For the last three summers I have been growing airplants outside in the Jungle Garden. Secured to the branches of a tree in dappled shade, they’ve added texture and interest where otherwise there was little else to amuse. In spite of their small size they have always attracted comment: few people expect to see these naturally arboreal exotics growing outdoors in the UK.

Before taking the plunge with airplants I sought advice from specialist nurserymen, in order that that my alfresco experiment would have the best chance of success. Some varieties are better suited to our relatively cool, wet climate than others, so it seemed wise to ask someone with experience. Without exception the airplants I was recommended have done brilliantly well, bulking up into healthy clumps that have allowed me to create a more impressive display each summer. Rather than struggling, I find they perform better outside between the months of May and November than do indoors for the rest of the year. None of them has flowered, but that does not particularly bother me. I am sure they’ll bloom in their own good time. When they do it’ll be an extra treat.

Spurred on by my success with airplants (species of the genus Tillandsia) I decided to have a go with a couple of bromeliads. These seemed very happy in a warm, sheltered position by my outdoor kitchen sink, producing colourful flower spikes that drew much attention at last year’s open garden weekend.

When a third, bargain-bucket bromeliad found its way into the cleft trunk of my bay tree, an idea was born – the idea of creating my own ‘Tree of Life’. The tree would play host to orchids, ferns, creepers and rosette-forming plants, just as a rainforest tree might. My challenge was how to achieve this in a small courtyard garden on the eastern tip of England. By the time I visited Miami in April I had already resolved to make the Tree of Life one of my main plant experiments of 2019 and here, on the shady streets of Buena Vista, I found all the inspiration I needed.

Regular readers will recall that my usual airplant host tree, a handsome Santa Cruz ironwood (Lyonothamnus floribundus ssp. aspleniifolius), blew down in March. A new home had to be found for my collection, otherwise it faced a summer languishing inside. Over the years my Japanese green olive (Phillyrea latifolia) has become evermore beautifully branched. This seemed like the perfect time to start using it as a framework for tree-dwelling plants, given the canopy is now high and open, offering plenty of dappled shade beneath.

I quickly realised that in a bigger tree, three or four clumps of tillandsia were not going to make much of an impression, so I went online to buy a few more. Concerned that they’d all look a little similar in colour and texture, I wrote to Alex at Crafty Plants to enquire whether bromeliads might work in a similar situation. Alex recommended a selection from the genus Neoregelia, bromeliads which hail from the South American rainforests.

When my plants arrived they were a little smaller than I had anticipated. However they turned out to be the perfect size for the natural clefts in my tree’s branches. Carefully packed in with damp sphagnum moss, they held tight to the tree. The Beau directed me as I arranged the offsets in pairs, so as to give the impression they had sprouted on the tree naturally.

Still there were not enough plants to create the feeling of abundance and exuberance I’d witnessed in Miami, so I went online to find some larger specimens. From Fox Farm Bromeliads in Cornwall came three very choice neoregelia, two of which had roots and one of which was a freshly cut offset (neoregelia mainly use roots to anchor themselves to their host, rather than to absorb nutrients, so they are not essential for the plant’s survival). These new bromeliads with their reddish stripes and splashes were positioned higher up (cue an assortment of crudely psuedo-balletic poses to get them in place) where they would catch the early morning sun.

Placement done, it’s now a case of misting with rainwater throughout the summer and hoping they will grow a little. My earlier ‘plantings’ seem to be doing well, despite very little further attention. It has rained regularly and heavily through July, which has helped them to feel at home.

Purely for theatrics, I am tempted to add a couple of orchids ahead of my garden opening. I’m keen to avoid ubiquitous white and pink butterfly orchids, as they definitely don’t look like they belong outside: I can only push the tropical illusion so far. An orchid with smaller, spidery flowers would be just the job if I could find one at short notice.

Should you feel inspired to create your own Tree of Life, here are a few pointers based on my own experience:

1. Choose wisely – not all airplants and bromeliads are suitable for outdoor cultivation, even during the hottest of our summers. Those from higher altitudes where conditions are cooler and wetter will be better adapted to our climate than those from tropical lowlands. Seek advice before investing in plants and you’ll get the best value for your money.
2. Be patient – Don’t rush to get your plants outside in spring. Wait until both days and nights are safely above 10ºC, even if that means waiting until July. In autumn bring your airplants and bromeliads back inside well before the first frosts. They may grow slowly at first, but should take off after a few seasons.
3. Hold on tight – Epiphytes produce roots to anchor themselves onto trunks and branches. They need to be held firmly in place, in direct contact with non-peeling bark, in order to make a strong bond. Utilise natural clefts and pack with moss, or hold in place using string or soft aluminium wire. Avoid cutting into stem and leaves. Any movement will prevent roots from forming, so watch carefully to make sure plants are not disturbed or dislodged by rain or wind.
4. Get the light right – Living in trees, epiphytic plants tend not to be accustomed to direct sunlight. However they generally enjoy bright or dappled shade with spells of direct sunshine in the early morning or evening. Few will cope with deep shade or midday sun. Check when you buy your plants as their preferences may vary.
5. The right kind of water – Both bromeliads and tillandsia prefer rainwater to tap water. Although tap water might suffice in an emergency – certainly better than no water – it should not be used regularly, especially if you live in a hard water area as I do. If you are planning to grow a number of epiphytes, a water butt will be essential in order to provide a regular supply. Keep in mind that both groups of plants hate to be wet and cold. During a very soggy summer they may be better off indoors or brought into shelter temporarily until the worst is over. TFG.

Plant List

1. Tillandsia aeranthos
2. Tillandsia aeranthos ‘Bronze’
3. Tillandsia bergeri 
4. Tillandsia albida 
5. Tillandsia schiediana 
6. Neoregelia ‘Fireball’
7. Neoregelia schultessiana ‘Variegata’
8. Neoregelia ‘Atlantis’
9. Neoregelia ‘Kahala Dawn’
10. Neoregelia ‘Piemento’
11. Neoregelia ‘Treasure Chest’

And relax! After several weeks of intensive preparation, another National Gardens Scheme open weekend lies behind us. Rather like Christmas there’s an almighty build-up and then the event itself is over in the blink of an eyelid. In total we welcomed 440 visitors to The Watch House and raised just over £2000 for NGS charities. Our previous record was 300, so this is a fantastic result. Thank you to everyone who took the trouble to come along; we hope you liked what you saw.

There were a number of changes to the garden this year and this didn’t escape the notice of regular visitors. To begin with the famous Santa Cruz Ironwood (Lyonothamnus floribundus subsp. aspleniifolius) that protected the northern boundary of the Jungle Garden for ten years has been reduced to 8ft tall, revealing the poorly maintained building behind. It was, of course, a great tragedy when a storm felled the tree in March, but the garden has benefited enormously from the additional light. The shaggy red stumps are resprouting, but so far new growth is pale and sickly, so I am not sure it will survive. We have high hopes that a seeding tree tobacco (Nicotiana glauca) might give that part of the garden a different vibe in time. In the meantime I’ve stopped noticing the half-rendered, scaffolded eyesore behind the fence. I hope its residents enjoy the view.

We are fortunate that around half of our visitors return annually to see how the garden has developed. I am so flattered that people find the garden interesting and varied enough to come back for a second, third, forth or even fifth time, always taking time to share kind comments and make wise observations. Some recall the changes in position or performance of a plant better than I do. Nevertheless I feel honour-bound to ring the changes for visitors’ sake as well as my own. This year’s bit of horticultural theatre is my Tree of Life, an experiment with epiphytes in a maturing Japanese green olive (Phillyrea latifolia).

Naturally there were a lot of questions about hardiness and how to affix plants securely to a tree. In answer, none of the plants used are hardy enough for UK winters (including late autumn and early spring) so they will have to come indoors during the colder, wetter months. Attaching the plants to the tree was easy; they simply needed packing gently into natural clefts in the branches using damp sphagnum moss. So far, so good; they’ve stayed exactly where I put them. An occasional misting with rainwater seems to be enough to keep them happy during a dry spell. If you feel inspired to grow epiphytes outside in your own garden, just keep in mind that most bromeliads, orchids and airplants are accustomed to shelter and a degree of shade. They won’t last long in an exposed position.

The question I’m most frequently asked by visitors to the garden is ‘how long does it take you to water everything?’. The answer is about an hour each day in summer. Many folk blanch at that amount of ‘work’, but for me watering is one of the most relaxing jobs in the garden, permitting me time to switch off, observe plants’ growing habits and make plans for the future. It’s like therapy, only cheaper.

The Gin & Tonic Garden has never looked better and is no longer regarded as secondary to The Jungle Garden, by me at least. This tiny 20ft by 20ft space gives me more joy than I ever imagined it could. It’s absolutely rammed with plants, an intricate tapestry of foliage and flowers that looks even more wonderful from above. If ever anyone wanted to get an idea of the variety that nature has blessed us with, they could find it here. From the huge leaves of Entelea arborescens, Tetrapanax papyrifer ‘Rex’ and Zantedeschia ‘Hercules’, to the fine, feathery filaments of Acacia verticillata ‘Riverine Form’ and spiralling rosettes of Aloe polyphylla, a broad spectrum of plants is here to see in a space the size of my living room. Almost everything is growing in pots, including the trees.

The new fence, which we’re in the process of painting, has made the space neater and more private. It’s not solid so as to diffuse, rather than block the wind. Never shy of making last minute adjustments to the garden, I planted a clump of pink echinacea among a froth of fennel on Friday, thereby creating a square metre of prairie and another point of interest. The need for such tweaks comes into focus when the pressure is on to have everything looking its best!

After The Beau’s arrival, the house started filling up with plants almost as quickly as the garden. Our bathrooms now rival any of those showcased on the countless Instagram feeds devoted to indoor plants, hence I’ve not bothered to add mine to the melee. Every room at The Watch House is now home to at least one plant, most to several more. For me this isn’t a trend – I’ve always grown house plants – but it is an excuse to buy more. My houseplant habit reaches its zenith in the Garden Room, where I write this blog and occasionally work from home. Here in the cool I am surrounded by begonias, ferns, hoyas and streptocarpus, and by oleanders, pelargoniums and coleus. Foliage reigns supreme, but a peppering of flowers is permitted. There is always room for one more here and it’s the perfect sick-bay for any plant that might be struggling.

Opening one’s garden to this number of visitors over a short period isn’t possible without a considerable amount of help. A huge thank you to Jane B, Kris and The Beau for making a baker’s dozen of delicious cakes. Hat’s off to Sue, Karen and The Beau for brewing over 400 cups of tea, serving the aforementioned cakes and clearing tables. Three cheers for Jane S, Celia, Steve and Heather for selling tickets and explaining how best to enjoy the gardens. Finally, hurrah for the marvellous Scottish Sue who made sure that neither garden became overcrowded and for generally keeping our energy levels up. It was a fantastic team effort, as well as great opportunity to make new friends. As for Max and Millie, our beautiful pups, they are glad to have their garden back.

In order to save paper I did not produce a printed plant list this year. Instead I’ve spent several hours updating my Plant List on this blog so that it’s fully up to date. Should you have visited and spied a plant that you couldn’t identity, please drop me a line at thefrustratedgardener@gmail.com and I’ll endeavour to provide you with a name and a source.

We shall decide in September if and when we’ll open in 2020, so if you missed the opportunity to join us this year, hopefully there will be another chance in 12 months. If you did come along, I’d love to hear what you enjoyed the most and which changes piqued your interest. TFG.

Both gardens were overflowing with plants long before August arrived. There was a point at which getting from the garden gate to the front door was such an ordeal that even The Beau started to lose patience with me. At the end of July I reluctantly declared that I was going on plant diet, or, to be more precise, an outdoor plant diet since there was still a little space available indoors (this has subsequently been filled, as if you hadn’t guessed already). Like most diets, this course of action failed before it even got underway: new acquisitions veritably poured in following visits to various gardens and garden centres. I’m over the diet idea already. Storm and pestilence will soon manage the overstock situation back down, either that or I’ll go bankrupt.

In the meantime, here are eight new plants that I am especially excited about.

1) Impatiens bicaudata

I’m fascinated by this exotic-looking busy-Lizzie from Amber Mountain on the island of Madagascar, a place I once visited to marvel its extraordinary biodiversity. It was a very generous gift from Steven Edney at The Salutation in Sandwich following our visit last week. We spotted it at the back of a greenhouse and were immediately taken with the apricot and yellow flowers, which to me resemble little goldfish. I potted the plant up and put it outside immediately we returned home. Over the course of a couple of days the flowers became a much darker coral-orange, a natural response to cooler conditions which cause flower colour to strengthen in some plants. Although not frost hardy, Impatiens bicaudata is well accustomed to cool weather and it should grow nicely in the Jungle Garden for the remainder of the summer and autumn. Unusually for an impatiens, the main stems develops a thickened, woody ‘trunk’ over time, supporting a plant which could ultimately reach 6ft. Needless to say I’ve taken cuttings so that I have more of these next year.

The RHS website lists The Salutation, Plantbase and Special Plants as suppliers of this rare and unusual plant.

2) Impatiens kilimanjari x pseudoviola dark pink, low growing form

At the other end of the impatiens size scale lies Impatiens kilimanjari x pseudoviola, a plant which scrambles along the ground, rooting as it goes and flowering incessantly. As the name suggests, this diminutive busy-Lizzie can be found on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa. I’ve had the white version for many years, so I was delighted to discover that there was another colour to collect. Each tiny flower is a good, light magenta or dark pink, depending on your perspective, and they are produced in huge numbers all year round. Given how freely this plant roots I am amazed it’s not more commonly grown. Sadly Impatiens kilimanjari x pseudoviola is not quite frost hardy, but easily overwintered on a windowsill or in a cool greenhouse where it will flower its little socks off through the darker days. Pictured above with Solenostemon ‘Lord Falmouth’, one of my favourite coleus.

Recently purchased from Farmyard Nurseries.

