we should really be on the other side of Christmas before we can even think about such things.

Of course, the plant in question has not been absent from our gardens throughout the rest of the year. In spring its pale green spadix is a feature of damper, shadier spots, and the short ankle-height columns of orangey red berries are a familiar site in gardens and woodland in autumn. The berries are highly poisonous and will cause breathing difficulties from irritation to the tongue and throat. Now, from among the detritus of the year, dark green leaves emerge on the floor of the garden, marbled with bold tracings of ivory. It’s a reminder that nature never sleeps; we express our belief that throughout the winter months she is at work beneath the soil, plumping bulb and swelling root, and the faithful are rewarded with signs as miraculous as these, unfurling, richly luxuriant while all around is pale and limp and dead.

A very good friend has a ‘rude border’ in her garden, for which I periodically supply plants whose names appeal, for all the wrong reasons, to those with minds that might obtain puerile amusement from such things. Here specimens such as horny goat weed (Epimedium spp.) and Rubus cockburnianus have found a home; I am not quite certain, but surely she will have included a plant with such a variety of lewd references amongst its common names. Arum italicum is known variously ‘Lords and Ladies’, ‘Priest's Pintle’, the ‘willy lily’ and, my favourite, ‘Cuckoo Pint’ - a reference to the fandigulare of the male bird. Having never knowingly been in the vicinity of a gentleman cuckoo's undercarriage I find myself unable to comment on the accuracy of the likeness, but posterity in its wisdom has chosen to preserve this particular nickname, and so we can consider it safe to assume that at some point in history a person, or persons, who were in the position to make the comparison found it an apt one, and so made it.

Arum maculatum shares many of the same features as its showier cousin. Its large mid green spear-shaped leaves lack the attractive marbling, but are handsome nonetheless. It also shares the same common names, and is consequently equally qualified for my friend’s garden.

Manure for the garden: a fundamental matter

Not quite seven in the morning, and I’m on site to make preparations for an early delivery. The faintest glimmer of daylight fringes the trees bordering the fields of the stud farm opposite, but nearer to hand the tarpaulin laid out over the drive bounces the harsh brightness of the security lights about the garden. A slightly surreal, not-quite-half-light time of the day and on the chillier side of mild and dry – which is very good news. As with most garden tasks it’s possible to do this job in the wet, but a day without rain makes for a distinctly more pleasant experience. All is set; I pour myself a large mug of tea from my flask and walk across to the lane outside to await the arrival of the tipper.

Ten minutes, a mug of tea and sixty quid later, I have what I came for – a significant heap of chocolate brown horse manure, shrouded in a haze of steadily rising steam, and a warming morning’s work ahead of me. There’s about three cubic metres of manure to move, roughly two and half tonnes depending on the water content. Experience tells me that it will take three to four hours to shift it, depending on how far it has to be barrowed, and longer if it’s to be immediately used to mulch borders already stocked with plants. This lot is destined for a temporary location between the compost heaps and the bonfire.

The going is soft, if not sodden, and I wear a trench in the turf as I go. This part of the lawn will need some remedial treatment, aerating and topdressing in order to relieve some of the compaction caused by repeated trips made by a stout gardener and his heavily laden wheelbarrow. But that’s a job for another day. This is lovely stuff from I source that I trust – well rotted, mainly crumbly with the odd pocket of really rich gloop every few shovels fulls – let’s not be coy, we are talking about horse shit here, but it doesn’t smell, as indeed it shouldn’t. Given a horse’s largely hay-based diet there’s little if anything to be squeamish about; just processed, rotted down vegetable matter that will do the garden a world of good. Wheeling each successive load past the borders it is pleasing to think how much the garden will benefit from a generous helping of the gardeners’ black gold.

I use an annual dressing of a manure for two main purposes. Firstly as a mulch, which suppresses weeds, both warming and insulating the soil and having a pleasing aesthetic effect of providing an even dark tone against which the plants can stand out. Secondly, I add manure as a conditioner for the soil. Not as a fertiliser – the nutrient content of well rotted manure is rather low (slightly higher for horse than cow manure, not nearly as rich as bird guano which is a phenomenally good, natural fertiliser) – but as a material rich in organic matter which the soil flora will process in short measure, turning it into rich humus, aiding the ability of the soil to retain moisture in dry spells whilst also creating a favourable soil structure with the kind of friable texture envied by those whose unmanaged clay flip-flops from waterlogged in winter to rock hard in summer.

