Christopher Lloyd 1921 - 2006
I felt on hearing of the death of Christopher Lloyd that I had lost a very dear friend.Of course I had never met him, but such was Christo's personality that it shone out of every word he wrote. I felt that I knew him and loved him after reading the first few paragraphs of "The well tempered garden"!
Of course, much has been rightly written about his second-to-none gardening expertise and literary style and I nod enthusiastically to all of it, but for me what made him so special was his great love of life, his ebullience, his humour. This was infectious and was obviously what surrounded him with so many devoted friends.
Over the years I have found myself dipping into my library of Lloyd titles not only for some nugget of horticultural advice, but often as not, simply to be cheered up! I end with a couple of quotations from Christopher Lloyd's gardening year: Of February - "If it is mild you may be sure of hearing the wiseacres telling us that we shall pay for it later. Well, there's not much we can do about that, is there, whether true or false? What they quite forget is to revel in the moment, accepting it for what it is. Dire events never take pessimists by surprise but they refuse to be caught up in the joys of living."; Of May - "those who sing the praises of May most highly are the same who revile autumn as depressing. But I think if you have a gut sympathy with the natural cycle of the year, the charms of autumn are as vital as the forward impulse of spring."
Thank you Christo.
August 2004
New residents to report in the wildlife garden! A couple of weeks ago while adding kitchen waste to the compost heap I was delighted to see a beautiful slow worm gliding out of sight! This was my first ever sighting of the species which my reference books tell me is now becoming rare and whose diet I was delighted to learn consists largely of slugs!
Notes from the August garden
It happens every year and I know I should be ready for it, but somehow I'm not and there I am right in the middle of it - The July Gap!
Really, it can happen any time from the end of June to the middle of the month and it's a time - probably the only time in my gardening year - when I PANIC! Sometimes my panic turns to despondency and I feel that the garden will never look good again.
"What is this July Gap?" you ask? Simply a brief time when the garden is changing over from its early summer garb to its high summer clothing. The oriental poppies have finished and been cut down, the first flush of Spanish poppies, hardy geraniums and ox-eye daisies has passed, wallflowers and tulips have been swept away.....Yes, I've planted up the borders with exciting things to see us happily through the summer (and the lilies have yet to open) but....but, the slugs are eating the nicotianas and the dahlias, the ricinus are sulking, the cosmos wants to flower at one foot tall instead of four, and I can't help it, I just PANIC!
And then, a morning arrives as July passes into August, a morning after a night of gentle rain, and I stand transfixed. Suddenly, the garden has matured; battles with slugs, sulky plants, dwarfish plants, marauding chickens (yes, chickens!) and squirrels with horticultural leanings have all (for now) been won. The lawns are green and fresh, the plants look happy, lush and active with many flowers and (better still) many buds. There are still plants on the cusp of taking centre stage - phlox, clematis, dahlias, asters and (my big hope for this year) ipomoeas. I can relax and let the garden lead us through the last summer months contentedly into autumn. And next year I won't panic....promise!
Notes from the June garden
The garden at the beginning of June is brimming with promise - a time of great excitement. Although I don't entirely agree with the old adage that it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive, there is certainly a special thrill in seeing buds on the cusp of opening, especially when on a plant grown from seed and tended carefully for years until it has reached this magical moment! However, amongst all this upsurge of growth, my current favourite part of the garden is the 'woodland area', which is at its mature best right now. Beneath a large oak tree which marks the garden boundary I have placed a simple seat made from a wooden post and I try to make time every evening (around six o'clock when the sun catches the foliage in just the right way) to sit there to enjoy the scene.
The young lime-green leaves of the oak contrast beautifully against the blue sky and closer overhead the long darker leaves of Buddleia globosa join with a Rosa rubriginosa (the sweet briar) to make a canopy. I have tried, with my plantings near the seat, to stimulate the senses, thus the lovely stewed apple scent of the rose leaves (especially after rain) and later the round, orange, honey scented flowers of the Buddleia. Also, frothing around the seat so that one almost sits on it is Galium odoratum (sweet woodruff), both leaves and white flowers of which are fragrant. I have also tucked in at the base of the seat a wild strawberry plant (Fragaria vesca) but so far the birds have beaten me to the delicious little fruits!
As I sit on the seat I have a border on each side of me, both of which come under the protective shade of the oak tree. I have chosen, therefore, shade-loving plants which, at the moment, are revelling in the showery conditions. The stars of the show, of course, have to be the Meconopsis, the thrilling electric blue of M. grandis and the various deep and light rose shades of M. napaulensis. I save my own seed of these and find that if sown fresh they germinate very readily. Mixing nicely with these I have Geranium phaeum known as "the mourning widow" because of its very dark maroon downward looking flowers. Like all the hardy geraniums, it responds well to being cut right down after flowering, quickly re-clothing itself with another flush of blooms. I have two other geraniums here - G. sylvaticum with sky blue flowers and an unknown variety, a cutting of which I snaffled from a garden that shall not be named! This is a sweet, compact plant with flowers of a very pale pink and deeper pink buds.