3) Begonia shepherdii

I know a desirable plant when I see it. According to Steve Edney, the Plant Heritage ‘Plant Custodian’ for Begonia shepherdii, he’s offered only five of these lovelies for sale this year. For some reason Begonia shepherdii has become extremely rare in cultivation and now requires people like Steve to ensure it does not disappear altogether. Whilst prone to getting a little leggy (more material for cuttings I say!) This begonia is the prettiest little thing. Each apple-green, ivy-shaped leaf is covered with sparkling white blotches, creating the illusion of recent snowfall. And then there are single white flowers at the end of each stem. The overall impression is light and delicate, in total contrast to the bigger, beefier hybrid begonias I keep in my garden room. If more widely available I can’t see why Begonia shepherdii wouldn’t be a huge hit with the many houseplants aficionados out there.

Listed by Dibleys Nurseries in addition to The Salutation, where plants may be offered for sale when stocks allow.

4) Dahlia ‘Love Of My Life’

I’d resolved to reduce the number of dahlias in the garden as they don’t especially like the ‘packed in’ pot arrangements I specialise in. In truth I’d like nothing better than to have space to grown dahlias as they should be grown, with ample space and light, but that’s not an option at The Watch House. Then along came ‘Love Of My Life’ and all my good intentions went out of the window. I can’t find any information about this dahlia online, so wonder if it might be a new introduction. Based on first impressions I imagine it will be popular with the public. The plant is stocky, with deep green leaves on black stems and neat, copper-coloured flowers. If the snails don’t get it, I expect to be enjoying this dahlia well into the autumn.

Purchased from Canterbury Garden Centre so no doubt available there and across the land about now!

5) Persicaria virginiana ‘Guizhou Bronze’

Following our open weekend I decided that we needed to grow more persicarias. They are so easy going and yet so impressive when grown well. I currently have P. ‘Painter’s Palette’ and P. ‘Purple Fantasy’, both of which command attention despite having no showy flowers and requiring little effort to grow. A good foliage plant is worth ten flowering plants so I leapt at the chance of purchasing a pot of P. ‘Guizhou Bronze’ from The Salutation. I was not convinced at first. The dark, brush-stroke markings arranged in a V formation appeared very faint on younger plants offered for sale. Then I found it growing in the garden where I could appreciate the quiet appeal of the large, slightly felted leaves with their smudgy dark green markings. One to watch, rather than to be stopped in one’s tracks by, but a garden full of plants screaming for attention is not what I aiming for.

Available from The Salutation when stocks allow.

6) Strobilanthes dyeriana (Persian Shield) AGM

Goodness knows how long I have been waiting to get my hands on this beauty. When I have seen it for sale it’s always been at a hefty price, so I’ve held back for the right moment. Happily I’ve now been gifted a cutting, which I shall nurture until it’s large enough to survive outside next summer. Commonly referred to as Persian shield, Strobilanthes dyeriana is, in fact, from Myanmar (Burma), hence it prefers a warmer climate than we have in the UK and will not flourish in temperatures below 10ºC. Strobilanthes dyeriana is a plant which is more beautiful in youth than in old age, so it requires regular rejuvenation via cuttings. The foliage is nothing short of spectacular; intensely purple with dark-green venation and edging. As a plant it stands out among the greens and creates striking contrasts with gold foliage and yellow, orange or red flowers. The purple colour seems clearer and more intense in light shade than in bright summer sun, as illustrated by the photograph above, which is unadulterated.

Available from The Salutation when stocks allow.

7) Colocasia ‘White Lava’

I quite literally crossed the road for this plant. I saw three of them being unloaded from a van and could not resist dashing over for a closer look. Apparently they’d been languishing at the back of a polytunnel on our local nursery and were being offered for sale to ‘selected’ plant nuts like myself. Thank goodness I’ve made a name for myself. I chose two and decided to leave one for another plantaholic.

As a young plant the butter-yellow variegation is restricted to the midrib of each leaf, but this later extends along the side veins to create a skeletal ivory ribcage. A purple blotch where the leaf meets the stem also becomes significantly more pronounced with maturity. A striking plant indeed. Unfortunately I am not very good at overwintering and restarting colocasias so this is something I need to work on …. fast.

Available from Farmer Gracy in spring.

8) Fuchsia ‘Firecracker’ PBR

Last but not least, a complete phantasmagoria of a fuchsia, though probably not everyone’s cup of tea. Fuchsia ‘Firecracker’ is a newish introduction and protected by Plant Breeders’ Rights. It is a ‘triphylla’ type fuchsia, making it a strong, vigorous plant with large leaves and long, slender flowers. However, what’s truly striking about this fuchsia is the kaleidoscopic colouration of the foliage which spans shades of olive green, cream and blush pink with a mulberry-red venation and undersides. Clusters of tubular flowers, flaring at the tip, are a stronger coral pink. This is a not a plant designed to fade into the background so position it somewhere it will get noticed. I’ve gone full-on and arranged it next to coleus and aeoniums by the outdoor kitchen sink. TFG.

Available from Van Meuwen at the time of writing.

One aspect of gardening in a small space that I enjoy most is that no detail goes unnoticed. Whilst this counts equally for annoying flaws and moments of near-perfection, there is as much joy for me in the emergence of a new leaf or the opening of a single flower bud as there is in the spectacle of a long vista or a meadow in full bloom. A small garden offers one the reassurance of knowing precisely what is going on, even if it’s not necessarily what one hoped (and it generally isn’t!).

Returning to the opening of a single flower bud, waiting for Dahlia ‘Akita’ to bloom has been like the proverbial ‘watched pot’. I planted the tubers a little late, having purchased them when the National Dahlia Collection were clearing their decks in early April. I planted them all in one pot as they were not particularly large. I have been waiting patiently ever since. Six months later the first bud is now open, revealing a flower of unique and intriguing beauty.

What first attracted me to Dahlia ‘Akita’ was its extraordinary, chrysanthemum-like flowers. I had never seen a dahlia with such unusual blooms and every image on the Internet looked slightly different, so naturally I felt compelled to see it for myself at The Watch House. I generally steer clear of dinner-plate hybrids since their flowers seem so vast and incongruous in a garden setting. However, ‘Akita’ struck me as exotic enough to work in my Rousseau-inspired Jungle Garden, where rules are made to be broken.

Two features of Akita’s flower are particularly striking. First of all the dramatic colouration, which sees cinnabar-red petals tipped and backed with cream, blending through to yolk-yellow at the centre. This fiery combination of red, yellow and cream lends each flower a distinctly oriental appearance, further accentuated by a slight cupping of each petal. At different times of the day the bloom takes on a remarkably different appearance. In the yellow light of morning, as above, it is all ablaze, some of the redness fusing into magenta and plum. In the cooler light of evening the flame highlights are gone, leaving the red and cream to form a stronger contrast. None of these photographs, taken with my iPhone X, have been altered, so as to illustrate the striking differences I’ve observed.

Subtle cupping or incurving of the front petals reveals more of the cream reverse when viewing the flower from front and side. This in turn illuminates each petal as if it were a hot flame reaching into cooler air. Tightly furled, they create a pronounced, pale centre, full of anticipation. As more and more petals unfurl, those towards the back of the flower start to roll or ‘recurve’, producing a bloom that looks less like a dahlia and more like a chrysanthemum. Flowers are carried at roughly eye level, in my garden at least, inviting deliciously close scrutiny.

Over the last few days the first bud has transformed from a tight, acid-yellow fist into a blazing supernova of a bloom. It’s so arresting that I can’t help looking at it every time I go outside. It does not matter that there are not tens of them, because that one single bloom tells me everything I need to know. Two further buds promise to swell the ranks and continue the display well into September. There will be more if the snails don’t outwit me. Even if they do, I already feel I have had my money’s worth.

Growing Dahlia ‘Akita’ has taught me three things, first that taller dahlias might not be such a bad idea in my garden, where they need to compete with towering gingers and soaring cannas; second that patience is a virtue; and third that great clumps and swathes of planting are not fundamental in creating a garden of genuine beauty and interest. A single, fleeting bloom can hold the eye and excite the mind as readily as any Brownian landscape. TFG.

Not a square inch of my tiny garden goes uncultivated. Over the years I’ve found plants that enjoy, or at least tolerate, every environment I have to offer, from bright sunshine to deep shade, and from exposed to sheltered. It’s involved a process of trial and error that will be familiar to every gardener. There have been triumphs and there have been disasters, but the benefit of growing almost solely in containers, as I do, is that plants can be moved elsewhere should a problem be identified early enough.

The granite worksurface either side of my outdoor kitchen sink was once completely clear of plants, save for a couple of herb pots hanging from a stainless steel rail. Then for some reason or another, probably lack of space or shelter elsewhere, a collection of small potted plants started to gather on one side, where I could keep a close eye on them. (I find an elevated position ideal for small plants, those that deserve closer inspection or any that need protections from slugs, snails, and unsightly soil splashes.)

Each spring and summer the number of pots increased (I find pots breed faster than rabbits – is it only me?) until this year almost the entire space is filled with succulents, coleus, begonias and a few other ‘blow ins’. What began as a temporary display is now a permanent fixture, with two main phases; summer / autumn and winter / spring. During the colder months my focus is on bulbous plants such as crocus, cyclamen, iris and dwarf narcissi, with a few primulas, orchids and shrubby plants thrown in to vary the texture.

When summer comes, the sink area is often the last to get my attention. This year it looked very pedestrian until early July, by which time all my larger pots had been heaved into position and I had time to focus on the finer details of the garden. I’d thrown together an eclectic transitional display with pink geraniums, but they detested the shade (this area only enjoys direct sunlight from 3pm – 5.30pm) and were hastily re-homed in window boxes outside the library where they’ve flourished.

Plan B involved a coleus theatre, but I didn’t have enough coleus to do the project justice. I also worried about having too much of the same thing. So I played around with aeoniums, which don’t require as much sun as one might imagine, and a handful of succulents that had been languishing in the greenhouse or on parched windowsills indoors. Over the weeks I added Begonia ‘Little Brother Montgomery’, Fuchsia ‘Firecracker’, Pseudopanax crassifolius ‘Trifoliata’, Pelargonium ‘Aristo Red Beauty’, Echeveria agavoides ‘Ebony’ and Cyperus papyrus, which have contributed to a multi-textured, carnival-like atmosphere in one of the quietest and least promising corners of the garden.

At first all I could see from the front door was a collection of terracotta pots, but within a month the plants had started to meld together and put on a decent display. I was unsure about having so many reds and pinks alongside gold, bronze and silver, fearing the grouping might appear a trifle gaudy, but the palette has grown on me. It’s also different to last year and 100% temporary, so I’ve no need to repeat it again if I should look back on my experiment with horror.

These plants should continue to look good until the end of October when cold nights and strong winds will doubtless trigger their decline. The succulents will all come indoors and cuttings will be taken from the coleus whilst they are still healthy and vigorous.

Whilst I love flowers, my first consideration when choosing a new plant is almost always foliage. Few plants flower for more than a couple of months each year, but most are in leaf for at least seven or eight. If a plant looks good in leaf, it is worth three or four that do not.

There are very few flowers in my kitchen sink arrangement and arguably they would not be missed if they were removed. It goes to show that one does not need flowers to create drama in the garden, not only on a small scale, but also in the wider landscape. As we approach the most important season yet for foliage colour, and one of the best times of year for planting, this is a lesson worth bearing in mind. TFG.

The word starting with A, describing the season after summer and before winter, has been banned in my household for the last month. I realise that for many the approach of the A word is cause for joy, anticipation of mellow fruitfulness, enjoying cosy night in etc.etc., but for me it signals only the unraveling of everything I have worked for since the year began. I don’t deny the inevitability of the A word’s coming, nor that it has some charming aspects, but on the whole I’d prefer if, like an unwanted caller, it would come back later.

In my garden the A word represents a time when things must be undone; cut back, untied, dismantled, put away, encouraged to rest. October is like May, but in reverse, the exception being the planting of bulbs, which offers some hope of good things to come. All I can focus on is the prospect of a wonderful display slowly disintegrating before my eyes. Cold nights and shorter days will soon trigger the decline of anything tender or tropical. Decay will be followed by the lugging of soggy pots into any sheltered place I can find, and accompanied by the realisation that I have too many plants for the protected space at my disposal. The greenhouse, workshop, garden room, bathrooms and windowsills will become home to hundreds of refugee plants, waiting for the storms of winter to pass. Away in the distance all I can think about is having to do it all again, and better.

I am neither pessimistic nor negative, so I prefer to remain in denial rather than face reality. Hence at The Beau’s first utterance of the A word he was cautioned not to do so within earshot again. Naturally this spurred him on to mention it as frequently as possible and to point out anything that might be a suggestion of the A word’s imminent approach – ‘look at that yellowing leaf!’, ‘is that a cob nut up there in the tree?’, ‘we really should have placed our bulb order by now’ – you get the gist. Meanwhile I took the opposite tack, looking for any sign that summer is still going strong – ‘look at all the buds on X’, ‘I think Y is going to be bigger than ever this year’, ‘I remember the year it was hotter in Broadstairs during October than it was in Delhi’ (this last fact was true). And so we go on, one of us in denial, the other revelling in the opportunity to bait his partner. It’s a kind of sport most couples enjoy from time to time.

This week I’m on business in the Czech Republic and Poland where I can glean no evidence of the A word, save for a preponderance of golden rod, rose hips and Himalayan balsalm lining the railway embankments. (There is Japanese knotweed here too, by the bucket load.) The forests are green, the birches are white, the fields neatly ploughed and the gardens full of zinnias, asters, helichrysum, gladioli, sunflowers and geraniums. They remind me of my first attempts at gardening and confirm it’s definitely summer – 100%, full on, undiluted – just for a little while longer. TFG.

