Long Term Plans…

It’s still all about trees here. Last week the oaks, this week, the orchard.

Orchards are funny things. I’m not sure how they can be mysterious and wholesome at the same time: homely, yet uncanny, but they are. Perhaps it’s their ancientness that whispers in even the jolliest of hollows, or perhaps it is the fruit with a star at its heart.

 

Rushed apple star illustration with added coffee spillage :/

I am cultivating a mixed orchard at the moment, eschewing the problems of which local apple variety to partner up with, in favour of tidying a more pressing problem with saplings in the lawn: the littered offspring of the old damson tree. It’s a project I’ve been working on for a couple of years – as all tree projects are – it leads me to thinking about time in abstracted ways. You’re free to think meanderingly when you’re working with trees – you’ve really got the time!

Tree work is a strange change of pace from the usual tasks which, more often than not, involve a dilapidated something cleared up, or a wild patch cut away (a mythic hero’s journey in bramble-form: lo, through the impenetrable darkness came the gleaming blade of a pair of secateurs…)

But working with trees is slow.

It’s a thorough lesson in patience, and putting reigns on the temperament of your thoughts.

I would have thought it would suit me, since I’ve always been naturally inclined to the big picture anyway (I tend to think in terms of ice ages rather than current affairs), but because I am working with ancient, native deciduous trees – monitoring sapling that won’t change for years at a time, or transplanting the children of fruiting trees who may not even prove to fruit themselves – it feels a bit scary.

The whole thing is a gamble, a lot of the time.

I find myself pondering outlandish scenarios, like passing the apple seeds through the digestive tract of a bird rather than potting them up on windowsills, to best replicate the way trees manage in the wild. But this leads to all sorts of delving questions about which animal is the best propagator of apples in the Sussex wilds, and whether or not a person can simply… borrow such a creature and have it relieve itself in one’s chosen spot…

This passes for the very cutting edge of horticultural thinking round these parts, and I wonder if I’m not over-complicating things somewhat. This sort of thinking is what the Winter months are for, surely?

 

 

There is a twist to this plot – warnings for mild peril ahead – the poor old damson tree is not well taken care of, and after the hard winter, a forced cut-back, and a flowerless Spring, this year heralded virtually no fruit. Not enough for even a single pot of jam, which is sad. I miss the rituals of this time of year (not so much the infuriating jar sterilising, more the harvesting with homemade baskets, like Ratty, Badger and Mole from Wind in the Willows). I feel the success of the tree’s offspring has a certain urgency to it, which does not sit well with the overall glacial pace of the endeavour.

In an ideal world, I would be content with nature’s ideas about sending an army of mini-trees out across the garden, but sadly, it’s not my lawn to give over to the wild.

Apparently living in the ancient and mysterious midst of a boozy fruit grove isn’t everyone’s idea of a blissful garden. Go figure.

 

The Wassail (Charles Rennie Mackintosh)

The Wassail by Charles Rennie Mackintosh

 

 

15th Feb 2018

made by nat

Updating your wish list on a cold and unforgiving afternoon.
The crows sit hawing in bare branches, the melancholy buzzards search for blue in the sky, the mice squeeze under the gap in the back door and are swiftly ushered out with brooms before they meet the cat.

It’s not that you want to wish away the chilly season by imagining yourself elsewhere, in another time and climate, but a nice hot drink and a seed catalogue can bring a little relief from the sheer hard work of mud.

Instead of footprints, we leave wells behind us, from which the geese drink happily in the evenings, their keels dropping lower and lower; their interest in long grasses getting keener than their interest in food. We’re all in preparation mode. Endless pots of tea leaves go out onto the roses – not that they seem to need it.

All the roses flowered rambunctiously the whole of last year, so much so that I had a thought when I sat down to contemplate what new things to grow – to see about making the most of what the garden was already happy to give me in absolute abundance.

A note of gratitude to my loyal garden friends before sharing my greedy little wishlist!

210420152957

Forget-Me-Not spreads like wild fire, every year a new patch, always popping up in inexplicable places. There’s nothing sweeter than that soft blue cloud, (that dear colour, that celestial center) and because I love them, their rampantness feels like an absolute blessing. I couldn’t be happier.

