News From Nowhere

Hovel Update

2012-03-22T07:14:00.003Z

Due to pressure from the council the Blanche Dubois-style shed featured on March 10 this year has been pulled up off the ground and set a-right. It is nailed shut but looks blameless enough and there is talk of African marigolds for the planter. Its handsome bone structure has been restored with a bit of creosote and engine oil and it is hoped that it will leave the next council inspector in raptures. But in our muckraking capacity here at News from Nowhere we predict that the finicky finial has made it so banal that it will never be looked at again.

But I Want it Now!

2012-03-18T00:05:00.002Z

Planting a fritillary meadow is a bit like creating a Capability Brown landscape: it is a selfless gift for future generations. There are so many potential hazards it really is a case of survival of the very fittest of the very fit. At Brooke Hall thousands of bulbs were planted the autumn before last and the following spring pheasants pecked off the handful of blooms that made it. Digging around there in the autumn I found very few bulbs but lots of tunnels as well as buried walnuts. So, they've got pheasants, mice and squirrels out to get them, and then there is the small matter of growing conditions.

When I took a tour around Highgrove a couple of years ago I was looking forward to seeing the vast swathes of tulips. They were gone, having sat too uncomfortably in their sustainable surroundings. The tulips were replaced with fritillaria, but the ground had been so well-prepared previously that the 'frits' failed. Too much drainage.

Nancy Lancaster planted some in a badly drained part of her garden when she lived in Northamptonshire in the 1920s and 'they eventually seeded themselves.' She didn't plant that many. So, take a handful of bulbs and give them perfect conditions, then try to forget about them. Each new chequerboard bloom will be a very pleasant surprise.

The Decisive Moment

2012-03-14T22:11:00.002Z

In a second or two the verges of middle England will be completely yellow-fied, and we're not talking about the daintier shades. After that, the breathless arrival of midsummer. But wait. News from Nowhere brings you some subtle specimens in a woodland setting, the best place for spring. You can almost hear these daffodils opening and they're not in an obvious hurry. Tomorrow however they will be blazing away with the rest of them as that is what they have been programmed to do. Carpe diem.

Dream Hovels, Part 2

2012-03-12T07:26:00.001Z

Conversions (i)

They have been adjusted over the years without being given the full 'remodel'. A window where a door used to be, an arch closed up to make a smaller door. Often, a stone building has been turned into a taller building of brick as well as stone. Practical considerations, (and no upvc in sight) but still this altering has not been enough to keep the roof on.

The above building was used for gardeners' kit in recent memory and in days of yore there had been a cosy fire. A shelter or retreat in the kitchen garden before the gardeners were moved to the boiler room for their breaks.

Conversions (ii)

This brick building looks as though it was originally intended for animals, then converted for a person - with glass windows added - before being taken over by animals again.

With its flat earth floors and brick feeding troughs it is perfectly comfortable and gust-proof. Ready to move in, if you don't mind sharing with sheep.

Dream Hovels, Part 1

2012-03-10T17:30:00.002Z

Allotments

Buying a brand-new shed for the allotment would never do. Even paying someone else for one - well, it would be impolite to talk about that. This shed near Oundle in Northamptonshire has a tree attached, so there is really no need for a solid roof and when there are no windows why bother with a door?

Could this be a fixer-upper? It's a very fine line.

Application of logic in the potting shed

2012-03-08T21:09:00.000Z

Grey areas are entirely optional with this logical and simple guide:

Perlite = drainage aid. Mix half and half with potting compost.
Vermiculite = water absorber. Belongs on the surface, not in the midst. If sowing fine seed, add a solid layer of vermiculite over the mixed compost and sprinkle seed over it. The seed will fall down the cracks and germinate (if it feels like it). Sow bigger seed before adding a layer of vermiculite to the surface.

Germinating in the dark = don't worry about it.
Cold stratification = seed which needs a cold spell before germinating. Add seed to damp vermiculite and keep in a jar in the fridge for a few months. Just leaving it in its packet in the fridge = 0%, the grade I achieved in my first maths test at Putney High School.

And Another Thing

2012-03-07T17:04:00.004Z

The final hedging item of the season. Any minute now I'm going to plant a hedge, having collected fifty hornbeam 'sixty-eighties' from Dave Stanley at Uppingham Market last week (they've been heeled in). He excels in being glum but even he was twinkling slightly in the watery sunshine of early spring. Or late winter. When I mentioned to the deputy head gardener at Brooke Hall about a month ago that I was planning to put in a bare root hedge there was a sharp intake of breath and a warning that it must be done within a week. She almost shrieked when I told her the other day that I hadn't planted them out yet, or even received them.

At the weekend I did some emergency work on roses and I felt very proud and organised. Mentioning my good deeds to a couple of people later, they looked astonished and said in unison, 'I want to prune my roses but I thought it was too late! Are you sure it's okay?' I hadn't given this much thought but my roses were all over the place and causing health and safety concerns so I pruned them and - it's still winter. We went to see The Nutcracker on Sunday, if proof were needed.

David Austin's catalogue advises that for winter pruning, 'January and February is the best time.' Except in colder areas in which case: wait. Thankfully, this is not an RHS written exam so the answer to worried people is, 'Yes, it's okay.' And the head gardener at Brooke Hall hasn't done his yet.

Nick's Common Logic

2012-03-05T20:53:00.000Z

On planting out:

'They'll be all right as long as they grow.'

More Life-Enhancing Hedges

2012-03-01T23:36:00.003Z

There are few hedgerows in my part of the world which haven't had the basket effect applied at some point. When a hedge becomes very old and worn out a farmer will call somebody like Bob Bakewell to re-lay it. The wood is split within an inch of its life and forced over at 45 degrees and held in place with a weave normally applied to basket edging. It is not about aesthetics of course... A laid hedge is impenetrable and strong, to keep livestock in. The fact that small animals and birds inhabit these small thickets is a happy by-product.

A laid hedge in this patch of middle England is made most often from from blackthorn, quickthorn and ash. The raw material can be ridiculously hard to work with. The sedate village of Medbourne has been given a bit of drama at its limits with this steep and savage piece of cutting and bending (above and below). What was once a line of trees, is now a surprising hedge.

Bob Bakewell works 'by the chain'. A chain is the length of a cricket pitch and a chain is a day's work. Hedge laying is also called hedge cutting and hedge cutting competitions do happen amongst enthusiasts (and all hedge cutters are). The local hunt puts money towards the competitions but does not fund the regular trimming of hedges any more, though it once did.

People have hedges laid at the back of their houses but only when their garden is next to a field; they are never seen by the front door. The basketry quickly grows over and hazel wattling is neater. Even wattling though is slightly frowned upon in a village like mine where everyone reads the Daily Mail except the vicar, and Twentieth Century Suburban is clung to in the face of Latter Day Rustic.

A Stand of Trees, Explained*

2012-03-01T00:21:00.000Z

Somewhere near Creaton, Northamptonshire: this stand, and the one behind it, is on a former dairy farm. It is for standing under (or itching one's back) and it makes sense in summer and winter.

And a hedge, a few miles away from the stand. I will always associate perfectly cut hedges with Northamptonshire. Evidence would seem to suggest that scissors have been used, though the cutter is simply a skilled machinist, with better equipment, and certainly a sharper blade than that used on the hedge below, at Brixworth. A 'flailed' hedge done with neither skill nor sharpness.

In her recent tv series about wild flowers Sarah Raven focussed on this part of Northamptonshire as having destroyed its hedges with more abandon than any other county. We know that after WW2 the government paid for farmers to explode, uproot and burn hedges in the name of greater yields, and that this had a horrible effect on wildlife and wild flowers. But it can be said that the hedges that were left after the great flattening are at least exquisitely maintained. On the whole.

*See Hunting News, comments

That's not my Gnome

2012-02-24T20:45:00.000Z

Many thanks to reader Reed for sending in a picture of her snowdrops under the apple tree. Very elegant* they are too. For the sake of journalistic integrity, we felt we ought to include one of the 'outtakes' which shows a gnome, happily surveying the scene and previously unnoticed by the photographer. One can't help cheering on the purple crocus as well, which has crept in to lend some of the old pizzazz.

*See comments

Snowdrops 'in the green'

2012-02-24T17:43:00.000Z

Or, gardening clichés no. 4

Dividing snowdrops 'in the green'. It's possible that I am a grammar fanatic but why the permanent inverted commas? Anyway... an inspiring head gardener I know says that it is much better to divide snowdrops in June, when they are no longer 'in the green' but have truly had their day and are ready to settle down for a long summer's rest. Any earlier and they are still busy with the green part, which grows and grows after the flower has finished. You just need to catch them before the leaves shrivel up completely and (this is the deal breaker) remember to do it when snowdrops, and late winter, couldn't be further from your mind.

Photo: Painswick Rococo Garden, one of the best places in England to see millions of snowdrops.

Crocus tommasinianus

2012-02-21T19:03:00.000Z

A crocus has more pizzazz than a snowdrop. Fact.

The Lazy Brown Fox

2012-02-17T14:47:00.001Z

Pest control and personal charm tend to go hand in hand I have found. The exterminators' cool approach to the things which make us hysterical can give them heroic status. There's a hornet's nest above the back door - no problem. My favourite chair is infested with mice - they'll be gone in a jiffy. What about the rats in the chicken coop - we'll see what we can do.

The friendly controller of pests at Brooke Hall is always welcomed with open arms. The other day I asked him about the tricky subject of foxes, which come under his general remit beyond the park gates. I've been giving Vulpes vulpes some thought lately. It must be strange for urban folk to be confronted with foxes face to face in a way that country people never are. The latter see the damage done but they rarely spend time with the cause of it. In towns people with foxes living in their gardens or in gardens nearby find themselves taking measures to prevent the more relaxed variety from strolling into the house and helping themselves. The predator is now the scavenger and his tail is less bushy; he is still wild but looks a bit like a dog but also a bit like a cat...

My friend from environmental services suggests that the urban fox is turning into a different sort of animal. It's a test for Darwinism: country fox = survival of the fittest while urban fox = survival of the unfittest. The fox that outruns the hounds is arguably a superior being to the mangy animal that doesn't exercise much and passes diseases around the family and through generations.

The dinner party tone of the conversation soon moves to practical methods of pest control but you'll have to find this on The Observer Allotment Blog. The good news is, the suggested fox deterrant is free, and so is the online Guardian/Observer.

fox courtesy The Graphics Fairy

Late Winter Survival Stories

2012-02-12T08:10:00.000Z

'I only take holidays in winter, February if I can. Winter holidays make life in England worth living. I think summer holidays are insane.'

Derry Watkins, Top Person's Seed Supplier

The owner of Special Plants near Bath is from Connecticut, like all the best people. Her special seeds thrive in the cutting garden at Brooke Hall: Papaver rhoeas 'Mother of Pearl' (below), flaming in June.

Rubus Cockburnianus Latest

2012-02-10T12:28:00.001Z

The decorative bramble fulfills its promise. Not to mention the decorative snow, and the decorative railings...

