Flowers

Flowers

Thursday, 15 January 2015

How about a tulip called 'Bob'?

I've just finished planting my tulips, which - as ever - was a task that was well overdue. It's the same every year. I order tulips (and narcissi) in early autumn, they arrive, they languish in the shed. Sometimes they get planted by the end of February, sometimes not.
The trouble is, I find the bulb catalogues irresistible, with their fabulous colours and promises of a gorgeous display. Then life intervenes, and just at the moment when I should be planting the darned things, I find that my time is taken up with other projects.
This year, I had a rush of blood to the head and decided to order some "Rembrandt" tulips as well as the white 'Purissima' which are one of my favourites. "Rembrandt" is the name now given to any tulip varieties that have streaks or flames. These are not the old "broken" tulips, which were the result of a virus, but modern cultivars that are bred to look like the antique varieties.
It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I'm now wondering whether a garden full of stripy tulips will look a bit strange. Never mind - most of them look as if they will tone in with each other (at least according to the catalogue pictures), and I have ordered some plain varieties as well.
As I potted them all up (I grow them in pots to stop squirrels digging up the bulbs), it occurred to me that in future, I should base my tulip choices on the length of the name rather than the colour or the stripes or whatever. Trying to fit Tulipa 'Flaming Spring Green' or Tulipa 'Veronique Sanson' onto a 5ins plastic plant label when you have large handwriting and a thick marker pen is no joke.
Of course, one can resort to abbreviations, but I wonder if, come May, I shall look at a squiggle that says something like T. Rime Fantasist and remember that it marks a pot of Tulipa 'Rems Favourite'? Why can't they call tulips something simple like 'Bob' or 'Ted'?


White 'Purissima' tulips growing in a pot in on the terrace last spring. Behind are the purple blooms of Erysimum 'Bowles Mauve', which in my garden is never out of flower.


Tulipa 'Apricot Beauty' in flower last spring with Erysimum 'Bowles Mauve', the new spring foliage of Sedum telephium 'Herbstfreude', the white broom Cytisus praecox 'Albus' and the lime-green flower heads of Euphorbia characias subs. wulfenii

It isn't only in the garden that my good intentions turn to dust. I always vow that I'll be ready for Christmas, and it very rarely turns out that way.
Some things went according to plan this year, mainly because other people were in charge of them. The Christmas lights on my house were on by 1 December, thanks to my friend Ollie who sorts them out each year. Why so early? Well, Ollie had to go to Moscow at the beginning of December to help set up an exhibition commemorating the Sochi Winter Olympics (he'd worked on the opening and closing ceremonies), and it seemed only fair that he should see the lights go on before he went.
My daughter did the Christmas tree, which looked beautiful, and both my children and their partners devoted their time to keeping their grandmother amused and ensuring that no Summerley Christmas traditions (such as watching Morecambe and Wise, playing cards and charades, and doing jigsaws) went forgotten.
One of the highlights of Christmas in Bibury is the Boxing Day duck race, which raises money for charity and for the local cricket club. To our amazement, my mother was the winner, with duck no. 15. (Look at the bottom of the list, and you will see Rufus had a bet on duck no. 26.)
The winner doesn't actually win anything, but has the honour of deciding which charity the money should go to. My mother, who has a narrowboat, chose the RNLI, the Lifeboats charity.


The word "race" is a relative term where the Bibury duck race is concerned. I have seen paint dry faster. It must be the only race where you hear the starting pistol go, and then have to wait about an hour for anything to go past 100 yards downriver.


Part of the fun is watching the real ducks (see the one on the far left?) react to a river full of decoy ducks.


A closer view shows that it is actually quite easy to spot the decoy ducks - they are usually upside down.


The main duck race is followed by the yellow duck race, which has a cash prize of 100 pounds. However, my mother was thrilled with her "win" and she is looking forward to presenting a cheque for more than 2,000 pounds to the RNLI at our local pub, the Catherine Wheel, on 23 January.