So I’m imagining entire beds of Forget-Me-Not from Spring right through Summer, too cool tired eyes with soothing pools… and it’s true they might threaten to strangle out the rest of the season’s plants (Forget-Me-Not’s leaves are more or less evergreen as far as I’ve experienced), but I do a bit of thinning, or I pot them up and keep them out of harm’s way, and when the season’s over for the rest of the plants, I pop them back in and let them multiply. Madness, I suspect, but I’ve no quarrel with them at all.

The roses too love our clay, and so I invested hard during the off-season sales (you can still get your hands on some wonderful off-season bargains now), and I am all-in with roses. Standards, climbers, floribundas, shrub, miniature…

Last year, our 3 yr old stock bloomed from the end of spring until the end of the year – without exaggeration, we had white roses and pink superfairies for the Christmas day table!

I’m going to make roses a part of this year’s design, because it would be very rude not to.

140220188447.JPG

Here’s the view I’m concentrating on first. The all-important view from the kitchen window. If the kitchen is the heart of the home, then the view out has got to inspire love – it’s got to keep you ticking. I don’t know exactly why this is so important to me, probably representational of some deeper meaning, but it’s become an obsession.
So here are some of the plants I’ve been investigating:

Carpets of Colour

The moss garden directly under the window (still a little on the bald side as yet) needs to segue naturally into the planting, and given its typically native feel (native holly, damson trees, Ivy, dafodils etc), I want this transition to be both colourful, but also gentle. But I also live with a couple of people who are NOT fans of the cottage garden look. Luckily one of them is obsessed with woodlands, so I have a direction I’m allowed to explore.

My wishlist consists of purpose-plants rather than ones I’ve fallen for in a personal, dreamy way.

Before I show you my current scrapbook, I am well aware these are ‘weedy’: liable to self-seed and (many of them) creep wildly. As I’ve mentioned before, things where we are don’t take much persuading to go feral, so I’m taking a risk introducing these plants. But I have a cunning plan…

For now, I’ll just indulge.

 

Michaelmas daisy, Erigeron Profusion, Centuarea Montana, Clematis Integrifolia, Malva Moschata ‘Snow White’, Cornflower ‘Trailing Blue Carpet’ and Dwarf Blue Midget, Dianthus Deltoides ‘Microchips’, Stachys Byzantina ‘Lamb’s Ears’

Here’s another kind of wish list to cheer a grisly afternoon:

BOOKS

I love it when other bloggers recommend books, my wallet not so much…

  • A Thoughtful Gardener, Jinny Blom
  • Landscape of Dreams: The gardens of Isobel and Julian Bannerman
  • Natural Selection: A Year in the Garden by Dan Pearson
  • The Japanese Garden by Sophie Walker
  • Head Gardeners – Ambra Edwards
  • A Wood of One’s Own by Ruth Pavey

 

For all the cold, it’s still an atmospheric time of year.

The flowers about to bud, green shoots rearing their brave heads above the parapet, a sense that no-one quite wants to be the first, but they just can’t contain themselves anymore.

Although I’ve learnt to go into making yearly seed and book purchases with a VERY strict shopping list, I know I’ll end up with a few adult plants as well. All the preparation in the world can’t help you when you fall head over heels for something.

Discipline, determination, a very strict shopping list… and some paving slabs made of good intentions should do the trick.

8th Feb 2018

Plotting, planning, projecting…

There’s so much to think about.

We look out at the garden in winter and feel a funny sort of ache – and it’s not just a pining for our sleeping plants, or to get out there and back to our beloved work, it’s also because pretty much all there is to see at this time of year are all the things we’ve yet to realise.