I’d missed one too many plant fairs at Great Dixter, so I was not about to forgo another. We made plans, reorganised others, kept an eagle eye on the weather, confirmed that dogs were welcome and set off for Sussex shortly after breakfast on Saturday. A smooth drive took us through some of the prettiest countryside in Kent, just as autumn’s brush had started to paint it in soft shades of fawn, yellow and orange. In Tenterden our passage was briefly slowed by cheery sides of Morris dancers performing in the town’s folk festival. A more English vision you never did see. In less lovely Ashford I admired a procession of Fraxinus oxycarpa ‘Raywood’ smouldering in their characteristic end-of-year livery – blackish-green suffused with blood-red. This has to be one of my very favourite street trees and I wish it were planted more often.

Our arrival in Northiam was perfectly timed so that we would be parked-up just before the plant fair opened … or at least it would have been had hundreds of people not arrived well before us. By the time we had traipsed across the hay-strewn field, taking care not to slip on the greasy clay mountains thrown up by Dixter’s resident moles, the first comers were already standing sentinel over little clutches of plants, like king penguins protecting their chicks. If plant buying were a competitive sport, Great Dixter’s plant fair would surely be its Wimbledon. All the great and good of gardening and garden design were there, some blending in, others standing out from the crowd. Everyone is hugely amiable, vastly knowledgeable, and on the hunt for an interesting plant or two. The atmosphere is friendly yet rarified. Anything unusual or especially desirable is snapped up fast, but once a few precious treasures have been bagged, everyone settles down for a natter or goes off to enjoy one of the talks provided free by the exhibitors.

It is hard not to go slightly mad and start grabbing everything that takes one’s fancy, however it is often the less immediately appealing plants that are the most exciting. I find that it pays to do a few circuits and make sure nothing has been missed. Those shopping for the moment are conspicuous with their totes crammed full of grasses, asters and echinaceas. A mobile phone is essential for looking up unfamiliar plants and to avoid asking questions which might reveal one’s abject ignorance …. not that anyone would be anything other than willing to share their knowledge if asked.

Great Dixter’s gardens were magical as ever; perhaps not the best I have seen them at this time of year, but brilliant nevertheless. (The weather was dull to the point of being dark, which did not help.) The Jungle Garden was so jungly as to be almost impenetrable, which made me feel heaps better about my own interpretation of this style at The Watch House. Considering this plot was originally an enclosed rose garden, it’s not a surprise that the paths are a little too narrow for all the gregarious giants that have taken the roses’ place. Despite all the wildness, the standard of planting and maintenance was exemplary as usual. I learn more useful lessons from Dixter than from any other garden I visit, especially when it comes to gardening in pots. Turns out marigolds are a ‘thing’ this year, and the love-in with conifers continues unabated.

The main border was still magnificent, an example to us all when it comes to succession planting. So much colour and substance; I’m not sure it ever has a bad day. Some of the other garden rooms had been ‘let go’ in a way that would not be considered acceptable elsewhere, but at Great Dixter this is all part of the charm and atmosphere. If an aster falls this-a-way, or a grass topples that-a-way, then that’s fine. I especially admired a Rudbeckia called ‘Henry Eilers’ (see image further down this post), producing finely-quilled yellow flowers reminiscent of a spider chrysanthemum. One more for the ‘when I have a bigger garden’ list.

Having reacquainted myself with the Great Dixter Plant Fair I am definitely returning for the next one in spring 2020 (dates yet to be revealed). I hope very much that Brexit will not prevent the excellent nurseries that travel from the continent from participating, as this is one of the many reasons why it’s a special occasion. For those of us without the time and means to travel Europe in search of fine plants, Great Dixter is a place of pilgrimage, discovery, and of kinship. Long may it continue to be so. TFG.

The Damage

A highly indulgent list considering the lack of space in my garden and that winter is fast approaching, but these opportunities were too good to miss.

1. Telanthophora grandiflora – the giant groundsel from Mexico. Anything but weedy, this is a magnificent beast, although not frost hardy.
2. Titanotrichum oldhamii – An old-world Gesneriad (i.e. related to gloxinias, streptocarpus and African violets) from Taiwan, Japan or China. Produces yellow, foxglove-like flowers from a rosette of fuzzy basal leaves. Once something of a rarity, several plantspeople are now offering it for sale. Hardy, even in Scotland.
3. Cyperus haspan – a diminutive, jewel-like papyrus producing emerald green stems each topped with a fuzzy brush of filaments. Apparently hardy, but it will be overwintering indoors with me.
4. Dichorisandra thyrsiflora  – otherwise known as blue ginger because of its growth habit and foliage, this beautiful plant is in fact a spiderwort (tradescantia family). I have been lusting after this since I first saw it at the Eden Project in Cornwall.
5. Begonia ‘Burle Marx’ – a new introduction which promises to grow to quite a substantial height before producing clouds of white flowers. I figure any plant worth of the name ‘Burle Marx’ must be worth growing.
6. Globba winitii – I drooled over globbas when I visited Burma seven years ago. Commonly known as dancing girl gingers, they are the prettiest and most delicate of all the gingers. G. winitii has pink bracts and yellow flowers which tremble in the slightest breeze. Whether I can keep them alive or not is yet to be seen!
7. Globba shomburgkii – as above, but all yellow.
8. Dahlia imperialis ‘Alba Plena’ – The Beau could not resist this giant of a dahlia. We already have imperialis, which is unlikely to flower this year, but he loves a species dahlia and so there was no question that this had to be added to his collection.

I’m always surprised by how good the garden looks at the beginning of November. The Gin & Tonic Garden, though lacking the abundance of flowers enjoyed in late summer, is as good as it has ever been, only richer and lusher. Looking down on my tiny courtyard from above, I spy a perfect tapestry of green, silver and gold. The greenhouse has almost vanished beneath a rising tide of foliage. I want it to go on like this forever.

Challenging myself to do better next year, the main improvement I’d make is to establish more height. This will need to be done carefully so as not to block out the light which makes this garden so different from the Jungle Garden. The Beau is keen to grow more mountain papayas. Perhaps these could be the answer since they have a parasol-like habit. I’d also like to add a couple more columnar trees, although planted in the ground rather than in pots.

The Jungle Garden, generally more exposed to the elements and heavily reliant on tender plants for its glory, fades first. By the end of October everything has become tall, leggy and overcrowded, so it’s a relief to start the process of restoring order and creating space to move again. Fallen bay leaves lie thick across the surface of the raised bed, a crisp carpet of light-brown pierced by hundreds of dark-leaved ivy seedlings. I’m unsure whether to blame the sparrows or the doves for these little green gifts. Thankfully they pull out easily enough. After rain, any Eucomis leaves overlapping the path become as slippery as a banana skin. It’s time for them to go, before I take a pre-dawn tumble.

We need to have a major rethink about the raised bed over winter. The trees I planted 11 years ago are now mature, creating shade and consuming the lion’s share of available moisture. They are wonderful to behold, absorbing noise and providing shelter, but they have altered the nature of the garden and I must adapt to the conditions they’ve created. For a few years now I have toyed with re-planting the ground beneath them. Now that I have The Beau to help me, I might just do that. I have far too many plants in pots and embarrassingly little going on in the raised bed behind them. By lifting the crown of each tree I hope to be able to admit more light and rain, opening up new planting possibilities. Irrigation will almost certainly be required to supplement what moisture the evergreen canopy blocks out. I have found that a soaker hose works very efficiently if it’s tucked neatly out of sight. I need a few months to browse my library in search of the right plants to grow, and thank my lucky stars that there’s not too much space to be filled.

Since returning from China last week, anything particularly tender or good-looking has been moved into the garden room for winter protection. Now that it’s crowded with begonias, impatiens, coleus and ferns I’ve given up any hope of being able to work in this space until spring. We moved the airplants and bromeliads indoors at the end of September and these have settled in nicely. My main concern now is controlling pests. In such warm, crowded conditions it does not take long for greenfly, whitefly or red spider mites to make an nuisance of themselves. Vigilance is vital. Woolly aphids and scale insects are already giving me a headache indoors, defying all efforts to eradicate them. I guess some afflictions one just has to live with. We’ve taken cuttings of almost everything as an insurance policy. If they survive, we’re going to have a lot of spare plants come spring!

Meanwhile I am loath to interfere with anything in the Gin & Tonic Garden. A hint of autumn is provided by Liquidambar styraciflua ‘Slender Sihouette’, Ginkgo biloba ‘Menhir’, Calycanthus raulstonii ‘Hartlage Wine’ and Catalpa bignonioides ‘Aurea’, but everything else looks bigger and greener than ever before.

It seems to have rained the entire time I’ve been away, and this shows in the prodigious growth of plants such as Geranium maderese which burgeon during a cooler spell. A couple of species dahlias, D. tampaulipana and D. campanulata are tantalisingly close to flowering, but The Beau is pessimistic about their prospects. D. tampaulipana is so precious that it has been given shelter in the greenhouse. Neither of us has seen this new discovery from Mexico (via Pan Global Plants) bloom, and we are determined that we shall. (It will doubtless turn out to be murky pink and a huge disappointment.) The dahlia sits alongside Salvia dombeyii with its scarlet, pendulous flowers resembling Fuchsia boliviana. If one can’t get to South America, it’s not too difficult to create the look with a few well chosen plants.

Tentative as my efforts to prepare the garden for winter are, this growing season has reached its conclusion. There may still be buds and shoots, but their progress will be thwarted sooner rather than later. There will be no more warm spells and the days will be too short to fuel growth. It’s all down hill from here.

The gales that hit the south on Saturday had largely blown out by the time they reached Broadstairs, but nevertheless the garden took a battering. As we approach bonfire night, the Jungle Garden looks soggy, frayed and no longer presentable. It’s now a case of moving each pot into its winter quarters – whether that be the workshop, the greenhouse or somewhere sheltered outdoors – before retreating inside for a brief rest. In the greenhouse, pots of Iris reticulata are already studded with pale green shoots. It may be a bitter ending, but new beginnings are already in sight. TFG.

Dan, in a moment of madness, has decided that he would like me to contribute now and again to his Frustrated Gardener blog. As I am also a keen gardener, I decided to accept his kind offer, and so here I am.

For me, gardening has always been a pleasure and a joy, unless my back has gone. I started early, around the age of 11 or 12. At the time we had a small garden in Cambridgeshire that had a smattering of plants here and there. My family didn’t really care much for them: the garden was nothing fancy or organised and I took it upon myself to dig them all up, one-by-one, and ‘create’ a garden more pleasing to the eye. I don’t recall the reaction to my artistry, but I do remember feeling joy and happiness simply by having my hands in the soil and touching plants – the wonder of gardening already had me in its grasp.

Over the years my tastes evolved. Leaving behind the traditionally more acceptable begonias, pelargoniums and busy Lizzies of my Gran’s garden, I became more and more tempted and distracted by all things tropical….it would be a temptation that has stayed with me for life.

Fast forward 20 or so years to 2003 and I lived, with my partner, in a ground floor garden flat in South East London; our first home together. We had the use of a shared garden and so, in the border directly outside our windows, we created a little piece of tropical heaven. We had dahlias, brugmansias, gingers, tree ferns, cannas and bananas. The neighbours really loved what we had done: for such a small space it was magical.

The following spring we moved into a garden flat that would be our home for almost 10 years. In that garden we created what I still believe is our greatest work – it was utterly glorious. The garden was pretty much a blank canvas, which we transformed into our very own tropical paradise.

Our garden was quite traditional in its nature, a rose here, a Fuchsia magellanica there, a number of lovely peonies, you get the gist. However, what it lacked was absolutely anything even remotely tropical. Within the first couple of years, we decided to remedy that, big time.

We brought in giant tree ferns (Dicksonia antarctica), tree peonies, gingers, lots and lots and lots of bananas (Musa basjoo), architectural plants such as inula and rheum, gloriously scented lilies; it went on and on and on. I LOVED it and so did the Hens and the dogs.

In the late 2000s I purchased my very first Dahlia imperialis – who knew such a beauty existed? I didn’t, until I had one.

Which leads me to my other gardening obsession – dahlias and, in particular, species dahlias. Over the years I have been slowly purchasing any that catch my eye. For me, the absolute star of the show is and will always be Dahlia campanulata – she is a corker!

I discovered Dahlia campanulata after the dogs and I moved to Cornwall and lived, coincidentally, a couple of miles from the National Dahlia Collection near Penzance.

The flowers are utterly sensational, as big as my hands. They’re droopy, flouncy, blousy, pink and gorgeous. It is also called the weeping tree dahlia. When you check them out you will see why.

In the polytunnel I had in Cornwall, Dahlia campanulata regularly topped 14 feet and arching stems of blooms would open at eye level (I’m 6ft tall). I cannot ever do this plant justice, nor convey just how much I adore it. Any and every gardener able to care for it should most definitely add it to their collection. They will not be disappointed.

Whilst in Cornwall I stumbled upon a blog written by a man I found most intriguing and just a little bit attractive. Initially my interest was predominantly garden based. I would look forward to his blog posts, excited to read about his gardens and find out what plant and dahlias I should be looking out for next. However, as I became more interested in his blog, I also became more interested in him. Not long after we started dating, Cupid introduced himself by way of a massive arrow to my heart. Almost eight months later here I am in the Frustrated Gardener’s garden, life and home. There is nowhere the pups and I would rather be.

I hope you’ve found my introduction interesting. I wanted to try and convey my love of gardening and tropical plants. Hopefully, I have gone some way to doing that.

For those of you who know Dan and his blog, my aim here is only to participate now and again. This isn’t a ‘take over’ or me trying to ‘gild the lily’. Anyway, how can one improve on that which needs no improvement?

Now, go and order that Dahlia campanulata from here. You know you want to!

Happy Gardening One and All.

The Beau.

Most of us spend relatively little time in the garden during the winter months. Of course there are jobs to be done, but with plants growing slowly, short days, inclement weather and sometimes frozen or wet ground, the opportunities are naturally limited. Winter is a time for planning and preparation, time to stand back, see one’s plot for what it is and dream big.

