July 10th

We are not amused.

It is too hot.

I am an English gardener, not a sun worshipper – not a sitter-on-beaches or a basker-in-parks interloper. I should be at rest only during the harshest winter (after a long year’s work), and yet, here I am, not in the garden…

I hide in shade or lurk in cold baths, flashing mossy fangs at people suggesting social events during daylight hours. I don’t mind a summer thunderstorm – how can one resist the decadence of storms? When the cling-film sunshine is overcome by the velvet of actual weather? – But the sun these days is a bully.

Like the grass, I turn brittle in the heat. A newt left out on a paving slab. A dry seed-head rattled by the kick of a leaping grasshopper – legs scraping like nails on a comb. Everything papery and stubbled.

We islanders talk a good game about craving the sunshine, but we still need our regular watering…

I begin to dream seriously of Elsewhere.

 

The soul makes a katabasis. The mind dips deep below the surface, and in a cool place, shimmers. For everything there is a waiting time. Enforced stillness. Lessons whispered in the breath between phrases.

 

This, I suppose, makes the intensity lovely.

 

kenrick-mills-539240-unsplash.jpg

June 11th 2018 – Neglect

Let us swear an oath, and keep it with equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind…

Tennyson

 

A neglected garden tells its own story. Sometimes happy, sometimes sad. Almost always there is still beauty to be found.

 

April 26th 2018 – Intrigue and Mystery

As I’ve been investigating plant properties of late, and as I am something of a bibliophile, I’ve been nosing about all sorts of source material in my research.

From botanical journals to old wives’ lore, and those periodicals of note in between where plant and myth meet – the carry-on between thinking and planting is complex, and hearty.

The gardener might naturally take particular interest in any writings on nature, plants and the garden itself, but there’s always a new context to consider and steal from. Have you heard of a shadow garden, for example? A midnight garden? A physic garden in the front, with a hawthorn portal into various alternative dimensions in the back..? I mean, the design potential is inexhaustible…

I came across a concept recently, which I’ve doubtless read a hundred times before, but for some reason (probably my parallel literary research) it’s got my creative juices flowing.

This was the idea of something called The Hallow.

‘The Hallow is an old concept that retains the idea of an ancient center of equilibrium. It is unchanged by anything that has ever had contact with it […] No theology, religion or spiritual system has ever influenced its existence.

‘The Hallow stands between the material reality and non-material reality. It is neither, and it makes it possible for both dimensions to interact without collapsing either one.’

Raven Grimassi

Well, colour me intrigued.

tiago-vasconcelos-167677-unsplash

Ideas and concepts about in-betweenness – the liminal, the uncanny, the unnamable, the abject and obscure – have always been a personal fascination of mine (my favourite art is that which either manages to, or at least tries to, express the inarticulate). But the idea of this as a place is just thrilling. Especially as a place you can access! Not so much go to, perhaps, but draw from. What a sensation!

And it makes perfect sense.

Have you ever found yourself lost in a wild place? That sensation of being very much somewhere – surrounded by the natural, the real, the solid, the temporal – yet the creeping fear comes from a sensation of exactly the opposite?

gede-wirahadi-pradnyana-232440-unsplash.jpg

Gorgeous stuff.

Never judge a book by its cover! If you’re into plants, you might as well go really into plants. Good luck with it!

(As an aside, if you’re interested in gardens you can truly get lost in, I’ll be posting something about a genuinely terrifying garden at the weekend if I get round to it!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 19th 2018 – Bliss

Well, a blistering 26 degrees isn’t exactly seasonal for an English Spring – but who cares, when you can throw off a bad day along with your shoes and socks and glide blissfully into lush grass, with the hidden kiss of cool clay on your naked feet…

I am never more aware of how very lucky I am, or how gentle life can be, than when I sink into the garden.

And this week has been all about the benevolence of the garden, as I’ve been researching the healing properties of bitter plants. Hopefully I’ll get a more detailed post up at the weekend, but I couldn’t let today go by without a few cool-hued photos for anyone feeling the heat!

 

 

 

 

April 12th 2018

Apologies, dear reader, for missing last week’s posts – I have but two words by way of explanation: root canal.

As someone who has spent more than their fair (time)share in the dentist’s chair, it seems anathema to civilised society that one should have to pay so much money, to have so much pain inflicted on them.