Saturday, 8 November 2014

Grand plans and cutting gardens

Winter is the time for gardeners to plan and dream. Somehow, the backbreaking chores and the never-ending weeding don't seem so dispiriting when you're sitting in front of a log fire with a gardening book and a cup of tea. You can conveniently forget that you haven't yet planted all your bulbs and start thinking about next summer's display.
My grand plan for next summer is to start a cutting garden. I still have two enormous borders to clear and plant (three if you count the one I am halfway through), so I shouldn't really be thinking about a new project. However, the border clearance has in part inspired the idea of the cutting garden.
Wouldn't it be nice (I thought to myself) if, instead of heaving out huge chunks of weeds and tracking down the root runs of nettles for days on end, I could just put a couple of raised beds straight down onto a bit of spare lawn (of which I have plenty), fill them up with topsoil, sow some seeds and reap beautiful bouquets for months on end. The prudent, less impulsive part of me thinks I might invest in some raised-bed liners too. I don't want to start digging nettles and ground elder out of yet another bit of the garden.
Now, I know what you are going to say. This is a fashion to which I have fallen victim. And it is true that cutting gardens are in vogue at the moment, thanks to people like Sarah Raven, and Rachel de Thame, who recently presented a cutting garden diary on BBC Gardeners' World.
I've also just bought Louise Curley's book, The Cut Flower Patch, published earlier this year by Frances Lincoln, which is a good practical guide to not only what to grow, but how to arrange it. It seems to me that when everyone is talking about something, that's a good time to find out about it.
Why, you might ask, would I need a cutting garden when I already have a garden full of plants? Well, why do some people have allotments when they could easily grow vegetables in their own garden?
I want to grow flowers as a crop, for the house, in exactly the same way as many people grow veg. I don't have a particularly flowery garden - I love foliage plants, such as grasses, and I like an evergreen structure that looks good all year round. In a cutting garden, I can indulge myself with a glorious kaleidoscope of colourful annuals without worrying about how it will fit in with everything else.
The picture below shows my friend Sue O'Neill's flower garden, which looks fabulous (I love those Rip City dahlias). I never seem to be able to get that look, maybe because I'm too anal about what I plant with what. I'm hoping a cutting patch might loosen up my ideas a bit.


Taking the lawn view


We had the first frost of the winter on Thursday morning. It was the cue for me to rush outside to take photographs, and to see if the wasps in the nest above my daughter's bedroom window had been zapped by the cold. There was no sign of the little blighters, so I hope they have succumbed.


The tabloid papers in the UK have been running lurid stories predicting "the worst winter for 100 years", but on a crisp frosty morning, when the clumps of santolina look like an edging of grey fur,  it is difficult to take a negative view of the impending winter.


On the other hand, it is all too easy to take a negative view of the lawns. There is way too much lawn in my garden, and although I have spent quite a lot of the past two years creating new borders, they are still too narrow to be in proportion.
Cutting out borders is back-breaking work, involving a half-moon edger to cut through the turf or the weeds, a spade and a lot of huffing and puffing. There are so many thuggish perennial weeds, I can't just rotavate it, and I hate using weedkiller.
My soil is typical Cotswold clay and limestone, which isn't as bad as it sounds. The limestone is comparatively soft, and breaks down easily, so I never have to dig out huge boulders, and the thousands of small stones that litter the soil help it warm up in spring and keep it drained (well, sort of) in long periods of wet weather.
Clay soil holds on to nutrients well, but is difficult to work in winter, when the mud clings to your spade and boots. At times you feel as if you are slowly accumulating your own weight in mud. Come to think of it, you probably are.
The trouble is, there are other parts of the garden that require attention more urgently than this bit. So the lawns will have to wait a while. In the meantime, I'll console myself with thinking up outrageous plans for an elaborate parterre, with gazons coup├ęs (where patterns are cut into the turf and filled with sand or gravel) and lavender hedges.
It will never come to fruition of course, but the planning is half the fun, don't you find?

Monday, 20 October 2014

Suddenly, there was a pond: Part 3


I was running 10 days late on the b**k by the time Pete was ready to start planting the pond, so when he asked me if I wanted to go to the wholesale nursery with him to choose plants, I was in a bit of a dilemma.
On the one hand, I should have been working; and having been in and out of London every day for most of September, the last thing I wanted to do was to spend four hours on the motorway (two hours there, two hours back) AGAIN. On the other hand, several herds of wild horses would have been necessary to prevent me from going.


The nursery Pete uses is called North Hill Nurseries, in Chobham, Surrey. It's strictly trade only, but I was very impressed by the range and the quality of the plants. Considering this was the beginning of October, they had a fantastic selection - most of the retail nurseries have either sold out of everything by now, or the plants look pretty sorry for themselves. These Actaea matsumurae 'White Pearl' caught my eye immediately.


I knew I wanted lots of grasses, because they give a very natural, fluid effect, and pretty good year-round interest as well. In winter, the fluffy seed heads add texture to the garden, and look fabulous covered in frost.