If I’ve managed to convince you of the benefits of manure for your garden, you may have a few further questions, which I'll endeavour to answer. Do please use the comments section below this post if you have any queries which aren’t covered.

Where can I get hold of manure for my garden? 
The most obvious place is probably your local DIY shed or garden centre, most of which sell well rotted farmyard manure in large bags. This is probably the most expensive source.

Should you have the time and the inclination, many stables and horse owners are only too keen to get rid of their manure for free, and a phone call from a gardener in need is often met with a positive response. It is highly likely that you’ll be welcomed in to help yourself, meaning you’ll have to shovel, bag and transport it to your garden yourself (bring bags and tools). For anything other than small quantities, this can be very time consuming, though the benefit of an unlimited supply of free mulch and soil conditioner may outweigh the inconvenience. Some kind owners even bag the manure themselves and leave it for collection, for a small fee – look out at the roadsides when driving through Kent; we’re not short of stables.

If you have the space and the cash, the best option is to find someone who will deliver a load for you. I found my supplier through the supremely uncomplicated approach of a google search. It often works out more affordable if you can find a local farmer or stables who will deliver, rather than opting for one of the commercial ‘bulk bag’ operations. This tends to be good stuff, but not the cheapest.

Should the manure smell?
Well rotted manure, which is what you want, should not smell at all. If it does have a whiff, then the process of decomposition is still going on and you will need to leave it in a heap until this has finished, or else it will rob your plants of valuable nutrients and possibly cause plant tissue to burn (rotting involves an exothermic i.e. heat generating process).

Should my manure contain straw?
A small percentage of rotted down straw is acceptable, and indeed inevitable when dealing with the product of mucking out, but you don’t want too much. Any lumps which have yet to finish decomposing I leave in a heap or put on the compost. Undigested carbon, which is what straw consists of, causes essential nutrients such as nitrogen to be ‘locked up’ by the microbes involved in decomposition, making them unavailable to your plants.

Should my manure contain a stirrup/random bits of tack?
Not really, though it’s happened to me more than once!

What equipment do I need?
A good shovel is essential. Don't try to do the job with a spade, they are about half the size of a shovel and have no sides so stuff falls off the edges. Buy a lightweight shovel, you don’t want to add to the weight of what you’re lifting with the weight of the tool.

A wheelbarrow, likewise, is an obvious requirement. One with a big tub, preferably made out of composite (plastic) material rather than metal, which is lighter and just as strong. A pneumatic tyre, suitably inflated, will relieve stress on the joints, too.

A tarpaulin is a very good idea if you are having the manure delivered. It can be spread over your drive or lawn where the heap is to be tipped, and makes clearing up afterwards so much easier. Get the biggest size you can, it’s frustrating when the footprint of the pile turns out to be larger than the tarp.

A lightweight, long-tined compost fork is great for spreading the mulch out when you’ve got it to the final location.

How should I shovel?
This is important, albeit a bit of a nag. Keep your back straight, bend your knees, and keep your core (stomach) muscles engaged i.e. tight. It sounds silly, but try to move gracefully and in a flowing motion, and watch out for obstacles that might catch the shovel and cause jarring to your body. Sloppy shovelling, as with lifting, can cause you painful persistent back and joint problems. Of course, the best way to shovel anything is to get someone else to do it.

How thickly should I mulch?
There is little point in doing things by half. To be effective, mulch needs to be applied at a thickness of no less than three inches, preferably four inches (10 centimetres) or more.


Other mulches, and a warning for dog owners
There are of course other materials that you can use for mulching, many of which will eventually rot down to become incorporated in the soil, although only garden compost will do this with anything like the speed at which manure decomposes; this might be a benefit or a drawback depending on your point of view. In fact, compost generated from the garden is the most desirable material for mulching, being free, and having the benefit of returning to the ground much of what has been removed, although many if not most gardens are unable to produce it in sufficient volume to be used to without adding to it from external sources. The various other mulching options could form a blog post of their own, but I will just say there is one material I absolutely won’t use as a mulch on any garden – cocoa shells, which in spite of its eco-credentials as a by product of the food industry contains dangerous levels of theobromine, potentially fatal to dogs in reasonably small doses. Even in homes without dogs, you can never be sure if friends will visit with the family pet, so I would rather err on the side of caution.

fundament 

noun

 1 the foundation of basis of something

 2 formal or humorous a person’s buttocks or anus

Oxford Dictionary of English