The Secret Orchard

2012-02-08T23:44:00.001Z

Gardening in the snow is unusual for most people, but not for those who are paid to do it every day, pre-dawn to post-dusk. I have discovered recently that it can be better to work outside in sub-zero temperatures than to do garden-related things inside. At some point yesterday I found myself tidying the potting shed, which looked as though it had just been tidied. As I swept out a further shed my attention began to wander... and I found myself behind the buidings in an ancient orchard. I knew of its existence but had never seen it before; it's a little out of the way.

There are apples and pears and plums and it's hard to tell what else but it's guaranteed that they are good varieties which have done a lot of giving over the years. The bottom half of each tree is stoutly goblet-shaped, pruned in exemplary fashion. The top halves are wild and gnarled in a mass of dark twigs, looking very dormant indeed. Each branch supports a national collection of lichen and moss, with ivy spiralling around. The place is not completely abandoned: the grass is strimmed but the trees have not been tended for years.

The orchard is only a field or two from the big house but far enough away to be forgotten. The parasites growing all over the once-perfect wood may not survive a planned pruning. For now, we are all in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of winter.

Hunting News

2012-02-07T19:54:00.001Z

Foxes are thriving in the East Midlands, and so are hunting folk. Insiders say that hunt meets are better attended than ever, and last week I found myself at one such gathering in a field near Uppingham. I was going past and decided to stop and I was astonished to see a HUGE eagle-owl in attendance, surrounded by admirers.

Since then I've been wondering, how does it work, hunting with a bird of prey? According to a Source, the eagle-owl is there only as a symbol. It would be very difficult to prove to anybody that it is the owl which kills the fox and not the pack, especially when the owl is following behind in a van. The hunt is employing a bird of prey, and that is what matters.

The fox is the symbol of Leicestershire, proof that people don't hate foxes around here: they love them. 'I used to hunt and it was nothing to do with killing a fox,' says my Source. 'It was the thrill of the chase. I used to love riding hard over open country on a horse... you never knew where the fox was going to take you.'

It is only the weak (old, young and ill) foxes that are killed by the hunt, continues the Source. The crowd on horseback, enjoying their day out, do not stand a chance with a fit fox. They would hunt with greyhounds and shot guns if pest control was the aim, or they would put down poison. As another village dweller says, 'If they really wanted to kill foxes they'd be wearing boiler suits and they certainly wouldn't be on a horse.' People with livestock to protect ignore the old rituals and go out at night themselves, looking for a pair of eyes reflected by a torch.

'The hunting law is so precise and badly framed that prosecutions are not successful. It's much more fun now,' declares the Source, 'having a law that doesn't work.'

Oh... you're a gardener.

2012-02-06T19:07:00.002Z

'We had a gardener when we had money, ' he said, with a slight wave of the hand. 'Gardeners are always lurking. I'd walk past some bushes and there the gardener would be, lurking.'

Small Trades in Full Flower

2012-02-04T20:38:00.000Z

A uniform, as long as it is self-imposed and made from natural fibres, is very appealing. The dignified portraits of working people made by Irving Penn in the 1950s permanently inspire, and it is not prohibited to like them just for the way they look.

Our friends at Old Town unrolled a Penn-like wrinkled backdrop and photographed their own choice of Small Trades in Spitalfields recently. With Old Town's aertex shirts for working outdoors and their drill wrapper for selling fancy goods, a uniform is part of my life but it can always be added to. In this series of photographs, the get-up of The Flower Girl has something to go on. Her hat is straight out of 'When We Were Very Young' and the no-waist denim shirt would look good on anybody handling flowers or grubbing around in the dirt.

Why Don't You... Bulldoze Your Parterre?

2012-02-01T22:30:00.001Z

Why don't you...

Do yew in a different way? Allow it to revert to primeval shapes, more fantastic than the maddest topiary.

Why don't you...

Let your box go wild? Manicured box gets blight and wild box does not.

Why don't you...

Consider a grove of laurels instead of a laurel hedge? That way, the big shiny leaves are out of sight and the well-shaped wood is on show.

For some authentic Diana Vreeland 'Why Don't You' ideas in Harper's Bazaar, see Empirella

The Punkette of Flower Decorating

2012-01-30T21:20:00.000Z

The Surprising Life of Constance Spry has an apt title and is a heavenly read. For some reason Constance Spry's name today implies 'high-society mimsiness' as Terence Conran so neatly and bitterly put it. Actually, her decorations (never arrangements) were totally unconventional, flying in the face of the 'sugar-tong manners' which she herself despised. Mixing weeds and strange vegetables with very exotic and rarefied flowers, her decorations spilled horizontally off a meat plate or were massively vertical, dominating a grand-scale room. Her theatrical male friends were an influence and she went for drama in a big way.

One of Spry's most notorious as well as favourite choices of plant material was the decorative curly kale (photographed above in 1937). I saw some on a friend's beautiful allotment in Brixworth this morning and felt compelled to take it home and have a Julie and Julia moment. It took all of several seconds but still looks 'interesting' and certainly has potential. It's a nice idea, that the DIY ethos behind punk was applied to something as 'mimsy' as flower decorating 75 years ago.

Nick's Interesting Food

2012-01-26T23:16:00.001Z

Nick at Brooke Hall likes his food soft and refined; in other words, easy to chew and highly processed. Today's lunch was mainly circles and rectangles of brown and white, quite eye-catching. As we were eating in the Mess Room* we were talking about some pots of hellebores, newly arrived and sitting in a group just outside the shed. The head gardener mentions in passing that they are toxic as is the whole ranunculus family.

'Are buttercups poisonous?' asks Nick. 'I've eaten them. The leaves are quite bitter.'
'Eaten?' we both say.
Nick reveals in his nonchalant way that he has eaten his way around the whole garden at Brooke Hall.
'Why?' we both say.
'I was just curious,' he explains with continued nonchalance. 'I wanted to know what everything tasted like. I were always putting things in my mouth and chewing.'
'Even poisonous plants?'
'Yes, though poisonous plants burn your lips: that's how you know they're poisonous. That's how animals know not to eat them.'
'But you carried on eating them when you knew they were poisonous?'
'Yes.'
Spitting out a toxic plant was never an option.

The head gardener suggests that Nick might live to a very old age because of the alchemy involved in his tasting years. I think that the refined, easy-to-chew years may have balanced this out.
'What was the worst thing you ever ate in this garden?' I persist.
'Raw cabbage,' announces Nick. 'Have you ever tried it? Tastes like squashed caterpillars.'

*A term favoured by gardeners and army personnel.

Town Gardens

2012-01-17T20:03:00.003Z

Chelsea Arts Club, London
A garden is a garden even in a club. But there are certain battles to be fought in the 21st century. People can enjoy the company of others by the lawn or in the needs-must smokers' tent, and it remains a sociable place. To preserve this, there is an impressive ban on communicating with people who are not actually present, ie with any kind of electrical wireless device.

Right Time, Right Place

2012-01-15T17:00:00.000Z

This is not a brown picture and that's reason enough to celebrate. Neither freakishly early, nor a hangover from last summer... the primrose has had the decency to disappear for a while before coming back.

As usual, it thrives in its hardy British way, even on an unfriendly dry bank, stoically rising above drought and neglect.

This week we planted out four more trays to join the establishing plants in the Wild Garden at Brooke Hall, and moved over some equally self-sufficient foxgloves. Soon, no more gardening will be required.

Peter's Tree Logic

2012-01-13T12:00:00.000Z

'They're very clever, trees are,' says Nick at Brooke Hall. I am inclined to agree. Why else would they bend towards the water, their branches just skimming the top, as though looking for a drink? And when they grow on a steep bank, the upper storey spreading normally, the lower branches reaching down towards the water, filling the whole space with tree... That's clever, or intuitive, or artistic, isn't it?

I am hoping, once again, that Peter will give me a magical, incomprehensible reason why this is so. But where science doesn't provide an answer, there is always logic. To the non-scientific and stubbornly anti-logical mind this can be deflating.

'Answer: deer,' says Peter. 'They will get on their hind legs and eat everything in sight.'
And that is why trees in the country are very rarely seen with their leaves reaching the ground. Except holly of course.

Where water is involved, you may see trees growing out of it, for instance in a large reservoir like Eyebrook in Rutland. The trees were there before the land was flooded. The lower branches in reservoir trees and those growing by streams and rivers do not dip below the water as the leaves would not be able to photosynthesise.
'The growth line reaches down to the highest level of a flood,' says Peter. Green shoots submerged in flood water do not live very long.

Sensible trees. And is it a primal instinct to reach over towards water, like the one pictured above?
Peter's answer is - more logic.
'Which way is the prevailing wind?'
Who knows about prevailing winds: many people don't know which direction is North. Even some gardeners. I start to wail.
'But I want trees to have feelings, that's the problem!'
Peter briskly responds, sounding like a grammar school teacher in an unheated classroom.
'They don't.'

Psychology with Peter

2012-01-11T22:55:00.000Z

Or, where do all the twigs go?

Being exposed to the elements five days a week - from dawn to dusk for half of the year - affects one's outlook. Nick at Brooke Hall says things which can be interpreted any way you like: sometimes he speaks in truisms and other times he sounds a bit mystical. When we go to clear the twigs on the South Lawn he points out that there is always the same amount in that place, whether the twigs were cleared two weeks ago or two months ago. My view is that a certain amount of picking up goes on, in passing. Estate gardeners are often seen snapping twigs in half on their way from a to b, throwing them out of sight behind a bush or tree. The level of debris is monitored subconsciously. But I am hoping for a scientific explanation.

'It's to do with human nature and has nothing whatever to do with science,' says Peter, my logical friend. 'There is a certain density of twigs on the ground that promotes their being picked up. When the density is great enough someone in authority says "The twigs must go." Before the order from above, you never notice them.'

So, really, we are talking about dependence on power and a need to be controlled. 'It's purely psychological,' says Peter, as if closing the book. But what I'd like to say is, psychology is a science. And it has everything to do with gardening.

Black Gold

2012-01-04T20:24:00.001Z

With a ray of sunshine on the side

Top tip from a very experienced estate gardener:

The best composting accessory is a tractor.

The newest part of the heap before mixing (above) and after (top). It is six weeks old and is beginning to look like the real thing already.

Don't Fence Me In

2012-01-02T20:27:00.002Z

In Connecticut, where I spent some of my formative years, the picket fence or split rail fence is part of the look. They run along the fronts of houses, separating them in a genteel way from the pavement, if there is one. But in the back yard, Americans want to be given the wide open spaces that they love, and the boundaries between neighbours can be very lax, only sometimes involving a fence. It might be something to do with the frontier. Here in Middle England we love our 12ft Leylandii hedges which mark out each householder's plot with a heavy hand and a deep shadow. So it is delightful to see handmade fences and laid hedges which are naturally decorative and may or may not be about ownership (not usually being attached to a house). There is nowhere better than a nature reserve to see a beautiful fence: the spindly ones act as a symbolic warning to humans, and the double thick impenetrable ones are intended for something else altogether.

A fence-hedge hybrid, not designed to deter animals.

A wild and deep hedge, minimally weaved. Kept together with stout vertical hazel poles, and clamped down with semi-circles of bent wood laid horizontally over the mass. Impenetrable to larger beasts while providing a shelter to smaller ones.