Not physically being in the garden is not an excuse for ignoring how it looks during winter. Chances are your garden will be visible from inside the house and maybe from the street, so it remains on show regardless of the season. Creating a riot of colour is too ambitious a goal, but it’s perfectly possible to plant strategically so that something is looking cheerful every day. Below are a handful of my favourite shrubs for winter colour, earning their keep whether it be through perfumed flowers, attractive foliage or bright berries. You may be familiar with many of them and there’s a reason for that: they do the job, and they do it well. I have thrown in a couple of wild cards should you, like me, be the unconventional type.

1) Mahonia (Oregon Grape)

My Cornish grandmother was an excellent gardener. She planted her garden for every season, but in particular the winter, when she would sit admiring the view towards her childhood home through a vast picture window. In the foreground she surveyed rivers of heather and dwarf conifers, rising into hills of glossy camellia, prickly berberis and honey-scented mahonia. The hybrid of choice back then was Mahonia x media ‘Charity’, which has a particularly long flowering season, starting in November. Mahonia x media ‘Lionel Fortescue’ and Mahonia x media ‘Buckland’ both carry the RHS’ Award of Garden Merit (AGM) and so may be better options if you can track them down. Both were bred by Tom Wright at The Garden House in Devon. All of them will reward with spikes of bright yellow, fragrant flowers exploding from rosettes of spiky leaves during the winter. Bees adore them, and birds love the fruits that follow. Relatively unfussy to grow, but keep away from paths to avoid spearing yourself in the eye.

2) Garrya elliptica (Silk Tassel Bush)

When I was growing up, an enormous silk tassel bush used to loom over our front garden in a manner that I found most oppressive. For the majority of the year Garrya elliptica is a fairly glum and unremarkable shrub (Christopher Lloyd referred to it as ‘a big yawn’), although providing an excellent evergreen backdrop for other plants. Then in December and January it produces a multitude of fashionably grey-green tassels which transform it into a shrub for the Farrow and Ball generation. Garrya eliptica would look splendid planted against a house painted graphite grey or any of the smoky greens one sees used so frequently (I favour F&B Vert de Terre for all outside decoration). For me I’d need to balance it with something brighter, perhaps with orange berries or flowers, or in an arrangement with other grey-green foliage plants. The variety ‘James Roof’ comes highly recommended and has an Award of Garden Merit.

3) Viburnum tinus (laurustinus)

There are so many viburnums, but one that has the most to give in winter is Viburnum tinus, commonly known as laurustinus. Unfortunately we have all become rather weary of this shrub, thanks to its repeated inclusion in dreary landscaping projects. Blame the lazy designers, not the plant. Viburnum tinus is, simply put, ‘common’ and cheap to buy as a consequence. It’s also unfussy and therefore a breeze to grow. White flowers may be produced any time between autumn and spring, often in abundance. The varieties ‘Eve Price’ and ‘French White’ both have AGMs, suggesting they are superior to the species, so seek them out if you are looking for something less banal. An alternative winter wonder would be V. x bodnantense ‘Dawn’, an upright shrub that looks like it’s had fluffy pink marshmallows skewered on naked stems when viewed from a distance. An almond fragrance is perhaps its finest attribute.

4) Coronilla valentina (Shrubby scorpion vetch)

Hot on the heels of three shrubs you can barely escape in winter, here’s one you see more rarely. Forming a compact hummock of glaucous evergreen foliage, Coronilla valentina is native to warmer climes, including Portugal, Spain, Malta and Croatia. The cultivar Coronilla valentina subsp. glauca ‘Citrina’ has an Award of Garden Merit and lighter yellow flowers than the species. Some feel this is more appealing than the species, but for me it’s just a matter of taste and where you are planting it. Coronilla flowers are delicately perfumed and attractive to bees. Personally I am a fan of the cultivar named ‘Variegata’ (pictured above) which combines canary yellow flowers with cream-edged leaves, but then I am a more-is-more plantsman. Plant in free draining soil in sun or very light shade for best results. Flowers can appear any time from November until March and frequently around Christmas time.

5) Correa (Australian Hardy Fuchsia)

I make no secret of my dislike of common plant names, and here’s two good reasons why: correas are neither reliably hardy (in the UK at least), nor are they fuchsias. They are, however, Australian, so I will make a small allowance for that. I am probably grumpy because I recently killed my beautiful Correa ‘Marian’s Marvel’ (pictured above) by overwatering and am desperate to replace it. It was a very silly mistake to make and I should have known better. Fortunately I have managed to keep scarlet and lime Correa reflexa ‘Brisbane Ranges’ and Correa reflexa alive, mainly by neglecting them. And therein lies the secret – keep them warm and on the dry side and they’ll do just fine. The Victorians imagined correas needed to be grown in a conservatory, but thanks to global warming they are worth taking a risk with outside in the southern counties and in sheltered spots, where they will flower from October until April. Of them all, C. ‘Marian’s Marvel’ remains a firm favourite of mine and one of the easiest correas to find in UK nurseries.

6) Euonymus japonicus (Japanese spindle)

In coastal towns like Broadstairs you’ll find Euonymus japonicus growing everywhere, and for good reason. It’s a dense shrub or small tree with evergreen leaves that are fabulously salt and wind tolerant. Plants can be clipped, trained or allowed to develop naturally into a huge billowing mound. Only in late summer might the display of glossy green leaves be marred by an attack of powdery mildew, but this generally does not last long and the plant recovers in time for winter. About now, in early January, the pink fruit bursts opens to reveal glossy orange berries inside. Close up they look little bug-eyed aliens. En masse the affect is extremely pretty and almost exotic. Euonymus japonicus is better than laurel in almost every way and certainly not as aggressive. Whilst not native to the UK, birds will forage the seed and sparrows find it irresistible as cover, sitting safely within and chattering all day long.

7) Loropetalum chinense (Chinese fringe flower)

I live in an area with typically mild winters, so forgive me for including another tender shrub in the mix. Surprise, surprise, Loropetalum chinense hails from temperate China, where it is as ubiquitous as privet is here in the UK. Low, arching branches slowly build up to form a pleasing, mounded shape. Like the witch hazels, to which it is related, Loropetalum chinense produces flowers in clusters at the end of short branches, each composed of thin, strap-like petals. ‘Fire Dance’ is a cultivar with reddish-purple leaves that fade to green in summer. ‘Black Pearl’ has exceptionally dark foliage and ‘Carolina Moonlight’ has greenish-white tassels over olive green foliage, so there are options if magenta is not your thing. I grow mine in a pot, where it flourishes provided it is watered regularly. The advantage is that it can be moved if the weather turns very cold, but the worst that usually happens is that the newest growth is scolded by frost. Any damaged areas regenerate quickly so it’s well worth a try in the South and West if you fancy something fabulous in your February garden.

8) Sarcoccoca ruscifolia (Sweet Box / Christmas Box)

The scent of Sarcococca ruscifolia blossom wafting through my French windows into the library is one of January’s few pleasures. For most of the year this is a plant you can forget about – small, unassuming, inoffensive and demanding no special attention. Then around Christmastime the tiny white flowers open and release their intoxicating, honeyed fragrance. If that’s not enough for you, Sarcococca hookeriana var. digyna ‘Purple Stem’ has a lot more going on, including, you guessed it, purple stems. The leaves are longer and paler and the flowers have a nice pinkish tinge. Works brilliantly with plum-coloured hellebores and early snowdrops and is tolerant of dry shade. What’s not to like?

9) Cryptomeria japonica (Japanese cedar)

Conifers are slowly coming back into vogue, and at the forefront of that trend is Cryptomeria japonica. Like Ginkgo biloba, Cryptomeria japonica is a lone species, however there are many ornamental varieties in cultivation. Cryptomeria are defined by attractive, feathery foliage that resembles either moss or coral, depending on the variety. The reason for including Cryptomeria japonica here is that many cultivars have foliage which turns an attractive shade of coppery-purple in winter. A good choice if you have a small garden is Cryptomeria japonica ‘Elegans Compacta’, which takes many years to reach 6ft (the basic species reaches 15ft in 10 years and keeps on going), or Cryptomeria japonica ‘Pygmaea’ which only grows 1 inch per year and is best suited to a rock or gravel garden. At the other end of the spectrum, Cryptomeria japonica ‘Yoshino’ is gracious yet huge, so plant well away from the house and stand back for an impressive display of smoke-tinted needles.

10) Camellia

One cannot better camellias for their contribution to the garden from autumn until late spring. They are the roses of winter and almost as many and various as their summer-flowering cousins. Alas they are not best suited to alkaline soils or to areas that suffer drought, especially in late summer when the flower buds are formed. Hence they are rarely seen in the ‘Far East’ where I reside owing to the preponderance of chalk and low rainfall. However there is no excuse for not growing a camellia in a pot, wherever one lives, provided it is filled with well-drained ericaceous compost and positioned where the roots can be doused regularly with rainwater. I’ve had camellias stay compact and happy this way for years; it’s all about choosing the right varieties.

A favourite, and similar in appearance to the unidentified blooms pictured above is Camellia x williamsii ‘St Ewe’ which despite being huge in the ground, stays reasonably compact in a large pot. Currently we grow ‘Nuccio’s Pearl’ and ‘Margaret Davis’ AGM in pots and they seem extremely happy. TV presenter and plantsman Nick Bailey recommends Camellia x vernalis ‘Yuletide’ for scarlet winter blooms – so much more elegant than a poinsettia. Camellia sasanqua ‘Narumi-gata’ is the winter incarnation of the humble dog rose and fragrant to boot. TFG.

There’s not much that January is good for, apart from cosying-up by the fire, drinking the Christmas drinks cabinet dry and browsing seed catalogues. The minute New Year is over, hot off the press, brochures start to arrive at The Watch House by the sack-load. And since we’ve acquired an allotment, the fruit and vegetable sections no longer find themselves in the recycling bin. Instead they join a growing pile by the side of the sofa, covered in inky ticks, spiky stars and wobbly question marks.

Unusually for us, we are showing restraint (or rather The Beau is). We are taking our time over the vegetables and not making purchasing decisions quite yet. However I am both a shopaholic and a sucker for a discount, hence I decided to buy a few packets of flower seeds whilst Sarah Raven was offering 15% off. Whilst neither the cheapest nor the most comprehensive source of seed, Ms Raven’s catalogue does have a certain allure. For anyone lacking confidence in how to combine flowers, the colour-by-colour layout and Jonathan Buckley’s sumptuous photography is a godsend. Plus I am happily persuaded by the effusive descriptions she gives when pointing out her favourites: If one is going to sell things, one may as well do it with enthusiasm.

The prospect of growing traditional, sun-loving annuals brings me full circle back to my youth. My parents’ garden was always awash with the petunias, antirrhinums, cosmos, nicotianas, poppies and dahlias that I had grown from seed in greedy numbers. Annuals are full of vigour and youthful joy. Whatever anyone says, I adore them because they are the plants that got me hooked on gardening.

Since leaving home I have gardened in part or full shade. Less than ideal lighting conditions, combined with a lack of space, have meant that the cultivation of my beloved annuals has been restricted to the odd window box or planter. Now that we have an allotment I can’t help feeling that the world is again my oyster. Although we are only permitted to grow non-edible plants on 25% of the plot, I have already devised cunning ways to get around this. By going upwards we can squeeze more in, and I’ll be growing flowers that can be eaten – there are a surprising number when you start to search for them – or those that produce edible seed.

You will not be surprised that I have opted for my favourite palette of orange, ruby, plum and purple, with the odd dash of magenta and peach here and there. It’s predictable, but the colours will work well with ripening fruit and vegetables, especially as we approach late summer when the corn is ripe and tomatoes hang from the vine like grapes. Here’s The Damage:

• Dolichos lablab ‘Ruby Moon’ – I’ve wanted to grow hyacinth beans for yonks. This beautiful climber will be trained up a large pole, perhaps mingling with Mina lobata (Spanish flag) to create a sizzling spire of flowers and foliage.
• Persicaria orientalis – also known as kiss-me-over-the-garden-gate, or prince’s feathers. This is a majestic annual which will be more than welcome to strut its stuff between the rows of veg.
• Papaver somniferum ‘Black Single’ – a poignant reminder of home. When we first cultivated our family garden near Bath, mauve opium poppies sprang up everywhere. This is a dark, sultry version of that same poppy.
• Squash ‘Tromboncino’ – is it vegetable or an ornamental? Who cares? Tromboncini can be eaten young like a courgette or matured to form phallic marrows. Guaranteed to get folk on the allotment talking.
• Tropaeolum minus ‘Ladybird Rose’ – not the best reviews as far as germination is concerned, but I love the ‘Belle Epoque’, dusky-peach tones of the flowers.
• Tropaeolum minus ‘Black Velvet’ – Ms Raven suggests using the flowers in salads and the leaves in smoked haddock fish cakes. Yes please!
• Helianthus annuus ‘Magic Roundabout F1‘ – The Beau and I had arguments about which sunflowers to buy. This one made the list because it’s tall and floriferous.
• Helianthus annuus ‘Double Dandy’ – not so double that it will deter bees, with petals the colour of blackberries and demerara sugar. Delicious.
• Helianthus annuus ‘Claret F1’ – dark, wine-red flowers to compliment ‘Double Dandy’. A classic sunflower minus the yellow.
• Calendula officinalis ‘Sunset Buff’ – one cannot have a kitchen garden without calendulas, so these are, frankly, compulsory.
• Amaranthus tricolor ‘Red Army’ – according to Jekka McVicar, the young leaves can be used in salads or steamed when mature and the seeds can be used to make flat breads. Both use and ornament.
• Antirrhinum ‘Bizarre Hybrids’ – Edible, yes, but not delicious. I’ll be enjoying these oddly striped and splashed blooms for their quirkiness, not their culinary qualities.

Wishing you all a most excellent weekend. I’m off to quaff the last of the Cinzano. TFG.

January is a month when many of us dream of an escape to the sun. If we’re feeling flush we might take advantage of discounts and book a holiday. A few lucky folk may find themselves in a position to buy a property abroad – perhaps a modern villa with a pool, or a quaint cottage in the backstreets of a fishing village. But few of us will ever have the means to realise our dreams as James Deering did at Villa Vizcaya on the shores of Biscayne Bay, Miami.