But every cloud, as they say…

With another few hours ahead of me tomorrow, I can crack on with garden reading. I was going to say something about calming frayed nerves, but perhaps that’s a little close to the bone…

IMG_9521
As ever, the garden herself offers much in the way of soulful comforts.

IMG_9483.JPG
Of course, you take the rough with the smooth.

A goose beheaded a couple of tulips – but I daresay she had no idea I’d been waiting so many months for them to arrive.

And since she didn’t actually eat the damned flower, I can only hope she meant to take it as a gift for her broody sister who is currently refusing to leave her nest. I’m sure it ended up trodden into a puddle of s**t quite by accident…

 

Anyway.

There are flowers in the garden!

We have blossom in the Japanese garden:

IMG_9478.JPG

 

Star magnolia (magnolia stellata) being all stunning and beautiful (this one’s had a troubled past – it’s a veritable garden hero!):

 


The star theme continues rather decoratively in the little centres of the Forget-Me-Nots. These native superstars romp along in joyful abundance in our garden. I admit, I can’t actually remember when they hit their best (I recall blue skies above and blue clouds below, but not the temperature for clues alas), but I know they’re on their way to blooming into full carpet, because the advance guard have started to arrive, in an extraordinary range of blues, pinks, and purples…

Sadly my camera battery was failing as I took these, but I think you can still just about see the promise. Blue will follow, but the early flowers in our iron-rich clay are girlishly demure…

I can’t wait for those effulgent clouds of blue to erupt and take over – the anticipation is definitely half the fun!

To be honest, most of the garden is a frightful mess. (The moss garden needs a good weed… like everywhere else!) All my energy has been going into the hedge-gone-wild, because I don’t just want to cut away the dead, I want to try and transplant the healthy plants to other areas, and that’s both time-consuming and rather hard-going.  To quote an Orc – ‘the trees are strong, their roots go deep’.

I don’t go to the gym, I garden…

How are you all getting along now the Winter King has finally unleashed his worst?

 

 

March 29th – Easter week

Everyone’s getting excited about the Easter break – a beautiful four-day holiday. Gardeners all over rejoice…

I’m trying not to over-plan it. Instead I’ll enjoy the opportunity for seasonal reflection.

 

annie-spratt-71677-unsplash

 

Easter as a holiday gets a bit of an ambivalent response, I’ve noticed. It’s not the big annual blow-out like Christmas, and it doesn’t have the party spirit of Halloween. I’ve always thought it was a bit mysterious: for a start it shifts around the calendar so you always have to ask someone when it’s going to happen. It’s all linked to the moon, which adds to the silvery elusiveness of the whole affair.

You also have the deeply somber mood of Good Friday, which when we were little was somewhat laden with doom as we expected the sky to go black at about 3pm, and I’m sure I’m imagining it actually doing it – but Friday was spooky and glum (my sort of day altogether) when you have to eat special food and not go anywhere.

 

jonathan-smith-348603-unsplash.jpg

 

Saturday is plonked in the middle with nothing happening, then Sunday is the Spring festival in all its glory.

Never mind Easter Egg hunts, it was the Easter tree I looked forward to: a branch of something like willow brought into the house and hung with little painted eggs, surrounded with bunnies and treats That tree became very important to me: the old green corduroy fabric Mum used to lay out to look like spring hills; the miniature birds’ nests and fuzzy yellow chicks…

 

micheile-henderson-548405-unsplash

 

I’m not sure what the weather’s got planned this weekend, but as long as we bring Spring inside, I’m sure we’ll capture the strange Easter spirit. And before Sunday comes, I’ll take the opportunity for some deep inward thinking.

I’ve always thought it’s important for seasonal celebrations to reflect the darker, quieter, sadder aspects of life as well as the fantastical and joyful. We can never suppress the minor key altogether – think of all the beautiful melodies we’d lose out on if we did.

 

 

 

 

8th March – Inspiration & Design (featuring Ishihara Kazuyuki’)

 

I’m putting this piece under ‘jobs for winter’ because I think finding inspiration is an important way of staying in touch with the garden when you might not be spending a great deal of time physically in it.

I know I’m not among a minority in the gardening community who feel more peaceful and restful and content out in the garden than anywhere else in life. The winter months can be particularly hard on folks for whom the garden is a soothing retreat. Sometimes you have to generate that peace and connection in other ways, and I find even just looking at gardens and plants can help keep the inner glow alight.