The hedge shown at the top (and above) is impossibly thick and impermanent, with twigs and branches thrown in between the struts in an untidy medieval mess. May be intended as a stop and shop for nesting birds.

And finally, as if heaven-sent, a piece of hand-made fence disguised as a gate, which doesn't open and leads nowhere and serves no purpose. It's a lovely thing.

Nick's Golden Years

2011-12-30T22:39:00.001Z

Nick started work at Brooke Hall thirty years ago, when he was in his teens. He has adapted and survived and is the only person left from a team of 11 gardeners whose centre of operations was the kitchen garden. It was an intensely productive place, designed to feed people in several households around the British Isles. This was the pre-grocery delivery age.

Nick tends to talk about 'the Eighties' as though it's an ancient time. To me it isn't, but on a country estate which was still clinging to the old ways, the Eighties marked the end of the Edwardian era. A team of gardeners who took three months to rake every leaf, has been replaced gradually by three efficient humans and a minimal collection of machinery.

There is something about Nick which I admire but don't completely understand: he is impossibly quick at everything he does. It's not just a result of no-nonsense training but a leftover from the school playground mentality amongst the mob of under-gardeners. They challenged each other to see who could finish the job first - that would surely make the time pass more quickly. Nick is unquestionably the swiftest as well as most artistic edger and hedger in the East Midlands, but it is speed which motivates him. This of course means that he does twice as much work. It's not something I'd condone, personally, but I haven't worked for thirty years in one place.

More Tales from the Gutter

2011-12-24T08:06:00.001Z

After a month of mainly avoiding work I went to Brooke Hall on Thursday for the last day of term. We collected the remaining Paper Whites from the nursery, gathered hazel branches from the wild garden, and enclosed the narcissi in mini fences of twigs and green twine. Some of the blooms which had had their day in the Hall were diverted from the compost heap and came to rest by the privvy, en route to one's own hall. Any place less draughty could lead to asphyxiation from the rather overpowering scent. At lunch time I went to check on the 'decorative bramble' to see whether it was enjoying its moment of glory in the bleak mid-winter (see Garden Clichés 1a). It seemed happy enough but may have been more smug if the scene wasn't so autumnal. Hee hee.

Friday was Market Day in Uppingham and a chance for some people to buy last minute candles before the gales blew in. I had been to a pagan winter solstice gathering the night before in which mulled wine with vodka was served, braziers were lit and an edible Yule Log consumed. By mid-morning I'd finished a bacon butty from Baines but still wasn't feeling 100%. Suddenly two people of the cloth appeared, one female and one male. They peeled back the cover of a large box, simultaneously revealing an industrial-sized thermos. 'We would like to offer you a mince pie and some mulled wine, compliments of the Church.' It was a miracle; I was cured.

Top Tips from a Head Gardener

2011-12-18T00:21:00.000Z

On the subject of Propagating

When watering seedlings begin the process before the spray hits the plants and remove the spray before you stop watering. To keep it even.

When making cuttings, carry dug-up plants like oriental poppies as a cat would carry a kitten, ie by the scruff of the neck. It's more important to protect the precious undercarriage than the replaceable foliage.

A pot with root cuttings should not be patted down and neatened and covered with finger marks. It should look as though it has just dropped from the sky.

From Downstairs to Upstairs...

2011-12-13T22:02:00.002Z

...via the Outdoor Toilet

Two weeks away from Brooke Hall and I realise that I've missed some gay activities such as spreading mulch on the Terrace Border and the making of seasonal wreaths. The tool shed was stuffed with bags when I came in, of holly, box, skimmia, conifer, moss as well as ivy. On a trestle table were some works in progress, the biggest, most sumptuous, most conspicuously tasteful wreaths I have ever seen. Others were airing on the wall of the privvy, en route to better places. It is simple to make a wreath, and foolish not to if you have a wood which you can raid. Just get a flower arranger's hoop, some wire and moss. Attach moss thickly to hoop using sturdy wire, then tie finer flower arranger's wire around three short sprigs of whatever you like best. Poke it straight through the moss ring and secure so that it doesn't fall out. Repeat all the way around.

Note: to avoid over-elegance, you may want to add variegated holly. Or best of all, variegated box.

Outmoded objects for the kitchen garden

2011-12-12T11:33:00.000Z

(A Non-Gift List for the Observer and Guardian)

Loyal tools and aids which have avoided the dump and even the bulldozer would make original gifts for the modern kitchen gardener. If only we could buy them online. Following are some of these indispensable facilitators which are still in use at Marsh Hall, though some are less popular than others. Put them on your Christmas list, and hope for the best.

The Bowser (above). Admired by many though hated by some, due to its phenomenal weight when full. A sloped allotment is useful here: it is important to pull a full bowser down, and an empty bowser up. It's a water butt on wheels.

Barr's Bulb Dibber. Originally intended for tulips etc., allotmenteers could also put it to use in the dedicated potato bed. Designed to be used standing up, with a servile helper at ground level dropping bulbs or seed potatoes into the neat hole created by the dibber.

The glass cloche. Works best in a row. Doesn't look as though it should transport easily but the handle and wire arrangement is fine. Putting it down again and not crashing into another glass cloche is important here.

Pointy spade, or perennial spade. It is smaller and shorter than a border spade and is designed for people who don't mind getting close to the earth. (warning: may be heavy).

Small border fork, ditto. Lower ratio of cast iron to wood, so lighter.

A handy peg and line. The weight, length and narrowness of the iron peg is part of the appeal, as is the vertical 'brake' at the top to prevent the thing unravelling. Old painted metal pegs just get better with age.

Long brick wall to grow things against. South, West, or East facing preferred. North acceptable.

Lead sink. This one at Holkham Hall in Norfolk comes with a tap: it's a perfect receptacle for watering cans.

Does it have to be beautiful and useful? The brambles are a giveaway for this lovely lawn roller.

My Nest is Best

2011-12-02T21:43:00.001Z

Something about this bird's nest, built amongst pleached limes, reminds me of my mother. Perching improbably in a manicured spot, within the inner sanctum of a formal garden, everything could go wrong, so easily. But it's all rather grand, so what does it matter. The plight of this ambitious bird's fledglings reminds me of my own when I complained about having to study for A-levels while living on yet another building site in the London borough of Kensington and Chelsea. 'You should be glad,' she said without irony. 'You always live in the best addresses.'

'A Cottagey Stately Home Kind of Feel'

2011-11-28T21:14:00.001Z

An interesting way of seeing a longed-for place for the first time is ten minutes before closing, with a car full of stuff to unload and very little daylight. The atmosphere of Great Dixter, where I spent the weekend with Folk at Home selling our functional and fancy goods, was pretty powerful at dusk and in the dark, when the front door is normally closed. After the manicured lawns of Northamptonshire the feeling was the opposite of solemn, with a purple-haired youth throwing grass seed around in the twilight. I'd been lulled already into a holiday mood by the weatherboard cottages of Rye and as I arrived in East Sussex the radio switched automatically to a French station and I knew I was somewhere near the Channel.

The garden at Great Dixter was originally designed by Christopher Lloyd's father with Edward Lutyens in a grand cottage style, and it is rarefied but friendly. With its Great Hall and Yeoman's Hall the house is Medieval and large but feels more like a rectory. From the garden entrance it looks almost like a tall bungalow... There was a very tantalising kitchen with antique fridge and oven from which we were forbidden, but the whole place was ridiculously charming. No gilt or coronets but an anti-witch symbol carved into the massive fireplace, simple medievalist light fittings and hundred-year-old cobwebs high up in the beams, which no Cobweb Lad could have reached in the days of servants even if he were standing at the top of a specially-made ladder.

The bottom of the roof of one of the outbuildings was level with my waist, with space inside to stand up and read the educational notices, having crawled in on hands and knees. The shop (above) is one of the most perfect I've ever seen, whatever goods happen to be on sale there, functional or fancy.

What to do in Winter with...

2011-11-25T21:00:00.000Z

... Gunnera

Cut down a grove of gunnera with a machete. Place the leaves over the crowns like umbrellas, to protect them from frost and slice off the stalks to use as weights, holding the umbrella-leaves down. Stout gloves recommended to protect against gunnera spines and stout boots for the long knife.

What to do in Winter with...

2011-11-24T22:13:00.001Z

...Agapanthus

First take the precaution of planting them into large plastic containers with rope handles, and place these into more picturesque pots. At the end of the season be sure to use a sack trolley to take the hoisted out plants to a trailer. Drive to glasshouse(s).

Peter's Trail of Tears

2011-11-20T22:55:00.001Z

It has a sad story and an evocative name. It is also a 'heritage' bean so the climber Cherokee Trail of Tears is cherished now in a way that the Cherokee Nation never were during the forced exodus from their homelands, taking the black bean with them. But like the Native Americans, the bean survived - just.

Peter is a custodian of heritage seeds at Garden Organic and had his original beans from there, but they have become more mainstream and are readily available these days. There is a large pile of them in his garage, surrounded by a ridiculous amount of preserves - so envious - plus a harpsichord. He has just picked the last ones. Being a scientist there is nothing random about this pile of beans. It is a small part of a much greater yield of about 7000 beans and they have been weighed, counted and had scientific thoughts applied. Each Cherokee Trail of Tears plant (above and top) has produced on average 205 beans, with 36 pods per plant. For storing and cooking it's a good prolific bean. However, there is an irregularity which occurs in 10% of them and they are white.

It is an impurity, a throwback, in other words a sport. 'And it's a damn sight more interesting,' says Peter, than the original purpley-black bean. Each plant from this white sport has yielded about 232 beans (that's almost 30 more per plant than the original - do keep up). Peter has called them White Tears (above and below). Each bean is heavier in weight, and although there are the same amount of beans per pod, there are more pods per plant, so the beans weigh in at about 25% more than the Trail of Tears.

Both plants produce between three and ten shoots near the base so they are more vigorous and bushy than other heritage varieties which can be notoriously precious and mean. Attractive as the Sezma Zebra is (below) it only produces one vine and wouldn't feed many. The weight of beans per plant is a quarter of that of White Tears.

So Peter is very excited about this sport and has been known to give away some of the white beans for Christmas. However... there is an even more exciting experiment taking place and that is the bean which Peter calls Black Tears. 'There is a spontaneous production of black beans FROM THE WHITE BEANS!' he says. 'This I think is truly amazing.' This double throwback takes place 5-10% of the time and grows in the same way as White Tears but is slightly less prolific.

Clearly, there is a lot more information to be had from Peter on the perplexing mechanism involving recessive and non-recessive genes. Can it wait? Method and Observation I always quite enjoyed at school but Conclusion, well. The results from the latest sport Black Tears are still being concluded, so Conclusion itself might have to wait. An extension please.

What to do in Winter with...

2011-11-16T23:01:00.001Z

...One's statuary (a)

If susceptible to frost, it could be tied up in an all-weather duvet.

What to do in Winter with...

2011-11-16T22:58:00.001Z

...One's statuary (b)

Allow it to provide a service for sheltering ladybirds, etc.