Two plants that are particularly suited to woodland conditions are Tellima grandiflora and Tiarella unifoliata; coming from the same Saxifragia family, both have scalloped leaves, the Tiarella's being lighter green than the Tellima's, the latter having beautifully formed pink flowers and the former, elegant white racemes. Both of these plants are thriving in my shady borders. Rubbing shoulders with these are Thalictrum delavayi and T. speciosissimum; both do well in shade and even seed around. T. delavayi has delicate aquilegia like leaves and fluffy pink flowers, growing to around four feet tall. T. speciosissimum has beautiful glaucous foliage and yellow flowers, growing slightly taller than its companion.
Weaving amongst all these, many self sown, are Hesperis matronalis (sweet rocket), aquilegias (many and various!), Meconopsis cambrica (Welsh poppy) and Dicentra formosa (bleeding heart). Later on in the summer, this area will calm down as the soil becomes droughty and the leaf canopy denser, but by then my attention will (hopefully!) be on other delights elsewhere in the garden and my host of woodlanders can rest until next year.
Notes from the April garden
The garden @ Padley Wood, as I have mentioned before, was established many years ago by my grandparents. and being of 'a certain age', it has naturally accumulated a fair number of , to quote Christopher Lloyd, "passengers". "Passengers" are plants which, whilst being robust in their staying power, contribute little or nothing to the overall garden picture. It is very easy to let the eye skim over these spongers when taking in the general scene simply because they have 'always been there'. I try not to let this happen, however, and this month is an ideal time to check over the ancient daffodil clumps. It is surprising how many amongst the various narcissi planted in the borders by my grandmother are now no longer flowering but still produce enthusiastic clumps of space-stealing, slug-hiding leaves without failure each year!
I now have a method of dealing with these: I dig them up carefully, separate the congested bulbs into smaller clumps, and transfer them to a piece of wild ground elsewhere, making sure that they are planted deeply when doing so. At least 95% will flower the following spring, making a pleasant daffodil glade and leaving my borders (not really the place for daffodils anyway) free to be planted up with something a little more interesting!
February garden
Snowdrops are a big feature this month. Ours are mainly the common single Galanthus nivalis but we do have a few of the pretty "double" variety. They were all well established (by my grandmother) when I took over the garden but were in need of splitting up and re-planting. This I did over the course of a few springs, planting clumps of bulbs (still in leaf, just after flowering - what the experts call "in the green") amongst my Frensham roses which are just sticks at this time of year and in fact anywhere where there was a space. I try to split the clumps every year otherwise they quickly become congested.
We have two varieties of Hellebore which are coming into their own around now - H Foetidus and H orientalis. The foetidus should flower next year as I started them from seed last spring. They already have attractive pinnate foliage which is a very dark green and which nicely highlights the cup shaped light green flowers (when they arrive !) The orientalis are now in the process of opening their buds revealing their slatey purple flowers which peep shyly down at the soil and need a finger under their chins to make them look up at you like a demure maiden. The foliage of H orientalis by January is usually looking rather tired and ragged and does nothing whatever for the flowers so I therefore carefully cut it away leaving just the flower stalks, being careful not to accidentally cut away a fat bud at the same time causing as Christopher Lloyd puts it "Wishful regrets"....
Over the past few weeks in spells of more clement weather I have been cutting the meadow grass hard back with a pair of good sharp shears. This is a necessary and very satisfying job that serves two purposes - firstly it lets the light into the clumps of emergent cowslips (and their various hybrids) that are dotted amongst the grass and secondly, and perhaps most importantly, in clipping the grass and diligently removing the cuttings, I am reducing the fertility of the meadow, thus curtailing the rampant growth of the grasses (which were once part of an ordinary lawn) so that various wild flowers can get a foothold.
Another important job that I always carry out at this time is clearing the pond of weeds and other plant debris. This neatens the area up and clears the stage for the spawning frogs who will hopefully soon be splashing and croaking in the shallows.
Inside the house, the propagators are back in place, the first tiny seedlings are showing and Spring is definitely in the air!
The December Garden
A quote to begin, from my favourite garden designer, Dan Pearson - "It is all too easy to view winter as a time of hardship, the barren season. The daylight hours are short, the sky a continuous grey that can seem at times to be hovering just out of reach. From the warmth of inside, the garden can appear to have reached stasis.
The garden is, in fact, the very thing that will entice us outside to experience the potency of this season. Braced against the cold and engaging with the garden's new incarnation, it becomes clear that this is just another period of flux. It is a slumber, not a deep sleep."
I love our garden in winter just as much as I love its opulence during the summer. Assuming that I have kept up with my winter tasks, December is generally the month when I take the most pleasure in the austere forms and low-light colours which the garden provides.
Take, for instance, Christmas day. Whilst we have dinner we can see through the window, the low winter sun shining through the many Stipa arundinaceas, turning them to burnished copper, each blade of this beautiful grass seeming a slightly different shade. I have also planted the red- stemmed Cornus alba (alba because of its white berries) to mark the boundary between the front and back lawn areas. This comes into its own at this time of year when the afternoon sun slants across its carmine framework of stems.