One designer I never get tired of looking at, is Ishihara Kazuyuki.

 

Gosho-No-Niwa-No-Wall-No-War-01Gosho No Niwa / No Wall No War

 

Everyone knows Kazuyuki from the Chelsea shows if nowhere else, and it’s not difficult to see why his gardens are always so popular. I have heard criticism that they are too traditional for some tastes, but I don’t personally see them through that contextual lens. I see exquisite, thoughtful, eloquent planting, and a wonderful flourish when it comes to materials and palettes. There are certainly echoes of a certain aesthetic and philosophy, but in those very elements are the un-traditional and the down-right bonkers.

Here are my top 5 passions for Kazuyuki’s designs:

The Master of Moss

 

Gosho-no-Niwa-no-wall-no-war-13-1024x768.jpg

 

This image, taken by Caroline Banks, proves there is no bad view to these gardens. This is the ‘back-side’ of No Wall, No War, and the intricacy of it is staggering, considering this is not the part that wins the prizes.

Moss is a prime ingredient to a Kazuyuki garden, and its effects are manifold. From softening architecture in Togenkyo, to creating bold new textures (which almost err on the side of a humorous and childlike fantasy landscape), to filling the senses with absolute unequivocal green, moss is both a foundation and a highlight: the reliable staple and the star of the show.

 

togyenko.jpgTogyenko

 

A Room of One’s Own

 

chelsea-17-ishihara-1-1466x977.jpgImage from gardenista.com

 

I mean, you couldn’t design yourself a more ideal writing room!

But more than a garden with a bench or a seat, these designs fully incorporate the human into it. In times of trouble when nature is always being held aloof from us in a kind of ‘look what we’ve done, this is why we can’t have nice things’ telling-off, it’s wonderful to see we can have a place amongst natural, growing things which is harmonious and inviting.

Slightly elevated both for our viewing pleasure and to reassure with the sense we’re not disturbing anything.

 

Soothing Abundance

 

The multiple layers, the heights and depths – it’s hard sometimes to imagine these plots are often no bigger than a few squared feet, because there is, for want of a better word, coverage, and it is absolute.

 

 

 

The impression of centuries of established growth is automatically soothing. It feels like a garden which will always be there, cool, secluded, self-perpetuating. I think this above all the artifice in a garden is Kazuyuki’s real masterstroke.

 

Elementary, My Dear

 

The obvious elements and also the senses are all invited and stimulated. There’s nothing missing. But there is also a sense of ritual or worship – the arrangement of these elements like the points of the compass, or the carefully considered incantation on paper – that underlying sense of purpose creates a reassuring tranquility. You are gathered safely in, as it were.

 

Screen-Shot-2017-05-23-at-16.07.50.png

 

Harmony

The influence of Japanese gardens might seem very obvious, but these designs are perhaps what I always expect Japanese formal gardens to look like, which is why I feel faintly disappointed when I visit the real thing.

In actual fact, there is as much English tradition at work here as Japanese or Eastern tradition. And this is because some forms are universal. Garden fashions will come and go – and what a merry time we’ll have with all of them! But some things will always draw us close.

An abundance of green, some water, some coloured foliage and delicate flowers, and the soft velvet tapestry of moss… perhaps it is a return to woodland, or a culmination of all our most beloved things, I call it harmony because in a Kazuyuki garden, art meets nature and reaches out with a clear intention for the soul.

It may be a safe place, and a beautiful place, but I doubt we’re so far flung out in the world that these things could really be called bad taste.

I like to be challenged intellectually by art and design, but I will always return to this: the green and abundant home from which I came.

 

 

Three annotated images from gardens Illustrated:
(Words by Noel Kingsbury, photos by Claire Takacs)

1st March – St David’s Day

Remembering family

 

1871 The Welsh National Library

1871, The National Library

 

My memories of St David’s day throughout my youth are very strong: wearing my daffodil proudly into class (not the little silk charity pins you see today, back then these were giant fresh trumpets – about as subtle as Louis Armstrong’s, too). It was a great day: being special and different made me proud of my Welsh heritage. I confess, I was quite the show off in my youth…

 

annie-spratt-197098-unsplash.jpg

 

It didn’t strike me as odd until much later that my mother didn’t speak with the same Cardiff accent as my Grandma or ‘the aunts’ (my mother’s cousins). Perhaps it was the influence of my Geordie grandfather (six-year-old boy sliding down the stairs on his Grandma’s silver tea tray), or her Irish grandmother (a Catherine Cookson heroine in 1900s Cardiff, with a dozen children of her own and a dozen more strays that she’d pawn her winter coats every year to feed, and husband who could fix anything), that she ended up non-accented.