Ode to Uppingham Market

2011-11-12T14:24:00.001Z

It's a good place to be on a Friday, even in the freezing fog. Its name is fitting: 'the town which is up'. The market square is the highest point of the hill that Uppingham sits atop and there is a devilish little alley connecting the hill and its wind directly to my stall. Yesterday, on the eleventh of the eleventh in the year eleven, there was nowhere I would rather have been. My 'pitch' is next to the Church in the corner of the square, and the bells rang out and the market place fell silent. People had gathered round the church entrance and they looked up at the steeple or down at the ground. It felt disrespectful even to look sideways. During the day aged soldiers walked about in their regalia and there was no one without a poppy.

Although I am not at the front of the market with the essentials (cut flowers and fruit) I have passing trade en route to the Post Office, Church and pub. There is also a barber and a Chinese takeaway, so all the world is here. All the people, often delightful, sometimes mad and occasionally grumpy are here too. A woman dressed in tweeds looks through my hand-printed cards, which she wants to buy, before fiddling with my oiltreated oak nail brush from Sweden, which attracts attention every week. 'This is a lovely nail brush,' she says. 'I'll just find my other half.' My heart sinks. Husbands are fine on their own but are not persuadable when accompanied by wives.
The browsing woman pulls a similarly be-tweeded man over, amongst protests of 'Don't be ridiculous!'
They stop and she points. 'Not even as a present for you?'
'No! don't be ridiculous! How much is it? That's ridiculous!'
'But you normally spend £4 on a plastic nail brush... '
'You're being ridiculous!' he shouts before hurrying away. She follows him and later they pass by again, still arguing.
A thick fog descends on the square up on the hill, and it's not even one o'clock in the afternoon.

Keep Britain Tidy

2011-11-10T11:27:00.000Z

Gardening can be like housework and for those of a tidy bent, this is a frantically busy time of year. Leaves must be removed from pathways, and they must be removed from steps. Yesterday I managed to turn the 'wild garden' at Brooke Hall into a kind of sitting room, and very tidy it was too. In a garden of 13 acres it would be demented to get over-concerned about tidiness in all areas, but still the leaves must be dealt with. It's really a matter of 'keeping the leaves on the move' as the head gardener puts it, and not allowing their accumulation to kill whatever is trying to survive underneath. The best way to do this is by blowing them away. Hoovering does happen, but in smaller parts of the garden. Even then it feels like a ludicrous thing to do, vacuuming around box parterres, underneath pleached limes which are surrounded by beech hedges. Whose insane planting plan was this? Didn't they think about all the leaves?

In order to master the fine art of blowing, certain rules must be observed. Never make a leaf pile. We don't use rakes, and we don't pick up piles of leaves either. Leaves must be blown to an appropriate place, either under bushes, or out into a neighbouring field. Pushing leaves under dense or unwieldy shrubs like the gunnera above, can feel like sweeping dust under the carpet. Too much volume, too little cover. Flower beds with hardy perennials in them are not much good for smothering either. If blowing into an adjacent field it is important to blow carefully over the top of whatever leaves are already there, spreading all the leaves out in a considerate manner. Piles of leaves would act like parting waves when approached by a machine. Evenly spread leaves on the other hand can be crunched into instant mulch by a ride-on mower. Underneath the many trees at Brooke Hall are circles of brown, which comprise bite-sized leaves ready for the breaking down process.

It's a feast for worms. Sometimes, while pushing debris around, bigger leaves with pointy ends can stick determinedly into the ground. Despite the use of engine-powered equipment from Germany which I have been trained to operate at full throttle, it's a happy thought that the leaf is already being pulled quite a long way underground, and that there is an earthworm at the other end, holding on tight.

Appreciating... Berberis & Co

2011-11-08T20:01:00.000Z

Some plants have more of a point in Autumn

Autumn has this effect: berberis pretends to be a bit more friendly...

... And pampas grass gives elegance a try, looking refreshingly cool amidst the red and yellow chaos.

A Classic Weepie

2011-11-03T22:39:00.000Z

The leaves of beech, and the trunk and bark of beech, are quietly beautiful for much of the year. It takes a while to come alive in spring, which is only really noticeable in beech hedges and topiary, still brown and crinkly when everything else has gone green. The late canopy in a beech wood suits bluebells just fine of course. At this time of year in the Wild Garden at Brooke Hall the acer and sorbus have gone a reliably mad red and supernatural orange-pink. But the beech sports every autumn colour, on one tree. When the sun shines horizontally across a cathedral-like beech it looks flood-lit. And a weeping cathedral-like beech (above) well, it's value-added, all year round.

For the perpetually confused: Beech left, hornbeam right. It's textural.

This beech column stands with another, beside a group of equally blameless yew columns. They bring a bit of structure to the front (or is it back?) door. But now, for a short time, it's discreetly wigging out.

A Heated Debate

2011-11-01T06:26:00.002Z

Most people love or hate a bonfire. It's unusual to quite like them. Some people aren't allowed them (Londoners, on health grounds). Others can only have them if they are land-rich (people from Connecticut need at least an acre of land, to protect the neighbours). But we country bumpkins in Middle England can muddle along how we like. Science with Peter has set up camp over at the Guardian and Observer allotment blog this week, and the theme is fire heaps, or bonfires. The Guardian likes a good row, so do join in. Just check for hedgehogs first.

Notes from the Fire Heap

2011-10-31T20:08:00.000Z

The fire heap at Marsh Hall is tucked behind one of the long walls of the kitchen garden. It does get lit sometimes, when the house is closed to the public. Away from the aesthetic perfection of a manor house however, allotments and back gardens across the country have their bonfires on full view (above), and they are smouldering away at this time of year without apology.

Some people hate the idea of fire heaps and worry that they may be illegal in some way. They cram as much as they can into their green bins and wait patiently for the fortnightly collection. Other people build heaps for burning, to complement their heaps for composting. They know that they will have a good source of potash by burning woody plants (which take years to break down), and weeds both annual and perennial, which could easily survive a domestic compost heap. These pyro enthusiasts tend towards the slightly older, more traditional person. I am not making any judgments on my friend Peter, who is a friend from Marsh Hall and a knowledgeable gardener, with a double-sized allotment in Northamptonshire. But Peter is passionately pro-fire 'with reservations'.

'I would say that the fire itself is carbon neutral,' he declares. 'It releases as much carbon dioxide as the burning plants removed when they were growing. Although... We are releasing it back into the atmosphere and that in itself is bad I suppose. But,' he continues rebelliously, 'those people who complain will gladly use a wood fire stove at home and take their children to a local bonfire party. AND an occasional fire to get rid of pernicious weeds is very small beer compared with a Chinese coal-fired power station!'

I sense that people like Peter enjoy everything about fires. But, he says, the soil enjoys it too.

'The bonfire ash is extremely good as a soil structurant,' says Peter, who uses words like 'structurant' quite freely. 'The soil here is very clayey and the calcined clay particles in the ash heap help to separate the clay platelet structure, making the topsoil more workable and friable.' Also, the potash created from burning the plants is in itself is a good fertiliser. 'Remember though,' he adds. 'Always store bonfire ash under a plastic sheet as the potash is soluble and will easily wash out with rainfall.'

Many allotments have their own Bonfire Code, naturally, which will include some of the following points:
• Check that you are allowed to have them; it helps if your allotment is on the edge of or just outside a village/town/city.
• Do not light a bonfire when the wind is blowing towards the inhabitants of said v/t/c. Monday is absolutely out, as some people still do their washing on Mondays, here in the middle of England.
• Ditto allotment neighbours: they don't wish to inhale your smoke.
• Look after your fire and prevent it from getting out of control and burning down hedgerows, etc.
• Do not burn plastic, which smells extra bad, or other more ambitious objects like bedsteads which should go to the local dump.

Hots in the Cots

2011-10-26T22:49:00.002+01:00

It's hard to say whether the people of the Cotswolds will ever fall out of love with Elephant's Breath or any colour offered by Messrs Farrow & Ball. So it is always a disproportionately massive relief to find something striking a different note. Like this pot of chili peppers. For the sake of symmetry there is another one on the other side, containing a different variety in a slightly mismatched Spanish pot. If the chatelaine had consulted the manual of good taste she might have put out some politely eccentric topiary, or a couple of safe standard bays. But with chili, it's a discordant look which is all the better for being temporary, and the Cotswold stone with fabulous lamp looks even better for it.

Tough Cluck

2011-10-23T20:30:00.000+01:00

Hen houses are a bit like people houses: the most attractive are not always the most practical. My friend Fran has sixteen rescue chickens and they live in a couple of wooden sheds. They prefer to lay their eggs in a large cardboard box and they dine out of old saucepans, tucked underneath one of these sheds. They would feel as unappreciative of a freshly-painted chalet as she would.

But is it art

2011-10-19T17:48:00.000+01:00

To the Serpentine Gallery in West London on Sunday where Piet Oudolf's flowery installation was having its last day. An exhibition of living things with a blackened backdrop, it was also a garden that was past its best by October 16. Eupatoriums were keeling over and papery actaeas made perpendicular shapes amongst the tall grasses. It was getting brown. At ground level the only flowers which were still going strong were the least unusual ones: geranium, anemone, aconitum.

It is always fun to see what the townies are up to on their time off. The Sunday garden visitor of England's heartland was replaced by an urban model in dark clothing. The touching of plants and petty pilfering were not in evidence; I heard no complaints of untidiness or requests for a cream tea. Instead of a head gardener on site a guard stood by the fire exit, not giving anything away. And so, we were having a different experience. The horticulturalists had long since come and gone. These visitors were Sunday art people, who had gone to a gallery and then the gallery next to the gallery. They looked at the display and walked away discussing it in the tones of respect usually reserved for high art.

New Season Special

2011-10-13T17:00:00.003+01:00

It isn't just hanging in there like the late summer flowers, and it doesn't say 'it's about to get cold' like the holly berry. It has just popped up out of nowhere, because its favourite time of year has come round again. This phytolacca has self-seeded itself and grown up in a place which it likes to call home: the bone-dry shade of a yew. Unnoticed in a walled garden at Brooke Hall, even when in flower, it suddenly has all the charm of perfectly ripe blackberries, condensed into a chunky wand. No prickles, just rich purple and dark green. These colours need a dying light.

In case of any sniggering at the back: News from Nowhere is perfectly aware that in some places the lovely and majestic Phytolacca is known as the American Pokeweed. In a word: context.

More Science with Peter

2011-10-10T18:18:00.002+01:00

Where does all the muck go?

With the second instalment of my other blog at the Guardian and Observer, it seems pertinent to be talking about manure and related topics. At this time of year conscientious people turn their thoughts to mulching: wood chip, home-made compost, leaf mould, whatever suits. Food growers and rose growers begin to consider muck by the barrow load, carefully sourced and well-rotted. People who plan ahead know that this will serve them well in the spring, after the frost has attacked and the worms have partaken. The 'solid waste' to use a grown up term, dissolves happily but what about the bulk, the part which has not passed through anybody's digestive system? Straw and wood shavings can take much longer to break down, sometimes five years. But what do I know? Here's Peter.

'The plant material (straw etc.) contains lignin, and rain breaks it down over time,' he clarifies. 'Acid rain performs this task but the process is speeded up many hundreds of times if the water has a higher pH. The proper term for this is alkaline hydrolysis.' Dismissively, Peter adds: 'It's a long chain thing.' In anticipation of an interruption he waves his hand. 'No questions. The process shortens the lignin and it then dissolves.'