James Deering was a retired industralist, socialite, and collector of art and antiquities. Though his family had made a vast fortune manufacturing farm machinery in the Mid West of the United States, their lifestyle was not ostentatious in any way. Deering was cultured and taught himself to read all the major European languages. Yet like many other American industrialists of the time, he was obscenely rich and wanted for nothing.

Deering remained a bachelor, a subject largely glossed over in written accounts of his life. Reading between the lines and listening carefully to one’s tour guide, it seems likely that he was discreetly homosexual (Deerings guests were neither oblivious to, nor entirely comfortable about the interconnecting bedrooms which permitted movements to go unseen from the main gallery). In all other respects he was every inch the gentleman, ‘a reticent man with impeccably proper manners, leavened by a sense of humour’. Deering was blessed with taste and the means to indulge it. Had it not been so, Vizcaya almost certainly would not have turned out to be a triumph.

Deering surrounded himself with beautiful, educated and flamboyant people, including the man he chose as his artistic advisor and travelling companion, Paul Chalfin. Chalfin studied briefly at Harvard before enrolling at the Art Students League of New York and subsequently the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris, where he studied painting. Although he took great delight in being mistaken for an architect, he had no professional qualifications as such. He designed only one house, Villa Vizcaya, the magnificent mansion Deering would call home for just nine years.

The problem was that Deering suffered from pernicious anaemia. Post retirement from the family firm (by now in the hands of banking firm J.P. Morgan) his doctors prescribed sun and sea air to counter the effects of his debilitating condition. So it was that in 1910 he purchased a vast swathe of mangrove swamp and rockland hammock* at Coconut Grove, just south of the fledgling City of Miami and close to the estate of his brother, Charles. Chalfin’s services were enlisted to devise a masterplan for the site, after which the pair promptly set off for Europe to collect architectural ideas, art, antiquities, and furnishings for Deering’s new Florida home.

Rather than rush headlong into construction, the pair took their time over the planning stages. Money was no object, and the realisation of Deering’s ambition was to be deeply convincing, if not highly indulgent. Inspiration was gathered from all over Italy, in particular Florence and Venice, as well as from Spain and France.

Whilst the chosen style for his mansion was Mediterranean Revival and the garden is most obviously Italianate, Deering was not oblivious to the beauty of his sub-tropical surroundings. He made provision for the inclusion and preservation of indigenous materials and plants throughout, in doing so creating a new hybrid style, an exciting fusion between Old World grandeur and New World freedom of expression. Vizcaya was to be executed with such total confidence that today one barely questions the incongruity of its situation. Looking out from the main terrace across the gleaming limestone quay to a derelict stone barge ‘moored’ in front, one could almost be in Venice. As illusions go, it’s among the most convincing.

Since Chalfin’s skills did not extend to architecture, he employed ‘gentleman architect’ Francis Burrall Hoffman Jr. to do the donkey work for him. (Later, when Chalfin claimed that ‘Hoffman did the plumbing, I did the house’, Hoffman threatened a lawsuit and Chalfin was forced to come clean.) The villa could so easily have ended up an ugly pastiche, but taste prevailed and the result was a tour de force of cultural appropriation. With a façade inspired by the Villa Rezzonico in Italy and an Andalusian-style internal courtyard (originally open to the elements but now covered), Vizcaya rose from the mangrove swamps to command the admiration of the Amercian elite, including silent film star Lillian Gish and the painter John Singer Sargent.

I fully expected that I would dislike Vizcaya, but could not fault it. It is every inch the perfect pastiche, an extravagant folly of the highest order and very pleasing to the eye. The main rooms are constructed well above sea level in order to command the landscapes beyond, but the basement level, including the swimming pool, has been seriously damaged by a series of hurricanes: there is still much to be repaired in the house and garden following Hurricane Irma in 2017.

Somewhat belatedly I arrive at the subject of the gardens, allowing me to introduce the fourth protagonist in the creation of Vizcaya and certainly the most overlooked. In 1914, shortly before building work was due to commence, Deering and Chalfin travelled to Italy. They were greatly impressed by the restored gardens at La Pietra, a villa owned by art and antiques dealer Sir Arthur Acton in the hills above Florence. The work had been completed by a young, Columbian-born landscape architect named Diego Suarez. Acton duly asked Suarez to show his American friends the best formal gardens in the region and the trio hit it off. Shortly afterwards, having travelled to the United States in the company of Lady Sybil Cutting, Suarez found himself unable to return to Italy due to the outbreak of World War I. Chalfin, adept at disguising his own lack of skill by surrounding himself with gifted people, promptly subcontracted Suarez to design Vizcaya’s extensive formal gardens.

Initially Suarez based his designs on the gardens at Villa Lante in Italy (the twin cascades that flank the approach to the house are clearly inspired by that garden). However, after visiting Miami for the first time, he was forced to make changes due to the low-lying topography of the site.

By constructing a raised feature called the Mound, he was able to create exaggerated perspective lines using low hedges and avenues of native oaks (Quercus laurifolia) rising towards a shady bosquet surrounding a triple-arched, open-sided Casino.

Suarez worked solidly on the garden between 1914 and 1917, when he walked out following a series of disagreements with Chalfin.

At one point over 1000 workers were employed in the creation of the house and gardens. When one considers the population of Miami at that time was only around 20,000, this is quite remarkable. As in England a small estate village and kitchen gardens had to be created to house staff and provide sufficient fruit and vegetables for the house and its many rich and influential guests.

Facing east toward the Atlantic, Suarez devised one of the estate’s most decadent and masculine features, the Secret Garden. Originally conceived as a protected space for the display of rare orchids, it quickly proved entirely unsuitable due to its proximity to the sea and exposure to the sun. Today it provides a scorching-hot haven for bromeliads, agaves, potted palms and salt-tolerant succulents, as well as being much beloved by fashion photographers.

The Secret Garden was not the only unsuccessful element of Suarez’s plan. A sequence of small, enclosed gardens on the seaward side of the plot proved too pokey. Recently these have been inundated by sea water, requiring them to be replanted with salt-tolerant species. The Rose Garden is larger but no longer filled with roses and the watercourses are dry. As a consequence it feels rather parched and unloved. Beyond the Rose Garden a canal filled with inky-black water leads to a bridge with an absurdly high arch. Should one take the trouble to cross it, one is immediately confronted with a prison fence. Beyond the fence once lay the Lagoon Garden, long ago lost to development. It’s a disappointing end to the garden tour and perhaps why some visitors find Vizcaya slightly melancholy.

Modest to the last, Chalfin took full credit for the gardens. Only in the 1950s did Francis Burrall Hoffman Jr. reveal the truth, allowing Suarez to be acknowledged as the creator of one of the most significant formal gardens in the United States. The irony is that for each of the main protagonists – Deering, Chalfin, Hoffman and Suarez – Vizcaya was to be the greatest achievement of their lives and certainly the only one for which they would be remembered. Having moved to Vizcaya on Christmas Day 1916, Deering enjoyed his fantasy for a mere nine years before dying aboard the SS City of Paris in 1925, aged 65. Despite earning high praise for Vizcaya, Chalfin never landed another major project, although he returned in 1934 to advise on repairs following a major hurricane. Hoffman went to war in 1917 and on return continued designing houses for wealthy clients, although none as remarkable as the one that made his name. Suarez married Evelyn Marshall Field, the department store heiress, in 1937 and appears to have gone into diplomatic service after that.

Vizcaya today is a popular museum and tourist attraction, much as country houses are here in the UK. It is also Miami’s most sought after wedding venue. On any day of the week it’s almost impossible to avoid photographers and aspiring models draping themselves over crumbling walls or lounging on stone benches. The gardens are more than adequately maintained and by no means shabby, however Hurricane Irma took its toll, almost destroying the pretty tea house at one end of the quay and tossing obelisks and balustrades hither and thither around the breakwater barge. Many of the fountains no longer play and the wilder Lagoon Garden was lost in the 50s when Vizcaya was transferred to public ownership by Deering’s nieces. The cost of maintaining the estate in full would have been crippling in today’s climate, so it’s perhaps fortunate that parts were let go. The image below shows the lost portion of the garden in the top, left-hand corner, as well as fully-grown trees on the Venetian barge in front of the villa. When Deering was in residence guests would have been rowed out to this ornate artificial island on gondolas to dine beneath the stars.

What is perhaps saddest is that whilst the villa itself enjoyed its heyday, the gardens never did. They were completed in 1923, just two years before Deering’s death. Photographs from that time show a garden in its youth, all sharp, hard landscaping and lacking any softness.

Both Deering and Chalfin had sought to recreate the sense of history and antiquity they had fallen in love with on their travels and yet only now, around 100 years later, can that really be experienced in earnest. For all his wealth Deering could not buy his health, but in Vizcaya he bestowed upon his country one of the greatest and most theatrical houses and gardens of its age. TFG.

* Rockland hammock is a rich tropical hardwood forest on upland sites in areas where limestone is very near the surface and often exposed.

Winter thus far has consisted of a handful of slightly chilly nights with a lot of benign, mild, wet weather in between. The garden is bursting with signs of spring, some of which I have captured to illustrate this post. Rosa banksiae ‘Lutea’ is already blooming, at least 2 months earlier than usual. Legions of tulips are emerging from the ground and we are enjoying generous pots of bright blue Iris reticulata and shocking-pink Cyclamen coum.

Here at The Watch House we haven’t suffered any frost, despite cars on the street outside being smothered in rime on several occasions. The walls, trees and buildings that surround the house create a unique and favourable microclimate. Right now, only the most cold-sensitive plants are showing any sign of distress, but there’s a threat equal to frost on the way across the Atlantic – a storm named Ciara.

Needless to say, the media are beside themselves with glee at the prospect of major travel disruption, danger to life, widespread power cuts and coastal flooding. A violent storm is a gift for journalists because they can feel gratified if the forecast is correct and blame the Met Office if their predictions don’t come to pass. And we all recall what understatement did for Michael Fish’s reputation in 1987 ….

Before Storm Ciara makes landfall, here are some sensible precautions that all gardeners can take when strong winds are predicted.

1. Batten Down the Hatches

Ensure anything loose or moveable is weighted down or brought inside. Serious damage can be caused by objects that were not designed to fly through the air, including garden tools, hose reels, dustbins, play equipment and garden furniture. Put vulnerable items in a shed or garage if you can, otherwise move them to a sheltered spot. Barbecue and furniture covers can be ripped off and deposited some distance away, so secure these with bungee cords or remove them temporarily. Trampolines can cause significant disruption if blown onto roads or railway lines.

Similarly, cloches, fleece and other forms of winter plant protection can be torn from the plants they were there to protect, so pin or tie these down as best you can.

High winds can topple pots of any size, so bunch these together and ensure they are well-watered before the storm hits. Move anything that might topple away from glass windows and doors, including greenhouses and conservatories. Window boxes and hanging baskets should be removed and placed on the ground where they cannot fall on anyone. If in doubt, move it: the aggravation and distress caused by broken glass or smashed terracotta is not worth the gamble.

If you have a pond, cover it with netting or chicken wire to prevent detritus from blowing in. During the winter months organic material does not break down as fast as in summer, resulting in a build up of toxic ammonia and making the pond water too acidic. Heavy rain will go some way to diluting any toxins, but the problem is best avoided in the first place.

2. Make Good and Mend

Check your shed roof for for missing felt and patch up where possible. If your garden fence has any loose panels, secure these immediately with screws or nails: there’s nothing worse than having a whole border annihilated by 6ft square of treated softwood. Make sure shed doors and greenhouse windows are firmly closed.

3. Keep Thin and Flexible

It has been a long time since these two words were applied to my good self, but they are wise to observe when it comes to one’s garden. During the winter months many trees have open canopies where foliage has fallen. Evergreens are most susceptible to winter storm damage, so thin crowns if at all possible and remove any branches that are touching property – when flailing about in a storm they can easily break glass, rip off a gutter or crush a car. Shrubs and trees in exposed locations should be staked temporarily using ties which have a degree of flexibility. Don’t secure a trunk so firmly that it cannot bend slightly in the wind – there is a possibility it will simply snap.

If you have not pruned roses, buddleja, abutilons or lavateras yet, do so tomorrow. Wind rock can be extremely damaging to these plants as well as any trees and shrubs you’ve planted in the last few months. The less material above ground the safer these plants will be.

4. Safety First

Last but not least, once Ciara or any other storm has set in, do not attempt to rescue a situation unless it is 100% safe to do so. Your neighbours may not be as diligent as you, meaning airborne debris could come at you from any angle, including above. On more than one occasion I have chosen to attempt saving a precious tree from falling and can attest to the invincible force of strong wind hitting a dense canopy. Unless you are Giant Haystacks it’s not worth taking the risk.

If you are determined to venture out this Sunday or Monday, keep in mind that many gardens, parks and arboreta usually open to the public will remain closed if there is danger of injury through falling trees or branches. My advice is to stay indoors, snuggle up on the sofa and enjoy a good book or blockbuster film until Ciara has blown herself out. TFG.

Oh, the inconvenience; first Ciara, now Dennis, putting paid to any plans we had to tend our allotment or work in the garden this weekend. We could have braved the elements, but it would have been no fun at all and terrible for the earth. Nothing for it other than to stay indoors and wait for calmer conditions. Could February’s weather be any more inconsiderate? Must it only be windy on Saturdays and Sundays? How long will it be before Storm Ellen whistles down our chimneys, saturates our soil and rocks our roses?

Don’t misunderstand me, I have dozens of pressing indoor jobs that need doing, but I am looking for any excuse not to do them. I’ve ordered seeds and summer bulbs (both have arrived and are awaiting planting time) and I’ve tidied the workshop; I’ve even read a few books, but what I really want to do is go outside and get my hands dirty.