A garden in winter looks like 100% potential. Potential is an invitation to dream! And for those of us of a compulsive nature… there’s a lot to think about…

yeshi-kangrang-258234.jpg

When I talk about this garden as a challenge, I do not use the term flippantly. There are no small projects here. We are on the edge of wilderness, the wild plants here are old and tenacious. Introduced plants quickly turn feral if you’re not careful. Everything is always hanging on the cusp of going wild, so if you don’t mind your plant choices very carefully, the garden will rise up and eat you. So every season looks rather like nobody ever bothered…

And on the flip side of that is what I’m going to share with you now: the areas I have barely even started on. The places which will look at their absolute worst. I put myself up as a kind of cautionary tale of what might happen when your gardening ideas run up against nature at its most… argumentative.


 

I have 4 very specific projects this year:

1.

What can only be described as a thicket of Buddleja and Snowberry. I regard both these wonderful plants with the greatest respect – the bees and other bugs love them, the birds make nests in the snowberry’s twisted boughs, and in the brown mirage of dullest winter, those pink-white froths of berries make all the difference, and they’re a staple Christmas table decoration. But this particular part is so old and overgrown that the centre of the thicket is in fact quite dead.

This was such a mess last Summer!!

It stands in by far the sunniest patch of the garden, growing fatter and fatter, and taking over precious space.

So, alas, it must be tamed. It’s not going completely, but in its space I want the new vegetable patch, and fruit trees. The sun gets so hot in this little trap that last year I couldn’t work out there in daylight hours. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s quite true.

So my plotting here is first a thorough clearing (I have done this before, and the roots of these two plants are, to put it mildly, tenacious. It’s not quite horseradish scale, but I’d say it took a good three years of re-sprouting each season for me to finally clear the whole lot). I will try to take the healthy stands and replant elsewhere since they make such a wonderful screen, and we are be-neighboured on many sides.

I’m also in the lovely work of plotting a new vegetable and fruit garden for when this plot is cleared.

2.

The Awkward square: this is a rather special patch of the garden. It used to look like this:

310720175774.JPG

That’s honeysuckle, brambles, a bay tree, a damson tree, all left to wilderness – to the frogs and toads and birds. But it blocked out the light.

This was more than a gardening job, I might write about it one day.

But for now, I’ll tell you the basics. From the kitchen window, you can now see out. The damson trees are still formidable, the bay tree still stands, I cut a path last autumn – rediscovering a winding, lovely old crazy-paving path that was laid by a family friend back when I was a child, who isn’t with us anymore and is deeply missed, now it leads down to a bedraggled bed, and viewed under the arch of the tree’s boughs, framed by its tilting trunk, it makes a nice window view – but none of it’s yet working harmoniously.

I planted daffodil bulbs around the tree’s base, and some plants like foxglove and giant allium under the window so their purple heads will hopeful bob up just into sight, and I’ve rescued the honeysuckle to train, and have other scented climbers in incubation, as it were. But my main ambition for this awkward sunken square is something a little tricky…

moss-1839826_960_720

Yes, moss. This will either be a stunning success or an unmitigated disaster, but the vision I’m toying with images of spring bulbs, native wildflowers, summer perennials, scented climbers and a wild moss ground cover. I’ve no idea if it will work because this little square suffers from both flooding AND drought, depending on the season. But I’m going to try…

3.

The compost suite. I can’t even talk about this, It’s been talked about for so long. All the problems in this plot of land have to do with letting nature do as it may, and trying not to be destructive, but the gardener in me is not actually a passive custodian of wild things, because the gardener wants to make things and shape things too. This clay land can be unforgiving, but it can also be an embarrassment of riches, but you must have organic matter, and you must have it on constant supply if you want to make a clay patch work for you. I’m hearing a lot about a no-dig strategy, but I wonder how much money is then spent on top soil or the equivalent, because here, that cost is by far the biggest cost in the garden.

So. Big plans.

4.

The gardener’s retreat.

310720175753.JPG

This is a complete indulgence, but this old shed which houses machinery, and some old furniture and some very old artwork of mine – and of course two cantankerous geese in the side house, and a log pile and crippled old lean to on the other side – is my little side project. No-one knows what I hope to do with this, but I hope to do it before the summer. The lean to will be a potting hut, and a neatly organised store for pots, recycling materials, any wood I find which I will always find use for. The shed itself would make a wonderful home for a design table…

I’m sure I’ll get caught out before I manage it but winter is all about dreams.