There follows quite a lot of science on rain water seeping through carboniferous limestone in the Peak District, peat lignin breaking down, resulting in tea-coloured water, perfectly good to drink 'unless it has passed over a dead sheep or similar...' But regrettably there are space constraints.

So, to answer the other pressing question, 'Where do all the leaves go?' They go to the same place as the muck. It's got something to do with alkaline hydrolysis.

Where do all the Leaves go?

2011-10-06T23:17:00.000+01:00

Well, obviously, some are broken down by alkaline hydrolysis, but more on that later. For the average person or not so average, with twelve acres of trees just around the back door and thousands more beyond, it is a question which will be pondered over the next few months. Where do they all go. Once, they were swept away by a team of gardeners with rakes. The fire heap was almost always lit in winter, and there were bonfires all along the ha-ha at Brooke Hall. Must have been a lovely sight. Now though, we don't do fires, or rakes particularly and yet the leaves must be dealt with.

Although there is a very scenic composting area hidden behind more trees, there is no heap of leaf mould there. This is because the leaves are turned into mulch in situ. Hence the constant round of blowing and mowing. The blowing is to push the leaves under hedges and out of crevices. Often the offending leaves are blown on to the lawn, not off it. This is so that they can be tackled by the mower. The resulting small pieces then get scattered into insignificance or they are left to rot a little, before being grabbed by worms and dragged down. The grass has the air and light it needs, and there isn't a nitrogen imbalance because the leaves are half-rotted before they become part of the soil again. Does this make sense?

Personally I enjoy scooping up dry leaves and pushing them into a bin liner before poking holes in it. This provides a rather limited supply of leaf mould one year later. The modern methods at Brooke Hall combined with this anti-mechanical approach only answer a very small part of the question of where all the leaves go, however. Which leads us on to Science with Peter, shortly.

Remembering One's Station in Life

2011-10-05T06:35:00.000+01:00

A day of mowing and blowing and raking of hedge trimmings, but mainly mowing. The gardens at Brooke Hall have closed to the public, so the season of stripey lawns is officially over. But according to my friend Nick, who has been mowing here for 30 years, stripes are always in fashion. It's up to me whether to go freestyle or formal and I decide to practise my stripes. It's quite difficult not to mow the same one over and over again and watch it go pale, then dark, then pale again. It is essential to mow into a pale or 'white' stripe, not a dark one, or you will end up with one enormous pale stripe, ie no stripes at all.

A useful chant, passed down amongst the underclass of gardeners, comes to mind when mowing: 'White is right; black is sack.' It is grimly authentic. In the good old days, if a gardener was found sitting down during work hours he could expect the sack. Even now, a rest doesn't look good: the bucolic life is not without its perils. Let us be grateful then that we are no longer required to use a lawn roller, like the one that lives behind the garages (above).

When the gardeners have gone home

2011-10-03T21:21:00.000+01:00

When the gardeners have gone home and the light begins to fade, the flowers can relax. To be in a big estate garden at the very end of the day, when the minding and tending is finished, is fleeting fun. During the season of visitors, gardens like Marsh Hall close when the sun is still glaring, and that is when the gardeners go home as well. But sometimes the day is extended, to allow talks in the evening and the chance to see the garden when it is at rest.

I stayed on till seven at Marsh Hall last week, where I volunteer in the kitchen garden. There were just a few of us left in there after clocking off time: some fashion people, the girls and their frocks competing with their ravishing surroundings; somebody lying on a blanket reading a paperback. The dahlias looked calmer in the fading light and the deep rich colours were allowed to look deep, and rich. The mid-day sun can be so unbecoming...

Dahlias from top: Doris Day, Moor Place, Mary Eveline.

The walled garden is for vegetable growing but it's also a serious cutting garden for the house. Big loud brassy plants mob together with the moody and more reserved. Nothing clashes because it's a cutting garden, not a work of art, or even a double border. The dahlias are tied to workmanlike bamboo canes with twine: there is no disguising of underpinnings. Though it's not supposed to be highly decorative, everything here is.

The Shoo-fly plant (Nicandran Physalodes) with Love Lies Bleeding (Amaranthus).

There are certain areas of the cutting garden which look slightly daunting even in the day time. The mass of dark colours and weird shapes, combined with their height, appear to square up to you as you walk along the paths, minding your own business. At dusk however, everything makes more sense and they appear much more peaceful and less sinister,despite their close proximity to the dog graves against the top wall.

The brick walls emanate waves of heat after an unusually warm day. Beyond the kitchen garden, a hot air balloon rises by the lake and a stranger offers me a Pimms. There is a holiday stillness... It's not a bad feeling, in the middle of England, at the end of September.

Garden Clichés No.3

2011-09-29T22:43:00.000+01:00

The Outdoor 'Room'

The inverted commas are a problem. The garden 'room' is no longer a 'new' idea and nobody will be upset if we call an enclosed outdoor space a Room. The concept has been around since the time of Hidcote - at least - and it is a lovely concept, after all. Like a walled garden but less large, enclosure can tame a space and keep out unpleasant things. If there is a tree in it, or on the other side of it, right up close to the hedge or wall, it can be as unobtrusive but just as useful as a standard lamp. Its canopy meanwhile forms a kind of 'ceiling' and a lawn, if edged neatly, is a 'fitted carpet'. Do sit down and relax.

On my first day at Brooke Hall back in April I had to stop and stare, in a part of the garden which is really a passing-through place. The combination of wall on one side, tall hedge on the other, grass underfoot and some leaves overhead gave it a stillness, with auditorium acoustics. The garden is like a theatre just here, with the wings on either side. Enter stage left, exit stage right, and on to the next thing.

The magnolia (above) is in perfect shelter against a yew hedge, its branches floating laterally above the top of it. On the other side of the theatre-like space is an upright gingko, by the old brick wall. On the other side of the yew, by the magnolia, a cherry (further down) peeks over. Both trees have winding, Chinese-looking branches which are held clear above the very straight lines of the hedge. It's a good contrast for any tree.

It is helpful of course if the tree peeking over or even growing through a neatly trimmed hedge is a special one like Cornus Kousa (above and top). The bracts are refreshing in late spring after the blossom on the other trees has blown away and autumn brings knobbly red fruit.

The Katsura Tree (Cercidiphyllum japonica, above) is also a good nosy neighbour, hanging over a wall, and it sends out big wafts of caramelising sugar, as its leaves begin to turn pale orange.

Set in a corner, the hedge seems to be hugging the cherry (above) and the Katsura (below). It's very cosy.

Science with a Slightly Reluctant Peter

2011-09-23T22:49:00.002+01:00

Science, maths and logic can be bewildering. And then it's difficult to know whether one's remarks will take the conversation further, or bring it to a complete halt. I've been asking Peter for quite a while now why certain things smell like lemon, when they have nothing to do with lemons. For instance lemon verbena, lemon geranium (above), and the utterly pointless but quite-nice-smelling lemon balm.
I can see that Peter is trying his best. We are still working in the potato corner of the walled garden. 'Plants produce scent for attraction as well as defence. The lemon-smelling plants all share the essential oil limonene.'
But they're not lemons, I say.
'Why do you find that surprising?' he asks, incredulously. 'Why is it surprising to call something with lemon in it, lemon? If you use the word red for describing the property of a plant, that's not surprising. We are simply describing the red property that disparate plants share from a human point of view. The colour red,' he says, very slowly and emphatically, 'Is... just... a... gene. As is a particular scent.'
I don't think that this line of enquiry is really holding Peter's attention, and he busies himself with the lifting of potatoes. We speak of related things.
Scents which are repellant to insects may be attractive to humans, for example. The essential oil geraniol is good in soaps, 'But when you eat it, it's absolutely vile!' Lemon sorbet is very good as an amuse bouche but lemon verbena sorbet is even better.

A couple of weeks later and I have prepared the killer question.
'What makes a lemon a lemon?'
'The same thing that makes a tomato a tomato.'
End of.

Next time in Science with Peter

Where does all the manure go?

Ye Gods

2011-09-21T06:58:00.003+01:00

Take a large Queen Anne house, in its own park. Add a paved forecourt by the side, with views over said park, designed by Geoffrey Jellicoe. Add 12 giant yew cones dotted around. Amongst the clipped geometry are four sharp squares of yew and in the centre of each, a classical god perching decorously on a plinth. Surrounded by white Iceberg roses and framed by the yew, the lead figures are something you would not be at all surprised to see, or even particularly notice, while passing by on the way to tea and cake.

BUT take away the roses and put in their place some long wavy grass: Calimogostis Karl Forster. The scene is no longer half-dead and not nearly as respectable. The grasses wave about, they glint in the sunshine, and the gods seem to run through them. You suddenly notice that they are not from around here.

The calimogostis changes colour depending on the light, and it is just the right height above the yew, a couple of feet, to create a small picture of freedom and abandon around each god. Loose within, but rigid without. Because a couple of feet away from the grassy savannah is the half-wall of yew and the leaping about comes to an end.

At eight o'clock on a September morning the grass looks incredibly golden; a month earlier it was purple. It's not boring grass - it's a simple and clever way of making a very formal area come alive. The head gardener at Brooke Hall has had some nice things said about him in the gardening press, in the polite way that they have. But I say: he's bloody good.

The Reject Shop

2011-09-20T06:49:00.000+01:00

There are no plants of my own on this blog, no pictures which say 'Look what I've grown!'. Other people's plants are so much more interesting. I work in the park and gardens of two country estates, close to one another in the middle of England. One has a triangular walled kitchen garden which has been revived over the last decade with the help of volunteers. The other has no volunteers and no kitchen garden. The plot still exists, with its crumbling forcing houses and wild-looking fruit trees but it is derelict and a closed book.

Some of the Thursday volunteers in the walled garden at Marsh Hall order veg boxes, which are put together on the same day. We are at the top of the food chain. We do not need an allotment, we do not pay luxury veg box prices, and we may have had a hand in growing the food which we later buy, for a nominal fee. But the best part is, the produce in the volunteers' boxes does not conform to supermarket standards. Sometimes it doesn't even look right in the visitors' shop.

So, as well as the beautiful and the heritage, like the tomatoes below, we get to take home damsons (above) which on close inspection are slightly squashed, and parsnips (top) which haven't come out as one might have hoped.

The damsons are simmered into a compote as soon as they get home, and with some judicious chopping and intricate scrubbing the parsnips will make somebody a lovely soup, possibly with croutons.

Not all of the damsons (below) make it into the veg boxes, but these come highly commended in the 'Look at my beautiful compost heap' category.

The Cluck Stops Here

2011-09-16T23:26:00.000+01:00

The first of an occasional series on chickens.

We had lunch outside in the stable yard at Marsh Hall yesterday, since it was too sunny to waste an hour sitting in the dark and slightly cold tack room. Two upturned crates made a fine table. We are talking about chickens and Annie mentions that a college outside Northampton offers a short course on the wringing of a chicken's neck. Fran, who is the most tranquil of the Thursday volunteer gardeners, is a chicken trader. 'I get my husband to wring their necks now,' she says wistfully. 'I'm not as strong as I used to be.'