On wet, wild weekends like these I have to entertain myself by tending to our houseplants. Since moving to The Watch House permanently almost three years ago their number has burgeoned. There must be over one hundred and fifty now, scattered over windowsills, shelves and floors across four storeys. They range from ferns to cacti and include several large specimens that came from Cornwall with The Beau last summer. Two new plants joined their ranks this weekend – Euphorbia trigona ‘Rubra’, the African milk tree, a Valentine’s gift from The Beau, and Aporocactus flagelliformis ‘Melanie’, the rat tail cactus, an indulgent gift to myself.

Indoors is our final frontier. The last piece of real estate that’s not already packed to the gunwales with plants. Good news is that there’s room for a few more.

At least once a fortnight I like to go around the house checking my houseplants for dead leaves, mould, pests and diseases. It’s easy to forget about them in the winter months, especially when it’s dark when one goes to work and comes home at night. In a centrally-heated house, pests such as scale insect, whitefly, greenfly and red spider mite can get out of hand incredibly quickly, so it’s worth keeping an eye out for tell-tale signs of trouble. In most cases pests can be wiped off with a damp cloth rather than using nasty chemicals. Plants that prefer a humid atmosphere – ferns, bromeliads and aroids – require regular misting to prevent them from dehydrating. Standing pots on trays of gravel also helps.

I find the main cause of house plants looking sickly at this time of year is simply lack of light. When days are short and sunless, even those that would normally curl up and die on a bright windowsill need considerably more light to stay healthy. I know the feeling! I will start feeding towards the end of March to give them a boost before summer.

Draughts are the other winter menace, imperceptible at armchair level, but if I sit on the library floor or on the stairs I can feel them extending their icy sinews around the house. Plants such as calathea detest drafts and will quickly develop crisp-edged leaves unless moved out of harm’s way.

As with outdoor plants, I learn what works indoors through trial and error. Plants are easily moved if they start to look unhappy. I steer clear of most flowering plants, apart from the odd abutilon, streptocarpus or orchid, as these tend to be a lot more demanding than foliage plants. (Primulas are my nemesis – I love them, but they always die within days of coming indoors.)

The Beau is in charge of watering. During the winter this is a once-a-week, hour-long task, except the garden room where a weekend refresh is appreciated by some of the pot-bound residents. Airplants are misted daily if we remember and succulents are kept on the dry side. As a rule under-watering is far easier to remedy than over-watering: during the winter a soggy potful can take an age to dry out, by which time the poor plant may have started to rot. We keep our spare bedrooms cool but not cold so that plants are not encouraged to grow too quickly towards the light and become ‘drawn’.

We try hard to harvest enough rainwater to keep lime-sensitive plants such as tillandsia and stag’s horn fern healthy: they detest our chalky tap water here in Thanet. If Dennis lives up to his reputation the washing-up bowls we put outside to catch the rain will be full by morning. As I write the wind is building and the woodburner is drawing beautifully. The dogs are prostrated before it, glad to be home after a wet walk. Time to down tools and pour myself a gin and tonic. I recommend you do the same. TFG.

This week my work took me to Stockholm to visit a potential supplier. I always look forward to visiting the Swedish capital since the public transport is efficient, the city is small and the air is so clean that it makes one’s nostrils tingle. What’s more, there’s an all-pervading air of quality which is common to all Scandinavian cities. The architecture, unsullied by the devastation of war, is pretty special too. As luck would have it, my hotel was situated directly opposite Humlegården, a large public park anchored by the imposing Swedish Royal Library. Between sunrise and the start of the working day I went to explore.

Humlegården was originally a royal garden, founded in 1626 by King Gustav II Adolf for the cultivation of hops (Humulus lupulus). Whilst today many of us enjoy the occasional beer, in the Middle Ages people could not get enough of it (in London it was deemed safer to drink than water, which was probably true). Beer consumption in Sweden was so high that according to King Gustav Vasa in 1530, one-ninth of the value of iron produced in Sweden was spent on importing hops in order to sate the nation’s incredible thirst.

Unfortunately the chosen site did not prove especially productive and so after ten years plans were hatched to redesign the garden in the French style. That plan never came to fruition, but fruit did come in the form of hundreds of apple, pear, cherry and plum trees. Once again there were problems, ones that all gardeners will relate to: Stockholm’s wildlife failed to acknowledge the garden’s royal status and pillaged the kingly produce at will. As a result the gardeners spent most of their time shooting birds and rodents rather than tending to their trees.

In the 1680s Queen Ulrika Eleonora began the slow transformation of Humlegården into an ornamental park by commissioning Nicodemus Tessin the Younger to build a spectacular summerhouse. This was later replaced by a rotunda used for theatrical performances until that was also demolished. In 1885, a few years after the imposing new Royal Library building was completed, a statue commemorating esteemed botanist and zoologist Carl Linnaeus was erected in roughly the same place as the queen’s summerhouse. By now the garden had been greatly simplified and relaid in the English style with avenues, serpentine walks and a collection of specimen trees.

February is almost certainly not the best month in which to enjoy the pleasures of Humlegården, but it is excellent if one wishes to study its layout. The park is now surrounded by elegant streets and tree-lined avenues housing shops and businesses. In the winter everything appears bare and parched, although I spied a few clumps of snowdrops thrusting bravely through the frosted ground. The picture in summer is very different and reminiscent of London’s Green Park, one of eight Royal parks in the British capital. There are open lawns and shady groves thronged with city folk and tourists looking for somewhere to relax and pass the time.

Tucked away in a quite corner you’ll find Omnipollos Flora, an establishment serving craft beer during the summer months. As customers quaff their chilled öl (ale) beneath the trees, I wonder if they realise they are maintaining a tradition which has had its roots in this place for more than five hundred years. TFG.

I have decided to start a garden diary. It’s been over 30 years since I last kept any form of journal so I can’t be certain whether I’ll stick with it. I guess there’s only one way to find out. Now we have an allotment I feel I should keep better records of our gardening exploits. A diary will also be interesting to look back on – especially if I ever get around to writing my memoirs. Henceforth my Monday morning commute is spoken for: diary entries then a short snooze before the working week begins. Here goes:

Saturday 1st

Fifty sacks of horse manure arrive at the allotment courtesy of our friend Heather. It’s the second delivery in as many weeks. The manure has been rotting down for five years and is completely odourless. Unctuous clods of black gold are threaded through with gleaming maroon worms. I spot a handful of thick white roots and fear they might belong to bindweed. They are hastily removed and disposed of, just in case. The manure covers one large bed and a third of another. We ask nicely for another fifty sacks in order to finish the job in two weeks’ time.

There is a huge heap of chipped bark at the entrance to the allotment so we use it to freshen up the paths between each allotment bed. It appears to mostly be ivy wood and I hope it’s not full of seeds. Back at The Watch House one of our most common weeds is ivy, deposited on the ground by birds that have been greedily scoffing the powdery black berries since autumn. The paths look so much smarter and feel bouncy underfoot. I wonder if we should have used a thicker layer, but wanted to leave some for the other allotmenteers.

Several wooden crates have been sitting outside the allotment gates for over a week. We ask around and are told we can help ourselves. They are incredibly heavy but strongly constructed and will make excellent compost bins …. at least we hope so. We take two (The Beau vetoes a third) plus a crate lid. It’s a very long time since I last made my own compost, so in the evening I buy myself a copy of Nicky Scott’s ‘How to Make and Use Compost’. I am disappointed and surprised by the scant information provided in almost every book I have on vegetable gardening or allotmenteering and am already finding Nicky’s advice invaluable.

We stop at the garden centre to buy fibre pots and trays on which to stand them. We do well to ignore the tables groaning with brightly-coloured packets of bulbs and tubers – gladioli, dahlias, begonias and lilies – but we return later in the day with a long list of vegetable seeds to buy and find every variety bar three, which are put on order. I thank my lucky stars that we have this brilliant local shop. We’d be completely lost without it.

Sunday 2nd

Heavy rain overnight; heavy enough to come through the top bedroom ceiling; something else that needs fixing. The garden looks enlivened. The downpour will have started the process of integrating yesterday’s top-dressing of manure with the soil beneath it.

We are both achy from lifting so we do very little until midday when we venture out to the workshop to plant onion sets in modules. I am very rusty when it comes to vegetable growing so have turned to watching You Tube videos to get myself up to speed. Monty Don came up trumps with the onions. I could listen to that man talking about mass murderers and still find it soothing.

In the New Year I gathered up all the old and unplanted seeds I had and found I had a surprising amount. We plant out-of-date sweet peas (‘Cupani’, ‘Swan Lake’ and ‘Mammoth Blue’) and nasturtiums (‘Crimson Emperor’) and will see what comes up.

The Beau starts chitting his potatoes (‘Anya’, ‘Pink Fir Apple’ and ‘Kestrel’ in the top bedroom (not the leaky one) and we move all the seed trays up there where it will be bright but not too warm. I check the greenhouse but nothing needs watering. I find the greenhouse fairly self-sufficient during the winter but wish it was less packed so that I could get in there and check for pests and diseases. So often I find my gardening ability limited by the space and time to do things properly.

My Instagram followers reach 3000. I am not sure whether this is something to be proud of or not, but I enjoy scrolling back through the images to remind myself of the glories of summer. Instagram is effectively the modern equivalent of a photograph album and it’s also a great source of inspiration. Following gardeners from the Southern Hemisphere ensures one’s feed is full of suggestions about what to plant that can be enjoyed six months hence.

Saturday 8th

Storm Ciara arrives bang on cue. In preparation we have tied up all of the taller plants in the Gin & Tonic Garden using soft ties or bungee cord. It’s better that there is some ‘give’ in the material as the wind pummels the garden with forceful gusts powerful enough to snap or topple anything held completely rigid. Our most precious plants are moved into the workshop or the garden room. Nothing is left to chance. I protect the new shoots of Sonchus palmensis with a plastic carrier bag tied carefully to the trunk.

With the fire lit and dogs slumbering on either side of me, I place an order for summer bulbs; seven varieties of gladioli to brighten the allotment, lilies to replenish pots where vine weevils have taken their toll and a small packet of Pleione ‘Tongariro’ to add to my collection. I find these diminutive orchids so easy and satisfying to grow.

Sunday 9th

Rain finds its way into the house through the roof of the garden room and again through the ceiling of the top bedroom. For the first time in ten years I see the trunk of the narrow-leaved bay (Laurus nobilis ‘Angustifolia’) moving appreciably in the storm. The last time this happened the tree was considerably smaller and I could hold it back with my own strength. No chance of that now it’s over 30ft tall. I dread a repeat of last spring’s calamity when the ironwood was toppled. At its peak, Storm Ciara blew through the Jungle Garden at 72mph, which is the strongest wind I can recall here in almost 14 years.

Saturday 15th

Another weekend, another storm, this time named Dennis. We cancel our third manure delivery since horse boxes, motorways and high winds are a dangerous combination. We don’t much fancy spreading muck on a windswept allotment either.

Every fortnight I give the plants in the garden room a thorough inspection, removing dead and dying leaves and rearranging if necessary. It’s been a dull winter so far and the plants look as desperate for sunshine as I am. My paper whites have been terribly disappointing this year – the bulbs that came were very small and there have been more leaves than flowers. The lesson here is always to buy the best you can, not the cheapest.

Saturday 22nd

We find ourselves at a loose end having been forced to cancel a weekend visiting family and friends in Cornwall. The car went to Mini heaven on Monday and it will be another week before we collect a replacement, hastily chosen by two complete car-buying novices. The only consolation is that it can’t possibly be any less reliable than The Beau’s other, now ex, Cooper. Let’s hope this one doesn’t go the same way.

Up at the allotment we are reminded of the importance of planning and preparation. Having walked all the way there we realise we have forgotten half of the equipment we need to get the day’s jobs done. We construct a framework on which to train the loganberry bush that I was given for my birthday using huge stakes purchased last year to support the fallen ironwood. Why is it that there is always one stake, cane, screw or nail that won’t go in when you’re trying to get them in a neat row? We gave up with stake number five after it hit concrete or solid chalk. Stake number four then proceeded to lean at an angle as we tightened the galvanised wires strung between them all. There was clearly a more professional way to do this job, however the framework will suffice. The good thing about an allotment is that it’s more functional than ornamental …. and that I won’t be sharing it with the public.

We start thinning the woefully overgrown strawberry bed. There are more strawberry plants outside the confines of the bed than there are inside. It’s hard to know where to start. Secretly I’d like to rip the whole lot out and start again, but I detest waste and so we will make the most of what we’ve got. If the results are not good we can start again next year with new plants.

Sunday 23rd

Going to the allotment on a Sunday to harvest vegetables for the week ahead is a task I could easily get used to. Although we can take no responsibility whatsoever for the abundance of kale and purple sprouting on our plot, we can at least honour the efforts of the previous allotmenteer by eating it all. Fortunately purple sprouting is one of my favourite vegetables so we’ll be planting a new crop in the spring.

Back at The Watch House we decide it’s time to move pots full of narcissi, tulips and hyacinths into position to create this year’s bulb theatre. Rain keeps threatening so we make haste and neglect to separate out the two colour schemes. The Beau has chosen mainly white and red varieties, whereas I have gone back to my preferred palette of oranges, rusts, purples and plums. They will not look good combined, so at some stage we must move one set around to the Gin & Tonic Garden to be enjoyed in splendid isolation.

Saturday 29th

Storm Jorge has arrived. No gardening today as everything is too cold and wet. We collect our new car from the showroom in Canterbury – a Kia. It is brown – Sienna Brown to be precise. I’d call it Bitter Chocolate. You’d think brown would not show the dirt but it does. There’s not much legroom in the rear for passengers but I expect the back seats will mostly be occupied by plants.

Despondent after three weekends of storm and pestilence, yet feeling flush after pay day, I decide to place my Dibleys order. It’s amazing how quickly one can spend a small fortune on plug plants. Coming our way, alongside the regular coleus order, are Begonias ‘Connie Boswell’, ‘Dawnal Meyer’ and maculata ‘Wightii’; Saintpaulias ‘Senk’s Vespa Verde’ and ‘Optimara Myjoy’ (seriously, who comes up with these names?); and Kohlerias ‘Sunshine’, ‘Amanda’, ‘Flashdance’ and ‘Brazil Gem’. Goodness only knows where they will all go. We ran out of windowsill space in January. TFG.