These are schizostylis, or kaffir lily, part of the huge selection of perennials available. I didn't buy these, but I have admired them in Patient Gardener's front garden, so it may be just a matter of time before I acquire some.


Cercis canadensis 'Forest Pansy'! I have been dying to get my sticky little paws on one of these for ages. A must-have - AND they are resistant to honey fungus.


More fabulous perennials. Pete was trying to persuade me to get some astilbes but I have an irrational prejudice against these plants. I don't know why - perhaps because I think the bright pink ones look so unnatural. I'd rather have something like Aruncus dioicus.


Hydrangea arborescens 'Annabelle' - a really lovely white hydrangea which looks good anywhere.


And here's the finished pond! Well, not quite finished, because the electrician has to come and connect the pump cable to the electricity supply. Pete and his team filled it with just enough water to submerge the marginals and the water lily in the centre, but we've had so much rain recently, the level has already risen by at least an inch.


The cats don't seem to mind the loss of their lavatory - they seem delighted with their new drinking fountain.


I can't wait to see the waterfall running. In the meantime, I am going to start planting the surrounding area to match the pond planting. Just before the waterfall meets the pond, there is a stepping stone across, so I'm going to create some sort of path around the pond here. I'll probably use gravel.


There are so many plants here: miscanthus; phormiums - a variety I hadn't seen before called 'Surfer Bronze'; Physocarpus (a purple one and a gold-leaved one); hostas; ferns; Eupatorium rugosum 'Chocolate'; hardy geraniums; foxgloves; asters; Japanese anemones ('Honorine Jobert'). The list goes on and on. It's got a sort of prairie look to it, which I love (if you can have a prairie next to a pond). 


The best thing about the pond (apart from the fact that it's a gorgeus pond) is that it provides a focus for this bit of the garden, which has always looked a bit scruffy. I'm now much more inspired about what to do with the rest of it  - I'll plant the same sort of things up the slope here and continue the theme.
Did I do the planting round the pond myself? Are you kidding? Pete and his team did it. If it had been left to me, it would all still be sitting in pots on the drive.


Sunday, 19 October 2014

Suddenly, there was a pond: Part 2

So, the pond was dug, the concrete rendering was done, the underlay and the butyl rubber liner had gone down, and it was time to start putting the stone into place.
I have to stress that this is an expensive way to build a pond. It's perfectly possible to dig a hole, line it with butyl rubber (use sand and underlay beneath it), put a bit of stone round the edge to make it look pretty, fill it up with water and away you go.
However, I wanted a natural pond, and the problem with putting stone only around the edge is that in order to hide every bit of liner, the stone has to overhang. (Otherwise, in summer when the water tends to evaporate slightly, you can see black liner.) This means it's more difficult for creatures such as frogs to get in and out.
To get around this problem, you can have a gently sloping "beach" area, but because my garden gently slopes both north to south and east to west, it would have been difficult to make this look level while at the same time keeping it stable. It was easier, and looks better, to have shelf areas within the pond, and to cover the liner completely with stone and gravel.


In the picture above,  you can see the black pipe that will take the water from the pump to the top of the waterfall.


Here's another view: you can see the black pipe disappearing under the jetty, where the pump is housed. Notice the border of liner around the pond? Read on and you will see how that disappears.


This area to the right of the jetty, with all the gravel, is the reed bed, which will keep the pond water healthy. This works on the same principle as a domestic reed bed sewage system, and although I'm not a freshwater biologist, I'll have a go at explaining how that works.
Reeds are able to transfer oxygen from their leaves down to their roots, which is how they survive in a waterlogged habitat. This creates both aerobic and anaerobic conditions in the soil, which encourages a huge range of micro-organisms to flourish. These micro-organisms break down the waste, and the reeds themselves take up a certain amount in the form of nutrition.
In the past, in smaller ponds, I've used a UV clarifier, but there are lots of reasons NOT to use these. First, if the bulb goes (which it does once a year in my experience), the clarifier stops working - and very often, if you have a modern trip system, the dead bulb trips the fusebox. Not amusing in the middle of winter.
Second, the flow rate has to be just right. If it is too fast, the water passes through the clarifier without being treated. If it is too slow, the algae can reproduce quicker than the clarifier can treat the water.
Third, the clarifier only treats algae - not blanket weed (or string algae). Fourth, a UV clarifier uses electricity, and while it doesn't cost that much in the great scheme of things, I feel a bit guilty about using power when I don't need to.
It seemed to me much more sensible to have a eco-system that would look after itself and create a healthy habitat for pond life naturally.