Annie has recently taken delivery of a couple of Liver Birds from Fran (some chickens from Liverpool). They are not rescued battery hens but rescued free range chickens. Beg pardon? They need to be rescued, Fran explains, because they live very close together, often inside. This is not the fault of the mean old farmer. 'Bully hens' will gang up and block the doorway so the other chickens can't get out. When the hens who do make it outside want to get back in to lay, their path is blocked by the same.

Fran talks of her 'middle aged' hens who want to go to bed early. They sit by disapprovingly, bitching about the younger ones who rush around the field 'clubbing' and having as much fun as possible before being forced inside. Not being a chicken person I am struck by the readiness of chicken folk to attribute their birds with human qualities. The older hens stand around in their curlers and hair nets, allegedly. And it is not difficult to imagine them spoiling things for the young free range chickens, like the militant mothers at the school gates, puffing away on their fags and blowing smoke into the faces of the reception class as they skip by.

So, where can a person buy proper free range eggs these days? 'Well, I have plenty,' says Fran, slightly amazed at the question. And there you have it: you don't buy free range eggs from a supermarket, obviously - you keep chickens. Or even better, make friends with somebody whose chickens roam freely and lay eggs rather too often.

Pantheon Plants

2011-09-14T23:05:00.000+01:00

Film critics and historians love to compile lists of the top ten movies ever, inevitably with Citizen Kane at number one. Or at least this was the case in the 1980s when I was studying film among other things. Now one finds oneself making lists of plants. As always, the critics' top ten is never going to be a list of inexplicable personal favourites but each must have a sensible weightiness to earn its place. Hardy geraniums - occasionally exciting, always hardworking - they are in the pantheon. Hydrangeas are contenders for the top three because they have so much going on and there really is something for everyone. They are varied in leaf shape, habit, colour - some people like unearthly blue, others prefer cooking apple green. And within a plant, the fertile and infertile bracts do their bit for texture. Side-by-side branches of one of the best, Hydrangea quercifolia, or oak-leaved hydrangea (shown above and below) look as though they could belong to different plants. Good leaf colour in autumn to follow.

If the oak-leaved variety is too rangey and unpredictable, Hydrangea arborescens Annabelle (shown here in deep focus) cannot be argued with. So accomplished it is almost a bit of a yawn, and with a ridiculously long playing time: it could be the Citizen Kane of plants.

The Kelmarsh Globe

2011-09-09T19:10:00.000+01:00

The identity of the authoress was revealed in the August-September number of 'The Globe' and it is now clear that Marsh Hall in Northamptonshire is in fact Kelmarsh Hall. It is no secret of course that Kelmarsh is a pretty special place, and she doesn't care who knows it.

Myths and Clichés Continued: The Potato

2011-09-09T12:16:00.000+01:00

The wild areas in the walled garden at Marsh Hall have been receding as we push forward, year by year. It is often said that potatoes should form the first line of attack on uncultivated land. But, as Sharron says, potatoes do not clear the ground - gardeners do, and even then the ground is not perfectly cleared. Yesterday she pulled up plenty of bindweed root along with the specimen above (weighing just under a kilo). Sharron is the ideal volunteer on Thursdays because she knows what's she's doing, which cannot be said of everybody. Harvesting versus spearing.

In clearing the ground this way, the gardener forks it over, digs in muck, and later digs deep holes in which to drop the seed potatoes. Then comes the earthing up. This regular attention forces the gardener (not the potato) to keep on top of the weeding, and the disturbance of the soil naturally impedes the weeds' progress. While harvesting, the ground is forked over again, leading to much improved soil and a few barrows of spuds.

Mr Potato Head is available for ground clearance and odd jobs.

Crazy Paving 1

2011-09-06T19:40:00.001+01:00

The most sought after paving for outdoors is often the most impractical. York stone, which looks so good glistening in the rain along the squares and crescents of Edinburgh, is slippery when wet (and it's almost always wet). Ditto brick, which is mossy in an English summer before falling to bits in the winter.

The most beautiful paving is arguably cobbled, and even better when it is impossible to walk on.

The Spanish courtyard above connects the house door to the street door. It would not be advisable to ever leave home in a hurry, particularly with bare feet.

Crazy Paving 2

2011-09-06T19:32:00.002+01:00

Allegedly, crazy paving was something that the Romans did. The Arts and Crafts folk were also keen, though it is doubtful whether they called it 'crazy'. Like many self-respecting English gardens, Brooke Hall in Northamptonshire has traces of Arts and Crafts influence, in its courtyards. A sensible path leads a person from A to B, correct me if I'm wrong. A path with a warning sign (below) is a sublime example of the beautiful and not at all useful.

Season's Greetings

2011-09-01T20:37:00.004+01:00

The cyclamen in the Wild Garden at Brooke Hall have been flowering for a couple of weeks now. On returning from holiday in the arid south it was a bit of a shock to see them. They are only doing what they are programmed to do but there is something disconcerting about cyclamen in August.

A friend of mine who is a 'mag hag' (one who devotes her life to the glossy magazine industry) used to live in a little flat in Kennington, South London, in which everything was white. At Christmas she had five small pots lined up in front of a white framed mirror, balanced on a tiny white mantle and in each pot, springing primly from its bed of moss, was a white cyclamen. Plus fairy lights. Because of her I always associate them with the dark days indoors when the choice is - hyacinth or cyclamen, cyclamen or hyacinth.

A cyclamen in August is like a memento mori, except that instead of saying 'remember you will die', the message is 'remember it will be Christmas'.

Science with Peter

2011-08-30T08:26:00.014+01:00

Long promised and long awaited:
Why you must eat cabbage within two hours of harvesting. Or, why children are right to loathe school dinner cabbage and most brussels sprouts.

In order to enjoy a cabbage in all its glorious sweetness, your choices are these, in order of preference:
1 Pick your own and cook within two hours.
2 Find one at a farmers market, picked yesterday (but remember to cook it at once).
3 In winter buy brussels sprouts on their own sticks. The sprouts are under the impression that they're still growing so they stay fresh for longer.
4 Last choice, and only in desperation, go to a supermarket, where your cabbage will have been sitting around for quite a while. And it will have received bumps and bruises which you may not be able to see but you will be able to taste.

This is the point with cabbages - we rarely experience their better side. However, there are people in the know and I feel privileged to impart this crucial information. The old boys at the allotment of a Sunday morning consider the handling of cabbages in their order of business. They cut their cabbage last and take it home carefully (not via the pub). It is imperative that one's brassicas are dropped into boiling water without delay, and especially, without being bumped.

'When brassicas are bashed they start to produce mustard oil', Peter informs us in the tack room at Marsh Hall. I've begun carrying a notebook when Peter is around: idle conversation is never completely idle.

'This emission of oil makes them taste and smell horrid. The more a cabbage is bashed the more mustard oil it produces. One of the nastiest smells you can get is the smell of rotting cabbages.' And then: 'Mustard oil is only a few molecules away from mustard gas.' What!

Notoriously, mustard gas was used during the First World War, as an added weapon in shell attacks. It is a blistering agent and can sometimes lead to a slow and painful death. Somehow, ironically, it is odorless.

Telling non-believers about the three or four degrees of separation between cabbage and poison gas will not make any converts. Instead, try boiling your freshly cut cabbage and serve it proudly, along with a blindfold.

Market News

2011-08-26T21:47:00.011+01:00

When it rains relentlessly at the Market, as it did today, everything looks different.
There are people about but they are only giving their time in the wet to absolute essentials: fruit and veg, fish, ultra-cheap household effects. When it rains, the latter tradespeople cover their stall on all sides with white tarpaulin. This provides a very pleasing backdrop for Dave the plant man.

On a dry day his stall is a little meadow on tables, against a cacophony of plastic and cellophane. Today, naturally hydrated and softly lit, it resembles a stand from the Great Pavilion at the Chelsea Flower Show.

Fast Food of the Gods

2011-08-24T21:51:00.017+01:00

There is something medieval about the concept of foraging: like wassailing, it needs an 'a' in front of it. In England, this is a good time to go a-foraging, with the hedgerows full of sloes and haws and hips. With the exception of blackberries though, foraging in the hedgerows can require a leap of the imagination, or quite a bit of patience and know-how. We like crab apple jelly, but only birds appreciate crab apples straight from the tree.

Further south, by the Mediterranean, well - it's a different story. The land might be arid and dusty but there is plenty to harvest from plants growing out of stone walls, food which is ready to be eaten there and then. So many wild things are edible: figs, almonds, fennel, anise, (cactus fruit and pomegranates will require a knife). You'll never run out of garlic...

Grapes drip over the walls/garages/disused bread ovens of other people's gardens, and olive trees look sculptural around their pools. The owners may have left for the summer, so, more foraging.

A sarong becomes a toga, flip flops look almost elegant and the scene is instantly classical. It's 800 miles away from the clogs and gaiters of the peasants back home.

Further Top Tips from an Under Gardener

2011-08-23T10:03:00.006+01:00

It is unwise to undress in your employer's garden. You may feel an insect crawling up your leg, you may shake your leg in a distracted way before getting a crazy idea that it's a wasp. You might pull one leg out in a hurry and give your trousers a shake.

Do not. Because there is a tiny but very real chance that your employer will appear from behind a bush saying 'Hello?'.
Just at the moment that a large cricket jumps out of your trousers.

Appreciating... Rust

2011-08-20T22:42:00.003+01:00

Rust-to-order has been around for a while and is pretty as well as neat. At this year's Cottesbrooke Plantfinders Fair it was hard to avoid the chic-ness of it amongst the stands and in the hoovered borders by Arne Maynard. There the carefully rusted hoops complement the claret hues of the planting, so immaculately.

But iron which has had a life, and is now keeping busy in retirement, accumulating rust as it goes, is much lovelier. In the less groomed parts of England, bits of beds have been put to practical use for years. My friend Peter remembers his parents growing their raspberries along bedsteads in their Swindon cottage garden. On the Balearic Islands, from which I have just returned, iron pipes and iron bedsprings are cobbled together as gates.
Gates which are impossible to open.

Gates to Open in a Hurry

2011-08-20T19:23:00.016+01:00

...And gates which should never be opened.

Welded reinforcing rods for concrete, with decoration.

The swift-action classic, made from olive.

Requires concentration while opening. And closing.

A palette and boulder arrangement, best left alone.

Brick Walls

2011-07-30T10:22:00.016+01:00

We are surrounded by ironstone here, and it makes a perfect warm-neutral backdrop for plants. It's so easy: everything looks good against it. But some of us live in brick dwellings and... it's very hard. Especially for someone who has taken seven years to choose a door colour. Old or new, the reddish colour of brick can be tricky. Pale colours seem to work on brick: cream, shell pink, pale yellow. Green is good. A trained fig against a vinery wall is heaven.

At Brooke Hall, there are a lot of walls and almost all of them have some plant life attached. (The wall at the top of this page is a very pleasant exception). Masses of wisteria drape over them in spring, and their elegance suits the place. There is also clematis montana, golden hop, climbing hydrangea. All useful plants for covering or hiding things. But why cover and smother with walls as lovely as these?