Dominating our Christmas dinner view though, is my favourite tree Crataegus 'Paul's Scarlet' - the double pink hawthorn. Now in its stark winter garb its twisted trunks can be fully appreciated. It is a tree of real character and loved by more than just me- its branches constantly play host to blue tits, great tits, chaffinches and sparrows and the squirrels use it as part of their highway to their dray in the the nearby Lawson's cypress.
A post dinner walk around the garden will reveal many plants which I have left in order to enjoy their winter skeletons and to provide seed for birds in harsh weather. These include Inula magnifica which even improves as the weeks pass becoming bleached like pale straw by the time I cut them down in late February. Phlomis Russeliana is particularly architectural with its clusters of seed heads evenly spaced down its stems. Contrasting with this is its neighbour Foeniculum vulgare purpurea - the bronze form of fennel with its flat delicately separated heads.
In the wild garden I leave most plants to their own devices till early spring when I tidy up. Here there are many seeds for foraging birds on plants such as ragwort, meadowsweet, purple loosestrife and globe artichokes. I am always conscious of hibernating creatures such as frogs and toads when I am working in this area especially near the compost heaps as a thoughtlessly wielded fork could intrude into their winter quarters.
Just a taste of what December has to offer the gardener; it is a time to stand and stare - enjoy this sparse and beautiful season.
November in the garden
This is the time of the year when I like to strip the garden down to it's bare bones. It is a testing time for any garden, a time when we see all too clearly whether we have a garden or a piece of land.
Perennials which have long since finished flowering and have no more to contribute to the scene by way of architectural form are cut down as flush with the ground as possible, there being no beauty in three inch stubs of old stems.
Tender perennials of which I am increasingly fond, have to be uplifted now before the first serious frosts can harm them. Some of these which are only borderline tender go into the greenhouse where they should be fine with only the additional help of horticultural fleece in really hard weather. I am also keen on some plants which come into the properly tender classification - for example, Cannas, Dahlias, Lobelias tupa and fulgens "Queen Victoria", tender Salvias such as microphylla and this year I have a very nice foliage plant with fern - type leaves called Grevillea robusta. All of these need to be kept totally frost-free so they are uplifted and placed in pots of slightly moist potting compost before being brought into the house where they are stored in an unobtrusive corner thanks to my understanding (and long-suffering!) partner.
Padley Wood was not given its name in idleness - it was created from a wood (incidentally belonging to Sir Robert Padley and originally part of Sherwood Forest) and we are still blessed with many trees both in the garden itself and on its outskirts all of which enthusiastically contribute to the November workload by their sometimes sudden, sometimes gradual shedding of leaves. Up until this year I have raked these up and stacked them to make leaf-mould, however, this year I am simply adding them to the compost heap to be mixed in with all the other garden and kitchen waste.
November, then, is a very busy time in the Padley Wood garden - a time to tidy, protect and collect!
Beehive installed!
My dad kept bees for many years, having half a dozen hives at the peak of his honey-making days. I grew up loving both bees and honey and I don't think I was ever stung, always keeping a respectful distance from the hives.
Now in his seventies, dad has given up the business of honey production (which was a labour-intensive job) and sadly, the bees have, after a steady decline over the years, now all gone. From the crumbling remains of the old hives, I have managed to resurrect one reasonably intact one that I have been working on over the winter.
It is now in place near the compost area and only needs a lick of paint and a nail or two to finish it off. I hope to attract any stray bees that may be looking for a new home, to come and live here. I don't want to take their honey, merely enjoy their relaxing, buzzy company! So watch this space for news of any new guests!
April
One of the busiest times of the year in the garden!
Seed sowing continues apace, as does pricking out of seedlings into trays to grow on in the greenhouse. Problems always occur at this time, mainly due to lack of space for seed trays (I need at least a second greenhouse!) Also, I never seem to have enough potting compost and am forever buying in more.
In my earlier horticultural days I dabbled with mixing my own compost using soil and sievings from the compost heap. Something, however, always seemed to lurk within the mixture (slugs? wireworms?) and eat the delicate seedlings overnight.
Out in the borders plants are growing vigorously, as are the weeds, (merely plants in the wrong place) so I also have to give my attention to these.
Never any time to be bored in the garden!
Seed propagation
Spring begins sometime during the last week of January when the electric propagators are brought out. One is a standard windowsill type device, but the other is an ingenious concoction I have fashioned from an old heating tray of the type used in brewing beer, and a clear plastic "meat drawer" which naturally found no place in our fridge! The drawer fits nicely over the tray, forming a very effective and much-needed second seed-raiser.
At the time of writing (late February), both propagators are in full swing and our living room windows are rather chaotic with pots of seedlings. Our greenhouse (unheated) will bear the brunt of these later on but at present, it is still too cold even during the day for delicate seedlings to be transferred there.
Once things warm up a little, I take most of the pots all on one big tray (one which once housed pork pies and was then used by children for sledging down a nearby hill, and later salvaged by me!) into the greenhouse during the day where they will get much-needed light and (hopefully) warmth. Before things cool down in late afternoon, I then bring my youngsters back into the safety of the house.