There were so many voices in my family growing up – so many feast days and special days, and so many accents from around the isles that none of them seemed out of place, or different… The strong, strange Norwich twang of my Great Grandma on my father’s side (everything a child could dream of, with her pirate’s cackle and her black eye patch and her dramatic flare and glamorous style: red blouses, black pencil skirts and short crepe jackets, well into her nineties, with black tights and lipstick, bright as you can, you’re never too young or too old to turn a head) – her husband spoke with a wasp in his mouth which might once have come out of a plumb, many years ago. Posh-drunk, I’d hazard a guess, they were the sort that had cocktails before dinner and put cloves in their apple pie instead of cinnamon, and everything reeked of TCP…  And none of the menfolk are related by blood on this side…  My Caterham-educated father who pronounces it ‘yesterdee’, and beer as ‘bear’ and still laughs at the memory of his beloved Grandfather farting and burping at the same time at the dinner table, causing his mother to have one of her conniptions…  Her husband, Hassan, the sound of his slippered feet (Egyptian leather, Egyptian cotton, the beautiful inlaid boxes of Pharaohs, queens and reams of unfathomable stories told over cushions, tables, ashtrays – an endless race of chariots through lotus grass…) the Turkish delight coiled in boxes he said were jellied snakes, and the way he pronounced words like Bela Lugosi, giving him the air of a cinematic immortal – accented splendidly by the music of his morning prayers coming from the mysterious room upstairs with the 70’s purple wallpaper…  a place never ventured into, but often imagined.

These strange family things, unique to each of us, might no make others smile the way our same-nesses do, but everyone a hotch-potch of relatives, like a garden of plants from all over the world, come together and somehow making a sort of harmony, even in the discords. These are our relatives, these are our funny memories. Not so much a family tree as a family border.

Time passes, companions and characters leave us, but every year the daffodils come, and there are a mountain of sugar-sparkled welsh cakes, a little blackened, but all the better. Nothing you’ll taste will ever taste as good as these…

 

010320188930.JPG

 

I remember my Welsh Grandma today, from whom I got my green fingers and makers’ hands.

 

Family, for better or worse, shapes you and lingers. Something strange happens as you get old, and all of it mingles into a honeyed recollection that doesn’t always preserve the bad quite as well as it does the good. Tears and bitterness fade, but the essence of strong wills remains and gathers admiration, and forgiveness.

Be happy and safe everyone, mind how you go!

 

 

22nd Feb – The Grain and the Punctum – thoughts in the garden

I mix things I’ve read up all the time. It doesn’t help when two ideas come from the same writer, and I jumble them into one concept, then spend a really long time searching my books for a very precise phrase I know I underlined in there somewhere – only to realise the quote was mine, the concepts yanked from several sources…

Anyway, I wanted to write about this thing in Barthes, and this thing in the garden, and how the garden and this thing together help me to better define something I’ve always found very difficult to articulate. It is a passion, a magnetism toward a certain aesthetic or quality in the arts…

That which suddenly pierces you with a sense, (I suppose akin to recognition or familiarity), between the body and substance of a thing… For example, the grain of a voice which connects you to a body and thus becomes dear and wonderful to you, even though it might not be ‘good’ in terms of musical tone. Or a texture, like rust or weathering which speaks of age, time, place, the history of the object which in spite of being an ‘imperfection’ or ‘defect’ is precisely what pricks you with a sense of value or meaning, or sometimes longing – what the Japanese refer to as Wabi-Sabi.

Hands by Axel Mellin

Sometimes I wonder if the drive to be in the garden, to be close to those growing things, the smell of the earth, the velvety tuft of moss, the tightening of the skin as mud dries on cheeks, knuckles, knees – if there isn’t something about the naked whiteness of exposed bulbs, like bones in the ground; the rubbery snap of roots pulled; the violent smash of the first water bursting out of a hose onto the little winding path – if all this isn’t just some strange kind of connection, between a meaningful puncture and the grain of all things…

It’s funny where the mind goes when you don’t get out enough…

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?