It's nice to decorate walls without putting climbers all over them. A viburnum opulus, semi-espaliered against a wall, when there isn't much else going on, gives a glimpse into what might be happening soon. Box planted really close to a wall and spreading against it, draws attention to its lovely bricks and provides some discreet greenery. With climbers, a pale rose is a classic when kept trim, espaliered or fan shaped. Similarly yellow jasmine. Like a rose, jasmine can be any shape you want it to be. A big straggly mess is not always the best way...

Breaking all the rules set out above, a really bright annual climber like nasturtium (shown here with a cup and saucer vine), should be allowed to spread itself abundantly over a brick wall, just because it's summer. But just make sure the wall is covered with lichen or peeling whitewash first.

Market News

2011-07-29T16:05:00.011+01:00

The Friday Market at Uppingham is old-fashioned though not quaint. It is in Rutland so it's free of tourists and despite all the extravagantly pretty stone buildings, it is not self-conscious about its attractiveness in the way that the Cotswolds can be.

Uppingham matrons go marketing with a large basket on the arm, and so do the men. The uniform of the Uppingham male is the same throughout the county: corduroy trousers, v-neck jumper, country colours. Nothing showy. People wear old check suits when walking the dog on Sunday.

My stall is across from the Post Office, next to the Nut Man. Today the town clerk gives us our invoices for next month. On the envelope the Nut Man's line of business is described as Health Food. Quite correct. My pitch is labeled Fancy Goods, which is pleasing.

'Because you're healthy,' the clerk explains, handing out the white envelopes. 'And you're fancy.'

BFFs in July

2011-07-26T21:34:00.018+01:00

Digitalis lanata and crocosmia Lucifer.

Achillea millefolium Lilac Beauty and verbascum chaixii.

Verbascum blattaria albiflorum and white cosmos.

Vitis Brandt and clematis Royal Velours.

More hot combos from the borders of Brooke Hall, somewhere in the middle of England.

Market News

2011-07-22T17:14:00.008+01:00

Some popular knitted wares, from the Ancient Industries pitch.

Being occupied for three hours inside a laurel bush (trimming it from inside out) is all part of a day's work at Brooke Hall. Sometimes, though, it's much more fun to spend a day leaning against the Post Office wall in Uppingham, as the Friday Market takes place. The Post Office is opposite my stall and it's the sunny side of the market.
I am next to Ashley, purveyor of nuts and other nutritious dry sundries. There is an empty space because Dave the plant man is not here this week and I'm tempted to take his place to avoid the windy corner I am sometimes dealt if I arrive after 6.30am. When I move the awning over I notice that the stall next to me sells plastic toilet brush sets for £1.75. They might show my £14 wood and bristle bannister brushes to ill advantage, so I move back. I can hear Ash complaining loudly to a vicar that I'd moved over and when he sees me he complains loudly that I'm coming back. The white-haired vicar says something kind and I say 'Thank you for defending me, Reverend.'
'We were talking about tarts and vicars just this morning' he responds cheerfully. With a deft side-step he continues, 'It's the Feast of Mary Magdalene today. She was a tart wasn't she?'
I ask if they do anything special in Church to mark this occasion and he said no, they don't have a party as such.
'So you're celebrating now, with nuts and raisins?'
'No,' he says wistfully. 'Just prunes.'

'There are no second acts in Allium lives' *

2011-07-20T21:17:00.017+01:00

While edging along the Terrace Border at Brooke Hall with my camera, looking for handsome twosomes for July, I can't help being struck by the amount of times a twosome becomes a threesome. Yellowing globes in varying states of drying and decay are popping up everywhere.

They look their best just before they look their worst, when keeling over at alarming angles. Hardy geraniums in an English garden are the most reliable, hardworking, useful perennials, putting up with dry shade, damp shade and downright neglect. They also come in wild colours but in the end, a geranium is a geranium. But - alliums! they're better value than tulips (financially, obviously) and they put up with inconsiderate planting in all sorts of soil. We know that they look lovely in May. But now, towards the end of July, at the beginning of the school holidays, when many people stop grubbing about in the dirt and think of other things, they come back. Even after all the editing, combing out, thinning, adding to that goes on in a large place like Brooke Hall.

The varieties which have already bloomed seem to show up better now. (Allium Sphaerocephalon, above, is still at its height). With all the purple and yellow of spring they had to rely on their shape, massed planting and height to grab the attention, but now with the advancing reds they stand out in a different way and add a calming neutral. One or two here and there. And it's the roundness, always the roundness which makes them so great.

Don't forget if you're a bit grand and you are maybe Sarah Raven even, you might dry your alliums and spray them silver for Christmas.

*Apologies to F. Scott and clearly incorrect (like the original quote of course).

Life as Still Life

2011-07-15T21:09:00.011+01:00

Un-styled, un-propped and nothing to do with the National Trust:

Some views of the sheds and tack room at Marsh Hall.

Best Friends Forever

2011-07-14T18:44:00.024+01:00

...Or a few weeks anyway.

Knautia Macedonica and Digitalis Pam's Choice.

Texture, structure, hue. Architectural shapes. Contrasts and complements (do we have to talk about the colour wheel?) Better still: make some visual notes of a few plants that look good together at Brooke Hall in June and July.

Geranium Mrs Kendall Clarke and Digitalis Lutea.

Scotch Thistle and Sanguisorba Burnet.

Inula and Ligularia The Rocket.

Difficult Science with Peter

2011-07-13T18:01:00.017+01:00

This is a subject one normally avoids. Peter on the other hand loves science. Last week at Marsh Hall he was keen to impart information about runner beans, so we head over towards the stout bean poles in the walled garden. The more inscrutable an idea, the more his glee increases. As does my own anxiety.

'Which way do runner beans grow?' he asks. Trick question or simple question - I have no idea.
'When you look down on them from above they appear to be growing anti-clockwise. When you look up at them, they are growing clockwise. When you look at them at the centre, as if through a letter box, they are going back and forth, but not up or down.

'In New Zealand which way would they be growing? NO! not the other way around! If you were on the other side of the world right now you wouldn't feel that you were upside down and neither do the beans.'
Deep breath. 'This is because their roots are looking for the centre of the Earth. Their winding stalks are being pulled up by gravity but their frame of reference is the centre of the Earth.
'If they grew the other way around in New Zealand that would imply that at the Equator they would grow horizontally, and they don't! The centre of the Earth tells the plant which direction is up and which is down!!'

This begs the inevitable question of space travel. 'If runner beans were taken to space, and they have been, they'd be growing all over the place because the poor things would be lost. They would miss the centre of the Earth pulling them in the right direction.'

He also mentions that the slightly hairy growing tips have something in common with the human ear, but let's not bother with that now.

Next time in Science with Peter
'Why you must eat a cabbage within two hours.'

Easy Science with Peter

2011-07-08T21:57:00.010+01:00

'Sawfly hates the smell of black currants,' says Peter. I was wondering why my gooseberries have survived this year, after moving them over towards the black currants, just because there was a bit of space near them. In the absence of the gooseberries, their old neighbours the red currants have been demolished.

We are sitting in the tack room at Marsh Hall under the saddle and bridle hooks, having coffee and cake for lunch. Peter warms to his theme, from the only armchair. 'In winter the grubs live about a foot underground,' he continues. 'When you put down manure you need to really smother the ground below the bush and above the grubs so that they suffocate.' A very thick layer of muck, with lots of sawdust, is ideal.
Not terribly scientific at all but it's worth a try.

Difficult Science with Peter will follow shortly.

The Next Big Thing

2011-07-06T22:56:00.019+01:00

We are living through the Age of the Corn Cockle. It is the most commented on plant in the Terrace Border at Brooke Hall, both from visitors and in the press. This is not a demure border and there is plenty to look up at, down at and peer through. But the elegant and well-mannered Agrostemma 'Ocean Pearl' floats around all of it, bringing it together, like the perfect host. There are other borders, new ones, and they're fine, they're coming along, but they lack the nonchalant perfection which the corn cockle brings. Considered a 'noxious weed' in places like South Carolina, they are less noxious in Northamptonshire. The seeds were provided by the amiable American Derry Watkins, and her plants really make a garden sing.

But even though we are living through the Age of the Corn Cockle (above) we always look ahead. Despite all the new planting, new layouts and new roses at Brooke Hall, an old-ish rose has been grabbing the attention, possibly because it adorns its column so perfectly. It was here before any of us and its name is Creme de la Creme. A forgettable sort of rose-name until you notice that the petals really are like folds of cream, with a subtle yellow in the centre of the goblet-sized flowers.

The head gardener isn't sure where it came from. I suspect it is from Gandy, a venerable rose grower in Leicestershire which was a destination for people who liked to buy locally and didn't mind picking their way around broken down glass houses.* One of my leaving presents from the Observer was 'a rose' and I bought the appropriately named New Dawn. They really tried their darnedest at Gandy's to sell me a Creme de la Creme. It was one of their own, and it came very strongly recommended. I wasn't having it and still think very highly of my New Dawn (below), by the back door.

Now though I'd like to put a Creme de la Creme (top) on the front of our house, having seen it looking glorious at Brooke Hall. I also want to put it on the front of a client's house in Rutland: it goes equally well with brick or sand-coloured ironstone.

At a big fair at Brooke Hall recently thousands of visitors saw this rose and took note, as it was next to the talks tent. Maybe the speakers did as well. Its location could be crucial: the latest garden designer at Brooke Hall has admired it, growing as it does next to his rarefied borders. He has ordered some for his chic customers, in the Cotswolds and way beyond... It could be that Rosa Creme de la Creme is one of the next zeitgeist plants, just from looking so right this summer, while growing up a perfectly placed pillar in the East Midlands.

*Gandy's has since closed but the Gandy rose Creme de la Creme is carried by Peter Beale and David Austin.

Wild in the Country

2011-07-02T12:48:00.005+01:00

The wildlife around Brooke Hall is often of the subdued, useful type, eg sheep. Occasionally a kingfisher flies by just as you blink, in the Wild Garden. On the way home from work the other afternoon I saw a fox running across the lane. It was the first real country fox I've ever seen, even though I've lived in this hunting-mad place for seven years. There was one lurking behind the sheds at Market Harborough station but that doesn't count.

Next morning, fifty yards further down there was more wildlife, filling the road, spilling over, and running straight towards the car. A pack o' hounds, with the new Huntsman and Whipper-in of the Pytchley Hunt (so I am told) and a kid on a mountain bike. But never mind the panting and occasionally lethal mob, what about these gents on push-bikes, perfectly uniformed in checked shirt, tie and antiquated brown coat. Accessorised with a whip and a smile.

Curtains to go with the Flowers...

2011-07-01T13:08:00.003+01:00

Took a break yesterday from Brooke Hall and the deadheading of Penelope roses and caught the 16.12 to London. I wanted to see what Arne Maynard had to say and he was giving a talk at the Garden Museum in Lambeth. He spoke at length about his favourite garden, Rousham, where he sometimes takes clients to gage their reaction. When working on a plot which is attached to a brand new house, showing them around a firmly established garden can be helpful in the getting-to-know you process. If the clients are very visual and allow the designer off his lead the effect can become more riotous: the signature topiary seems more jaunty and the pleached limes look somehow less... pleached.