Late last summer we paid a flying visit to Dyson’s Nurseries at Great Comp near Sevenoaks in Kent. It was all rather unsatisfactory as we were short of time and had our pups Max and Millie in tow. We couldn’t take them into the garden (although I snuck in to use the loo, which was torture as I wanted a proper look) and we had to dash around the nursery like dervishes in order to stay on schedule. Fortunately it does not take either of us long to make a decision about buying a plant, so within ten minutes we had scooped up a number of them, plus a couple more as gifts for friends.

Dyson’s are legendary for their salvias. The nursery holds a collection which extends to over 250 species and cultivars. Many have scented foliage and most flower throughout the British summer and in to early winter. (My uncle’s Salvia ‘Amistad’ was still in fine fettle on Christmas Day.) Whilst perennial salvias will gaily bloom until late in the year, they are not necessarily hardy and some require winter protection.

One such salvia is S. leucocephala, the white-headed sage. A woody perennial, its tenderness is perhaps less surprising when one considers that it comes from Ecuador. Salvia leucocephala is rare both in the wild and in cultivation and I had not seen plants offered for sale before. I made my purchase based purely on the alluring description: the plain green foliage gives very little away.

On returning home we placed our entire haul in the greenhouse and forgot about it. The first salvia to start flowering was Salvia dombeyi, the giant Bolivian sage. Clusters of pendulous, scarlet flowers emerging from glossy black calyces appeared continuously from November until February. This pleased us both no end and the plant continues to be in rude health. Then, as winter came to a mild and soggy end, Salvia leucocephala started to produce little pyramids of white, wooly calyces at the end of each stem. Finally these opened to reveal striking, maroon flowers, which have lasted several weeks already. Our plant is extremely lanky so we are having to support it using neighbouring plants such as Impatiens balansae and Zantedeschia ‘Hercules’.

As the days get longer and warmer we will now have to start ventilating the greenhouse on sunny days otherwise grey mould (botrytis) will set in. The plants are packed in close, which is a recipe for disaster if the conditions get too stuffy. My greenhouse is not heated, but ideally Salvia leucocephala would like more winter warmth. I also observe that it needs excellent light to stop it from becoming too leggy, as does Salvia dombeyi. Experts advise pruning after flowering, which I will do before repotting and standing the plant outside for summer.

Salvia leucocephala would look sensational planted in a well-drained gravel garden or in a large pot on a hot, sunny terrace with herbs and olives. Stake it well or provide with a shrubby companion to scramble through. Then provide warmth and shelter in the winter and you’ll be turning heads in February and March when everyone else is reliant on daffodils and forsythia for excitement. TFG.

Who could have predicted that the Month of March would end as it did? Over the course of two weeks our daily routines changed in ways we never imagined possible and there is more of this to come for sure. We are living in a new reality, in the short term at least. We must all do our bit to stay well and keep others from harm. If the worst side effect of that was having to stay indoors and exercise once a day – very much first world problems – that would be okay, but many people will become ill, go hungry or find themselves in long term financial difficulty as a result of this unwelcome virus. Those of us with sufficient means, good company and a garden have nothing to complain about.

It’s hard to predict at this moment, but surely we’ll come out of this affair changed for ever? For the sake of all those who will suffer, let’s hope it’s very much for the better. I am already fitter and lighter than I have been in years thanks to the amount of time I am spending on the allotment or walking the dogs. I am also getting a lot more time to myself now that I no longer have to commute for five hours a day. In that time I am sowing seeds, communicating with friends and tending our allotment. Having cancelled two long weekends away, we have found ourselves able to bring forward jobs we didn’t expect to do until April or May or, indeed, ever. I regret that I still haven’t found a lot of time for cleaning or reading, but I am cooking a little more thanks to encouragement from The Beau.

Without further ado, here’s what happened at The Watch House and Plot 64a Culmers Allotments this month:

Sunday 1st

Rain, rain go away! The ground is still too soggy to be worked. Our neighbours, whose plots occupy ground on a gentle slope, are having a bit more luck creating a fine tilth for sowing. We need to be patient for now. The Beau is itching to plant his onions out. They have been growing in modules for a few weeks and are starting to get leggy. We make a start on the compost bin by lining one of our salvaged shipping crates with cardboard. We have plenty of fresh and dry compostable material to get the first one going, covering the whole thing with recycled plastic sheeting to keep the warmth in and excessive moisture out. We desperately need to get new felt on our shed roof before the wood underneath is too badly damaged, but the wind never abates for long enough.

Saturday 7th

Finally I get around to drawing up a plan of the allotment based on The Beau’s measurements. The plot measures fifteen metres by fifteen metres and slopes very slightly to the north (south is at the top of the plan shown below, north is at the bottom). It is a handsome plot with decent chalky loam soil and friendly neighbours. It only takes us a matter of minutes to decide what should go where since we’ve been discussing it for a couple of months. Despite having ample room we still have no bed assigned to brassicas. Given the success of the purple sprouting broccoli we inherited from the previous tenant, we need to remedy this.

We plant Jerusalem artichokes into warm, wet earth and cover the purple sprouting with netting to stop the greedy wood pigeons getting there before us. There is much more activity on the allotment now and plenty of people to talk or wave to. A profusion of white plum blossom on the plot next door indicates that spring is just around the corner.

Sunday 8th

Our friend Heather and her husband Ben arrive with another horse box filled with five-year-old manure. Each sack is oozes with goodness and pink worms that remind me of strawberry boot laces from the corner shop. It is a beautiful day with the sun shining and birds singing in the trees, yet we are puzzled as to why we have neither seen a blackbird nor a robin on the allotment to date. We can only assume it’s down to the allotment cat, Mr Findus, who regularly patrols the paths dividing one plot from the other.

Frustration at the haphazard layout of the beds encourages me to straighten a few of them up, starting with Bed 3, which is where we will plant a collection of dahlias. I plant thyme and tricolour sage (Salvia officinalis ‘Tricolor’) in the herb bed, which has been cleared of copious couch grass and a surplus of mint.

Our first compost bin is already full to the brim.

Friday 13th

After work we start potting up dahlia tubers in fresh compost. We lost one or two over the winter – entirely our own fault – but there were no tragedies. On the outdoor kitchen worktop Pleione formosana ‘Claire’ is starting to flower. Her blooms are milky white with lemon-yellow throats. The Jungle Garden is heady with the fragrance of hyacinths and the first few tulips are showing hints of colour in their emerging buds.

Saturday 14th

Although we had no idea at the time, this was to be the last weekend we would be free to go out and about at will for the foreseeable future. At home The Beau sowed seed of a variety of castor oil plants, including Ricinus communis ‘Carmencita Pink’, Ricinus communis ‘Carmencita Red’, Ricinus communis ‘Zanzibarensis’, Ricinus ‘New Zealand Purple’ and Ricinus communis ‘Blue Giant’. Quite where we are going to plant them if they all germinate I do not know!

The edging around most of the allotment beds is made from old palettes and is completely rotten. It serves no purpose other than to keep bark chippings from mixing with the earth, and that it does poorly. I repair the edges as well as I can using treated hardwood pegs, but a time will come when we need to either take them away or replace them with properly treated timber.

We plant the potatoes that have been chitting in the top bedroom, including ‘Anja’, ‘Pink Fir Apple’, ‘Cara’ and ‘Kestrel’. At the bottom of each trench we lay a decent amount of cast seaweed, collected that very day from the beach. (You can read more about using seaweed in the garden or on the compost heap in my post ‘From Coastline to Compost Bin – Using Seaweed as a Garden Fertiliser and Soil Improver‘ on March 13th). The potato bed is now full, so that will be our lot for 2020.

I’m amazed at how quickly we are filling the beds. As we finish planting we hear a rattling at the allotment gates and there’s a chap wanting to know if anyone can make use of two oak planters, still with soil and bay tree stumps inside. We are getting accustomed to finding uses for things we’d previously have turned our noses up at, so we gleefully take them off his hands. The tree stumps go on Bed 1, otherwise known as the ‘Mount Doom’ since it’s riddled with bindweed, brambles, docks and couch grass. Any compost that falls away is spread on the dahlia bed.

Back home with a G&T in hand we order yet more dahlia tubers from Sarah Raven. Buying dahlias, as you will soon discover, is an addiction neither of us can shake off.

Friday 20th

Although the office where I work has been closed since Monday, I have been visiting a supplier in Dorset all week and have yet to experience sustained working from home. I return home to Broadstairs to find half the local businesses I rely on closed for the foreseeable future. The other half display defiant posters in their windows declaring that ‘Broadstairs is Open for Business’. For the first time I start to feel rather alarmed by the situation. It’s suddenly very close to home, effecting people I know and places I go.

We had already booked the day off as holiday to spend time with The Beau’s family in Somerset. Given this was technically ‘unnecessary travel’ we decided to stay at home and go to the allotment instead. In another fit of neatening we increase the size of the beds on the western boundary of the plot by 30-50cm to create strip beds in which we’ll plant the extra dahlias purchased last week. Every bed is fringed by couch grass, which The Beau calls ‘squitch’. Getting the white roots out is hampered by the wretched wooden edging.

Since our local garden centre is one of the defiant group of retailers staying open, we stock up on compost which we store in the workshop (as it turns out this was not nearly enough, which I am still cross with myself about). I check the propagator and find that the nasturtiums and calendulas I sowed last weekend have already germinated. They are promptly moved to the unheated greenhouse to prevent them from getting too drawn.

Saturday 21st

The weather is marvellous and we have time on our hands, so we decide to crack on with the painting of the fence in the Gin & Tonic Garden. This job was started by The Beau last summer, but very quickly the plants became too tall and we decided to suspend the project until later in the year. Autumn and winter were then so wet that we had to wait until now to resume. Nevertheless, there are tens of plants to be moved, some in very heavy tubs, and getting behind the greenhouse is challenging.

While The Beau paints I clear the back path of a pelargonium named ‘Orange Fizz’ that has flopped over the paving stones. The scent of the cut stems is reminiscent of orange peal. I tie in vigorous new clematis growth: some of the shoots are 5ft long already, but one or two plants need replacing.

We retire, sun-kissed and with aching backs, to enjoy fish and chips for supper.

Sunday 22nd

Still recovering from yesterday’s exertions we punish ourselves with a full day at the allotment. Bed 12 was the last to be cleared of weeds so is doubly satisfying to see completed. The neighbouring plot is infested with bindweed, so this is something we’ll need to keep a watchful eye on.

Some of the purple sprouting has been mutilated by wood pigeons so we remove these plants and add them to the compost heap.

In the evening I start devising a planting plan for our dahlias, grouping similar colours together but trying to vary the form of the flowers. There are a few gaps in our scheme so we hedge around the subject of buying more to fill them. We’re incorrigible.

Monday 23rd

Following Boris’ broadcast isolation begins in earnest. In the evening we sow sweet peas (The Beau’s favourite, ‘Cupani’), Purple magnolia sugar-snap peas, purple snow peas, ‘Tom Thumb’ peas, Persicaria orientalis (aka ‘kiss-me-over-the-garden-gate’) and mixed lettuce.

Whilst walking the dogs I make my daily collection of seaweed to enrich the compost heap. Our wonderful local garden centre closes in line with government advice bringing life as we know it to an abrupt end. I am devastated for all retailers having to shut up shop, but especially those smaller businesses without means to sustain them. What, I wonder, will happen to all the plants being grown by nurseries for summer? Will we ever have the opportunity to buy them?

Wednesday 25th

I’ve been catching a faint whiff of gas in the passageway leading to the front door for a few days and finally conclude it must be a leak somewhere. Within thirty minutes of phoning the emergency number a man is here to assess the leak and concludes, like me, that there must be one. A crew arrives around an hour later to dig up the path and fix the leak, another comes in the afternoon to reconnect the supply and check our boiler is working. It’s all terribly efficient. The workmen place bollards and barriers everywhere, which I remove as soon as they’ve gone. This is The Watch House not the M2 roadworks.

Already bored with self isolation we drink wine and order a dozen dahlia cuttings from the National Dahlia Collection in Cornwall. What is wrong with us? One of my choices is Dahlia ‘Tour du Monde’. I like dahlias with a slightly more informal shape and the potential for cutting.

Thursday 26th

Today I help out at my local Waitrose branch, which is a serene affair given the maximum number of customers permitted in the shop at any one time is thirty. I think we all rather enjoy the experience. Unless one wants crisps, flour or pasta one can dine like a king and drink one’s self silly. Just be sparing with the toilet roll afterwards.

At the end of my shift I purchase four hollyhocks (Alcea ‘Halo Apricot’), just because I can. After all, the garden centres are closed so where else is a boy to indulge? The hollyhocks will be planted randomly within the allotment beds to give the impression that they have seeded themselves there. It’s important to me that our allotment plot is pretty as well as productive.

Friday 27th

More men come to reinstate the garden path following the gas leak. Alas they don’t take the barriers away with them; that’s someone else’s job.

In the Jungle Garden Geranium maderense is building up to a crescendo. We have five plants ready to bloom, three pink and two white. They’ve reached a terrific size, over 6ft across, and have come through the winter unblemished. For now the buds are teasing us with glimpses of the confetti-like petals within. When they go, they’ll go off like an atomic bomb, forming mushrooms clouds of Barbie-pink or blush-white blossom.

We ordered a new freezer to store allotment produce and it arrives today. It will now end up filled with supplies to see us through the immediate crisis. When the delivery men depart (they’ll only come as far as gate in case we are ‘unclean’) we set off for the allotment. As usual I am wheeling a barrow full of garden waste and seaweed for the compost heap. If anyone could actually see me I’d be earning a reputation for being ‘that weird beardy man with a purple wheelbarrow who goes up and down the street all the time’. (When I purchased the wheelbarrow the only one available was purple and, although I was extended an opportunity to change it for another colour at a later date, I decided I’d keep it.)