Grab a hot drink, and start dreaming

Such a beautiful moment, a rare gift of pure, guilt-free indulgence, when the garden is sleeping and its barren beds and occasional hardy shrubs offer you something of a virgin spot. It is yours to shape, it is your manufacture of paradise. Whatever you dream of – soft edges, wafting flowers, tall hissing grasses, or bright water – this is one area of your life where you can probably have just about anything you want.

Sometimes plans start with a very specific job, like my list above. That list of must-do’s sits alongside a bigger plan for a more cohesive experience of the space outside, and I suppose that’s where we get into Garden Design territory.

I’ll always be considering these three things when I stat wok again this year:

  • Convenience
  • Views
  • Immersive experience

I want my new veg patch in the sun, and not so far away that I can’t maintain or access it in a daily-use fashion, but I also don’t fancy looking out at it all the time – a veg patch can go through periods of not looking that attractive. I like creating specific views from specific windows in the house, so I’m going to have to think hard about where this veggie patch goes.

This brings me to views. I live with other people who are very into green. They like looking out on calming, shifting shades of it, and don’t want that interrupted with colour. Therefore, I have some very real restraints on my compulsion to plant and grow. This isn’t a bad thing, but it does require planning. I have big plant aspirations this year, but they still have to fit with other people’s experience.

The immersive experience is how I like to be in the garden. I’m a fan of hidden surprises: I cut pathways through hedges, I fashion surprise space you wouldn’t know were there until you explore. I like to plant this way too, with native woodland plants accenting whatever I plant so that you always feel like you’ve wandered into a particularly magical part of the natural landscape. It’s not always been successful – weeds quickly overpower this planting style, things can go wrong and I’ve planted for a design in Spring that looks very odd in Summer, etc etc.

I’m also thinking very carefully about the senses for this immersive experience of the garden– you can’t fight the weather in England, you have to work with it, so for those rainy days, I want broad, robust leaves that describe that gentle drum in a woodland of water falling on greenery. For the windy days, I want grasses, and things that release their scent best when getting a bit of a battering. And for those strangely blistering summer days we’ve been having in recent years, I want shady spots to sit and basking plants to look at – generally cool colours; lavenders, Thyrsiflorus Skylark, alpines (the candy-striped blue Lithodora White Star is a charmer, with its highly visible star shape sprinkling about on a hot day), etc.

There is also the matter of making the most of what you have.


My one top tip:

If there’s one thing that makes ideas easier to realise in a three dimensional space, it’s got to be drawing.

A rough plan is good, but a detailed plan can make the difference between something looking a lot more sparse than you thought it would, and something that flows and settles well. A basic understand of drawing to scale – even i it’s only circles and oblongs – will go such a long way….

Practice drawing

Lots of people don’t bother trying if they already think they can’t, but drawing for function seems to encourage even the most artistically-phobic to put some time in with pen and paper. Sometimes you go into great detail, other times it’s a matter of instructive lines. I think of the act of drawing plants as sharpening observation. When we sit down and really look at a plant, we start to make discoveries, about its seeds, or roots; which insects frequently drop on it; which may be living their microscopic lives within the hairs of its leaves, and all this information comes back to us when we don’t even realise we need it.

Leonardo,_Blumen.JPGLeonardo Da Vinci – the nature detective!

When we observe very closely, we follow the natural inclination towards curiosity, problem solving and attention to detail. These things are exactly the stuff that experienced gardeners are made of. And it’s doubtful I’ll ever absorb the kind of deep, instinctive knowledge from books in the same way that naturally becomes ingrained when I really get to know plants.

So drawing will certainly help visualise a design more accurately – scale, volume, pattern – but drawing will also help the molding of what every gardener probably hopes for:

You graduate from remembering, into knowing.

Drawing your plants is also a very nice way to occupy restless hands during the winter – especially when it’s snowing!

I’m making portraits of my Mystery Iris for posterity, (though my primroses have shown up my rustiness, where the simplicity of irises is a tad more forgiving…)

Does anyone else have any whopping projects waiting for them when the weather lets up?