Can a client have too much fun? He mentioned some people in the Cotswolds who are involved with a decoration and fabrics firm, known for its flamboyant use of colour. 'They change their curtains in summer and winter,' Arne said. 'Sometimes they change the colour of the curtains to match the borders.' He should be grateful that it's not the other way around.

...And Paintings that Match the Curtains

2011-06-30T23:12:00.010+01:00

Nancy Lancaster was very good at this sort of thing, even before she joined Colefax and Fowler.

The most humiliating thing that's ever happened to me was when I was doing up Kelmarsh. I went to Christie's, where, hanging in the sale room, was a picture that I recognised. I burst out, 'I do want that picture; it's exactly the colour I want. It matches my curtains.'

It was a Van Dyck and went to a museum.

The Cutting Edge

2011-06-26T06:37:00.005+01:00

Nick has been at Brooke Hall for most of his workable life. When he arrived he joined a large outdoor staff and the kitchen garden was the centre of operations. 'Her Ladyship' called him by his surname as did everyone else. Soon he graduated to 'that wretched boy' and now he is known as Nick. But when we take a closer look at his work (and it does bear close inspection) he is known as the 'artist'. He does a lot of mowing and blowing, as well as hedge cutting, and trimming the increasing amount of topiary. He can give yew cones a 'light cut' or he can go in heavy on rampant bamboo. But his true artistry lies with the edge, perfectly curved and breathtakingly straight.

For the curious, he uses a strimmer.

In Praise of Praecox

2011-06-21T21:25:00.008+01:00

The Head Gardener at Brooke Hall is a sunny person and is never seen in foul weather gear (or any of the dreary clothes which many gardeners are drawn to). It is my double regret that he is so good at delegating as his conversation is always thought-provoking and he'd be fun to dig next to. He does stop to talk however and sometimes he moves the hose around while I do the watering, and today he does just that.

I am administering to 10 extra large pots of agapanthus in the forecourt. These plants have been at Brooke Hall for at least sixty years, says the HG. They are evergreen and tender but survive the cold, and rally round after being chopped up. They spend their summers en plein air in Northamptonshire and they winter under glass, which is sometimes frozen on the inside. They are Agapanthus Praecox, nothing else, just as they were described no doubt in the original catalogue. This is the quintessential agapanthus plant, and it has no name except Praecox, should anyone ask.

But the best thing about this Agapanthus Praecox, says the Head Gardener, the really special thing, is the luminous blue around the base of the bud - just before it bursts open.

Pin Up Pests

2011-06-20T06:43:00.005+01:00

In the process of eating Verbascum Helen Johnson, the mullein caterpillar becomes even more attractive than its host.

Appreciating... Polytunnels

2011-06-19T06:30:00.007+01:00

They couldn't be more utilitarian, with their polythene and their plain metal curves. But the lack of angularity is appealing and the plants inside can turn them into something else altogether. Thistleton Herb Nursery in Rutland has one open weekend a year, always near midsummer and just as significant. The date is put in diaries in the depths of winter.

They have a lot of polytunnels at Thistleton. Inside is a massive variety of wildflowers and herbs, as well as vegetables. Some plants are being grown for the big shows, like Hampton Court, three weeks from now. When it is pouring outside, as it was yesterday, a polytunnel is a good place to be, the oxygen-filled air mingling with the scent of thyme or lavender or fennel. And the flower-filled tunnels look like meadows on either side of the black plastic runway.

Lady Lathyrus

2011-06-17T19:47:00.011+01:00

Three Ways with Sweet Peas

The new traditional, on hazel poles.

Artless mug arrangement.

Grown under glass, the scent is trapped.

'It must be lovely working here'

2011-06-16T23:22:00.006+01:00

It is lovely but it is lovelier with visitors to remind you. I have been pruning wisteria at Brooke Hall this afternoon, a pleasant enough sunny-with-showers day, standing on the top rung of a stout Japanese ladder. I survey the place as I count five to six buds then snip.

Houses like Brooke Hall were built for entertaining and they do need people. An empty Pleasure Garden is... a list of jobs. Today I am surrounded by Penelope roses and Lady's Mantle so questions are easy, and visitors almost always want to talk. Several say, 'That's a job and a half!' and I agree. There are so many wisteria and this one is not small. Then follows the inevitable 'It's like the Forth Bridge...' Boom boom.

Some professional gardeners are bored to death by visitors with their comments and questions and they put on an 'I'm so busy' air, to put people off. But those walking around, and bringing the garden to life, want to believe in the fable of the garden and the house, who used to live there and what they used to do. The visitors understand that you don't need to go fox hunting four times a week and order your rugs in Paris to take home some of the glamour. And anybody can garden in pearls.

Before and after (top).

Covetable Compost

2011-06-13T22:26:00.007+01:00

Turn up the heat this season with frequently turned compost. The heaps at Marsh Hall are always hot. Comfortingly low-tech, they are simply put together from wood offcuts, carpet and rotting matter. Get the look with a Persian rug and some wildlife; brighten up neutrals with cut flowers, just this side of dead.

Red carpet treatment for a grass snake.

Snakes with Peter

2011-06-12T15:40:00.015+01:00

People who are afraid of snakes should approach a fire heap with caution. Compost enthusiasts are busy stirring elsewhere and a fire heap, with its carpet of insulation and its deep rotting bed can be very attractive to a single snake. A single snake quickly becomes a nest of snakes however. Happily at Marsh Hall we like to find all kinds of living creatures, between the lifting of the carpet and the emptying of the bucket therein. As long as they're not baby rats...

We uncover one of these snake nests in the fire heap, a shady place behind the walled garden. As one grass snake slithers away, another waits patiently to be photographed.* Peter has information to impart. This snake has just laid eggs, or is about to. It is a female: they are bigger than males. She may have laid up to 40 eggs and since females come together to lay in the same place, this heap could have 1000 eggs in it. They have thick leathery shells and the hatchlings emerge in the autumn. What a beautifully engineered creature she is. Grass snakes are the largest reptiles in the UK... how does Peter have all this grass snake information at his fingertips? 'I saw a programme about them on telly last night,' he says, rather crushingly.

*One way of telling an adder from a grass snake is that the latter has a friendly round pupil, while a venomous snake has a vertical pupil, like a Disney snake. This one isn't giving much away. When they are about to shed, the eyes can be covered with a blue film and the snake becomes lethargic, which is fortunate for the reporter of snakes.

No Sob Stories Please

2011-06-08T21:12:00.012+01:00

A sad ending should not be left hanging about and we're pleased to note that the news from Norfolk is far from sad. The vineries at Holkham Hall walled garden have been resurrected, with thanks to English Heritage, and the whole place is about a third of the way through a restoration project. It is unlikely to be 'restored to its former glory' as the saying goes, since it is not 1911 and the garden is not a museum. But there are plans for a different kind of glory and it may be relevant once more. Head gardener Tim Marshall wants to keep the tropical plants left behind by the nursery for instance, to create a new ornamental garden. 'They give such a good atmosphere,' he says. 'I want it to be a place to meander and kind of chill out.'

Bring on the bagpipes.

The new-look vinery and top, the fig house within.

The peach house.

The extraordinary wall.

News from Norfolk

2011-06-07T22:33:00.017+01:00

The walled garden at Holkham Hall

Everything is big. The walls enclosing the six and a half acres are big, and tall, and really very long. The vineries and sunken greenhouses, ditto. It's quite a walk from the house, a quarter of a mile, and the area is separated behind a ha-ha and the kind of gate which would look more at home in a churchyard.

On display is an old photograph of a man in a kilt playing the bagpipes, who is the former head gardener. The people at Holkham say this about him:

'Donald Paterson became head gardener around 1910. In his time at Holkham he saw his gardeners twice go off to war, the upheaval of World War II with its 'Dig for Victory' campaign and the forced economies that followed, all before his death in 1949.'

The Holkham estate was on its knees by the 1950s, with massive debts owed, following the deaths of the third and fourth earls within ten years. In the 1960s the walled garden became a nursery and in 2005 it became empty.

More Science with Peter

2011-06-06T07:15:00.010+01:00

A Victorian dog bone.

When the polymath Peter talked us through devil's toenails and broken clay pipes a few weeks ago, it got the mind ticking over. Why is there so much pottery in our back gardens? A midden, or dump, behind a row of cottages would have been as usual as a communal water pipe or laundry. But that only accounts for a concentration of willow pattern (and fish paste bottles, and bits of bedsteads) in a small area. Most of us have broken china and bones scattered around and they're old if not ancient.

While weeding through beans in the walled garden at Marsh Hall the other day, Sharron found a femur bone, almost certainly from a dog. Peter: 'This bone is very light and porous. The holes are bigger at the ends because water has been leaching phosphates from it. It's light because it's been doing good, for the soil.'

And broken plates? 'People believed that the 'bone' in bone china would have a similar effect,' says Peter. 'But pottery has been calcified in the kiln, so it doesn't do any good at all. And it doesn't break down: it will be here for the duration, until the Second Coming.' Peter is singing with his choir in the Vatican this week – I'll see if he has any information on this when he gets back.

Top Tips from an Under Gardener

2011-06-05T22:13:00.002+01:00

1 Never walk backwards.
2 If you must pass judgement on a plant, let it be positive.
3 Conversely, if a plant is about to be dug out, don't say 'But I like that one.'
4 On encountering the garden owner, limit your conversation to 'Yes' 'No' and 'I'm so sorry.'

Bird Gardening

2011-06-03T12:18:00.002+01:00

At Marsh Hall today, thinning beetroot mainly. The beds in the walled garden are becoming more full, with diagonals of cutting flowers looking confident (cerinthe, sweet william) or a bit lost (cosmos - it will happen). And there are rows of vegetables which need their first thinning. 'You could let the birds do that,' Sharron says. She's right, and I'm not thinning too much so the birds can do their own bit of editing too.

Birds as gardeners are not as interested in straight lines as people are and they tend to focus on one area, which can spoil the final effect. Many people put up netting, fruit cages or a rustic cloche just to stop the birds from interfering. But sometimes a rogue flower pops up, which may have had something to do with a bird, and it looks perfect. This wild lily is growing amongst trees just beyond a sign that says No Entry, at Marsh Hall. So, nobody sees it except the gardeners and volunteers. Great! But speaking as a human, I just wish that whatever wild thing put it there could have dotted a few more around.

Appreciating Bedding Part 2

2011-06-03T11:48:00.004+01:00

Okay, so, we're not there yet. But the house with the yellow trim in Lyddington is on schedule planting-out-wise, and we can only hope that the beds start to sing by midsummer.

The Millennium Never Happened

2011-05-29T23:22:00.010+01:00

In Cottesbrooke, Northamptonshire.

The village hall was put up in 1953 to honour the Queen and she is honoured still. Today the village gardens were open to the public. At the bottom of the map was printed a courteous and slightly magisterial plea, 'Please be kind enough to return your ticket with a note of which garden has given you the most pleasure.'

I can report that the tea inside the hall was particularly good, since it was poured from a giant stainless steel teapot. The meringues, according to my companion, were 'flipping historic.'