The Beau starts putting up bean poles (we don’t have quite enough, which is annoying) and we pull up spent purple sprouting plants in Bed 6. I begin digging it over ready for the next crop, which will be salads, beets and edible flowers.

A feature on Gardeners’ World explains that dahlias grown from cuttings are more vigorous than plants grown from seed, which we graciously accept as divine justification for the purchases we made earlier in the week.

Saturday 28th

Another full day at the allotment, complete with thermos flask and sandwiches wrapped in foil. Being allowed one spell outside a day makes one very organised indeed. It’s sunny but extraordinarily windy and when the sun goes in it’s perishing. We harvest the remaining purple sprouting and pull out all the plants bar one. I spend a satisfying couple of hours painstakingly preparing the bed for seed sowing. As the wind strengthens we quickly sow Radish ‘French Breakfast 3’, mixed beetroot, rhubarb chard ‘Peppermint’ and Papaver somniferum (opium poppy) ‘Black Single’.

Meanwhile The Beau paints our salvaged planters with left-over wood preservative from the Gin & Tonic Garden and suddenly they look as good as new. Sadly they are not as solid as they look so we’ll line them with plastic sheeting before filling with compost. We have two large tree stakes left over from another project and we turn them into maypoles from which strings will come down to support climbing French beans. I may have to tuck a few nasturtiums in around the bottom.

By now the sun has disappeared behind the clouds and we are frozen to the core. After planting four rows of Gladiolus ‘Shaka Zulu’ and G. ‘Bimbo’ we call a halt to proceedings and head for home to warm up.

Sunday 29th

A ferociously cold wind blows in from the north. It’s a very long time since I’ve seen such big waves in the English Channel. We’re too tired and lily-livered to go out in it, so we stay indoors and blog.

Monday 30th

The contrast between yesterday’s bitterly cold wind with snow flurries and today’s benign warmth is typical of springtime in England. During last night’s dog walk we could barely breathe as we battled a north wind straight off the arctic. Today, after a chilly start, it was ‘T-shirt weather’.

Following a morning of sowing seeds in the workshop – exotics including Wercklea ferox, Solanum quitoense and Deppea splendens – we enjoy lunch in the garden. Our pups are adoring this ‘stay at home’ lark as they have their daddies around all day, plus they love the sun.

The afternoon is spent repotting cannas, lilies and eucomis and potting up begonia tubers. I can’t stress enough how important it is to pot bulbs up in fresh compost each year as we found several pots riddled with vine weevil larvae. We must have sifted a couple of hundred out of the compost, vile little things.

Tuesday 31st

After a very stressful day being ‘modern’ and enduring a technological bombardment about as comfortable as a meteor shower, I make a beeline for the garden. The compost sifted yesterday is transported by wheelbarrow to the allotment. I count this as my daily exercise. The broad beans that The Beau planted last month are hardening off on top of the compost bin and are almost ready to be planted out.

When I get home I pot up 12 fuchsias ordered from Potash Nursery by The Beau last year. They include Fuchsia boliviana var. ‘Alba’, Fuchsia denticulata, Fuchsia fulgens ‘Variegata’ and Fuchsia ‘Scarlet Jester’. The cuttings arrive well packaged and in perfect health and we are delighted with them.

As this tumultuous month draws to a close the Jungle Garden is looking as good as it has ever done, enjoying the extra light created by the tree which was blown down a year ago. I have a good feeling about the year ahead, in gardening terms at least. Necessity is, after all, the mother of invention.

I leave you with Maximillian Sydney Bruiser, our totally adorable and epically needy Chihuahua / Jack Russell cross. TFG

Oh the irony. For the last three years our National Gardens Scheme area organiser has been asking if we’d open the garden for a spring viewing and this year we thought we might just take the plunge. It’s always been such a guessing game, anticipating when the daffodils and tulips might be at their best, added to which we are often away precisely when the display peaks. Of course, Sod’s law, this year the Jungle Garden is looking better than ever, it’s a riot of unselfconscious colour flattered by copious amounts of green. All our stars are aligned, bar one: thanks to Covid 19 we can’t open and nor can anyone come and visit. It’s a great pity. Despite that we are loving every moment in our own private Keukenhof, especially given the fine weather we’ve been enjoying over Easter.

For the first time in many years we planted up part of the raised bed with tulip bulbs last autumn. This exercise is always reliant on there being open ground available, but having removed some dahlias, and after lifting the canopy of our bay tree, we had a golden opportunity. We deliberately selected shorter, sturdier cultivars that would survive the wind that whips along this stretch of the garden. They included ‘Orange Dynasty’, ‘Showcase’, ‘Slawa’ and ‘Request’. Tulip ‘Apricot Beauty’ has flopped both visually and physically; the flowers have proved too pale and pasty in the company of the others, and the stems have also proved too weak.

Planting tulips in the raised bed has added a new dimension to our spring bulb display and will be built on for 2021. Whilst we have managed to get tulips flowering from the sunny front edge to the dry, shady back edge, we are lacking height. Next year we plan to add crown imperials (Fritillaria imperialis) to remedy that and to add drama and exoticism to the display. We both love crown imperials and I even enjoy the foxy smell. In pots, F. ‘Orange Beauty’ (below) is doing exceptionally well. We also have plans to remove the large table and take the rows of pots through from one end of the garden to the other, creating more of a bulb ‘grandstand’ than a ‘theatre’. As usual, this will depend on time and money rather than ambition.

I am frequently asked what I do with all my bulbs once they’ve finished flowering. Daffodils are allowed to die down and are stored dry in their pots until August or September, when the bigger bulbs are repotted in fresh compost. Tulips, without exception, go on the compost heap and I order fresh ones over the summer. Some people are appalled by this (including The Beau), but it’s really not worth the effort and disappointment of storing and growing bulbs that are unlikely to re-flower satisfactorily. Our tulips will receive the same treatment this year, but the daffodils will go up to the allotment where they’ll be planted in rows, ‘in the green’, to be grown as cut flowers next spring. There is space between the rows of autumn-fruiting raspberries which will be perfect for daffodils.

We have a couple of new favourites this year, Narcissus ‘Pink Charm’ and N. ‘June Allyson’. Unusually for J. Parker’s, the bulbs we ordered as Narcissus ‘Altruist’, the most gorgeous orange-sherbet daffodil you ever did see, have turned out to be an entirely different cultivar. I’ve no idea which. No matter, they all look marvellously pretty together and we shall buy more ‘Altruist’ for next year.

As for tulips, we picked a colour scheme each; mine for the Jungle Garden and The Beau’s for the Gin & Tonic Garden. For a variety of reasons we never got around to moving the pots into the Gin & Tonic Garden so they’ve all been bundled in together and there’s very little coordination as a consequence. I don’t believe that coordination matters in spring, we’re all just happy to see flowers, whatever colour they may be. The Beau favours tulips with two-tone flowers – either red and white or red and yellow – whilst I tend towards rich, single colours like orange, rust, plum and ruby. I daresay we’ll make more of an effort in the Gin & Tonic Garden next spring but it’s been good (and sensible) to have a single space to focus on for this year.

There are a great many tulips left to bloom, but our favourites so far have been T. ‘Zombie’, T. ‘First Impression’ (personally I think a better name would have been ‘Ronald McDonald’ owing to its garish red and yellow flowers), T. ‘Slawa’ and T. ‘Orange Dynasty’, which is always on my shopping list. All the parrots and viridifloras have yet to bloom, including ‘Black Parrot’, ‘Amazing Parrot’ and ‘Golden Artist’. With luck they’ll be flowering well into May as the exotics start to creep out of the workshop.

I could not sign off without mentioning Geranium maderense, a tender geranium from Madeira that is a signature plant here at The Watch House. It is not at all hardy, which is why it’s rarely seen in gardens outside Cornwall, but when it finds a happy place it seeds around so freely that you’ll never be without it. We have about ten plants in total this year – a mix of the species and a white cultivar named ‘Guernsey White’. They are each beginning to flower and will die shortly after producing a prodigious quantity of seed. I find it difficult to decide whether I like the white or the pink form most – like favourite children it’s impossible to choose. Both are spectacular in leaf and in bloom.

Geranium maderense is a large, lush, monocarpic geranium suited to only the mildest UK gardens. Elsewhere it will grow successfully in a large pot that can be moved inside over winter.

Although we are both working full time through the current lockdown we have a lot more time to spend on the garden and the allotment. This is really paying dividends, not just for our plots, but also for our mental health. I am so much happier being close to home and able to interact with my garden on a daily basis. It’s been wonderful to enjoy the sensation of gardening at leisure rather than under continual pressure, which is how it sometimes is at The Watch House. That pressure will inevitably come as the days get longer and everything starts growing like topsy. So, just for now, I’m going to stop and take satisfaction from being vaguely on top of things. I am certain this was not the Easter break any of us had planned, but it was far from without its pleasures.

Wishing you a happy, healthy week ahead. TFG.

I have been meaning to write an update on the allotment for a little while now. While reading the previous chapter, I am wondering how on earth I am going to adequately convey everything that has happened at the plot. It has changed almost beyond recognition, mostly due to the unseasonably warm and sunny weather we have had recently.

So, I shall just plunge in…

We now have produce in every single raised bed. We are literally squeezing in plants where we can and we still have more at home ‘hardening off’ to take to the plot. Who knows where they will end up?! However, I have found this to be half the fun. We are taking up a tray of seedlings that were destined for a particular bed and when we arrive at the plot, we end up putting them somewhere else entirely, trying to use up every inch of available soil.

As well as beds full of edible produce, we also have a few beds that are devoted to flowers, both for pollinators and for cut flowers at The Watch House. As much as I enjoy growing fresh fruit and veg, I am particularly excited about the flowers, simply for the mass of colour that we are going to enjoy. There is nothing more pleasing at the allotment, or in the garden, than a mass of colourful blooms nodding in the breeze, smothered in bees and butterflies. We have calendula, salvia, gladioli – G. ‘Shaka Zulu’, ‘Flevo Laguna’, ‘Bimbo’, ‘Sancerre’ and ‘Blackjack’, totalling around 150 plants -, cleome, helichrysum, Iceland poppies (Papaver nudicaule), cosmos, chrysanthemums, antirrhinums, cerinthe, datura, eschscholzia, Verbena bonariensis, zinnias and sunflowers: H. ‘Russian Giant’, ‘Double Dandy’, ‘Claret’ and ‘Magic Roundabout’ to name but a few.

It goes without saying that we are growing dahlias. As you can probably guess, we have dedicated a bed or four just to them. In fact, we are growing over forty different varieties on the allotment, and there will be a good number at home in both gardens too (we do love dahlias!). The majority of tuber-grown plants are already in the ground, however we recently received our order of rooted cuttings from The National Dahlia Collection in Cornwall and we are just waiting for them to harden off before planting out – hopefully this will happen at the weekend.

Another bed that excites me is the sweetcorn bed. In it we have three different varieties, ‘Double Red’, ‘Mexican Giant White’ and a standard yellow variety called ‘Incredible F1’. I am very excited about the ‘Mexican Giant White’. If they perform as they should, they will be around 12-15 ft high and their cobs will be around 2 ft long. Now that’s a mouthful!

I have underplanted the sweetcorn with ‘Turks Turban’ squash. They will happily spread themselves under the stems and hopefully give us a decent crop. I’ve also thrown in a couple of ‘Hunter F1’ butternut squash as a little experiment just to see how they perform under the corn. Time will tell and you will, of course, hear all about it.

Our biggest bed is what I refer to as the ‘tomato bed’. There are four varieties – ‘Golden Crown’, ‘San Marzano Plum’, ‘Black Opal’ and ‘Tigerella’. In total we have around 40 plants and, if they all crop well, we will have copious chutneys, sauces and salads. With the tomatoes we have planted two varieties of Cucumber to grow up the Maypoles – ‘Crystal Lemon’ and ‘Burpless Tasty Green’. In between are some climbing beans ‘Selma Zebra’, which produce unusual marbled pods.

TFG has taken it upon himself to grow enough lettuce to feed an army. Because of this, we have a number of different varieties on the plot. A couple of my favourites are ‘Forellenschluss’ and ‘Mascara’. Both have unusual, colourful leaves. We are also growing a number of oriental salad leaves. We have struggled with these as it would appear that flea beetles – aka ‘Destroyers of Crops’ – find them particularly tasty and have ravaged our youngsters. TFG bought some diatomaceous earth which appears to have seen them off, for now.

Another exciting plant is our tromboncino squash. I am very excited to see these beauties grow and develop. Tromboncino is often called a climbing courgette, although it is in fact an heirloom cultivar of the butternut squash from Liguria, Italy. They have a vining habit and can be grown up a trellis or arch, to give an exotic yet edible display. These are in the same bed as courgettes (‘Sunstripe’ and ‘Atena Polka’), Physalis ‘Goldvital’ (Cape gooseberries) and yet another crop that TFG seems to want to feed to the nation, parsley, both curly and flat-leaved types.

We are currently eating our way through the strawberry bed, treating ourselves with sweet, juicy mouthfuls on each visit to the plot. But we are not the only ones enjoying them; so is one of our dogs, Mildred. Her Ladyship has developed quite the taste for strawberries and has learnt very quickly that if she sticks her head in the bed and has a good rummage she will soon find herself a sweet snack!

Max, on the other hand, isn’t motivated by any food crop we offer him, much preferring the fun and frolics of his ball or rubber ‘piggy’. If it’s hot and sunny, he’ll be found flopping under the sage and having a good snooze in the sunshine.

There is so much more I could share with you: I haven’t mentioned our potatoes, brassicas, salad crops or beans. But I shall save that for the next chapter when I will also be able to share one or two pictures of our allotment blooms.

Happy Gardening One and All.

The Beau.

P.S. The Frustrated Gardener apologises for his recent absence and will be back with a new post very soon.