Now that the top of the waterfall area has been lined in stone, it's beginning to look as if it has always been there. The idea was to replicate a natural stone "outcrop" on the slope. Here's Rufus making one of his regular tours of inspection here. I had no idea he was such an expert on landscape architecture.


The jetty is finished! I suspect this will be everyone's favourite place to sit come next summer. You can see how the stone has been laid to hide the edge of the liner, and also hide the pump under the jetty.


This gives a better view of how the waterfall comes down into the pond. The guys have laid the stone following the lines of the rock strata, which also helps it look natural.
It had taken eight days of work to get to this stage, and the build schedule was 10 days in total. It was time to start thinking about plants - and I'll tell you about that in my next post.

Friday, 17 October 2014

And suddenly, there was a pond in my garden

I haven't blogged for ages because I've been busy writing a book. More on that another time, because I don't want to hear the word "book" again for a while.
Anyway, the day before my deadline, the guys who were going to build my pond turned up. (Isn't that always the way?) Suddenly, there was a digger, a skip, a tip-up truck, four men and a large hole in my garden. It was so exciting!
I'd always intended to have a pond in the garden, but finding someone to build proved unexpectedly difficult. A couple of pond specialists who lived to the west of me turned me down, because my garden was more than half an hour's drive away.
In the end, I found Pete Sims and his team on the internet. They were based in Reading, but work all over the Home Counties, so although they were an hour away, this didn't seem a problem. (I've often found this - if people are used to going into London or the South-east to work, the idea of commuting doesn't bother them so much.)
I liked the look of Pete's work - he seemed to be able to do a range of designs - and I asked him if he'd come and give me a quote. He came over and we spent a happy afternoon talking about ponds, plants and gardens. He seemed like someone who would not only do the job, but do it with enthusiasm.
Pete didn't draw me a plan. We went into the garden and I showed him where I wanted the pond, and waved my arms around and said: "I want something vaguely like that." I wanted a naturalistic pond, that would look good with the local stone. I wanted a jetty or a bridge of some sort where I could sit or kneel and look at what was going on down in the water. And I wanted a waterfall or moving water of some kind, mainly to deter mosquitoes from breeding.
Pete paced out the area and suggested how my ideas might take shape, and when his team arrived to start the build, he drew the outline on to the grass with blue paint. Then they built the pond. It was as simple as that.
Ideally, he would have used Cotswold stone, but the local stone is quite soft and we didn't think it would stand up to life in a pond. Instead, Pete used Purbeck stone, from Dorset, which is harder (and full of fossils), but pretty much the same honey colour.
Here's how it started:


First, catch your digger. Here it is arriving, closely followed by the skip. Unbelievably, the digger managed to squeeze through that wooden arch behind it.


The site for the pond. When I first moved to the house, there was a huge dead tree here, which had suckered around the trunk. A forest of brambles had grown up amongst the suckers. That was all dug out a while ago, and since then, this bit has been used for dumping or burning garden rubbish.
Here's another view of the site, below.



The scoops for the digger had straight edges, so that if by any chance you snagged a pipe or cable, it wouldn't be ripped out. There were three sizes of scoops, so it was possible to do quite delicate work.


The digging begins. Note the blue paint on the right.


And the digging goes on ...

 

And on... You can see how stony the soil is here


In the meantime, I knew I could rely on Rufus to keep an eye on everything.


By Day 2, the outline of the pond was more or less complete. We had lovely weather for the build, typical of September, with misty mornings turning to warm sunshine as the day wore on.


Rufus insisted on briefing his co-workers every morning. (I made them a cup of tea.)


And he also helped with the dig.


While Luigi was delighted to discover what he thought was a giant cat litter tray.


When the digging was completed, the pond was rendered in concrete, which helps stabilise the shape, and the shelves for the marginal plants.


The bit at the top of the pond, by the digger, is going to be the waterfall. It will be operated by a pump, which will circulate the water.


Day 3, and the concrete is lined with sand, before the liner goes in. The frame for the jetty is installed, and you can clearly see the steps that will form the shallow waterfall. In the meantime, the stone has arrived from Dorset, and the guys lay it out around the pond so they can see what sizes and shapes they have.
The garden slopes all over the place here, and I'm ashamed to say that I was a bit worried about whether the jetty would be level. When the guys went home, I borrowed one of their big spirit levels, and laid it on the frame. It was dead straight.


Rufus decides it's time to take a well-earned rest. In my next post, I'll show you what happened in Week 2.

Saturday, 26 July 2014

Home thoughts from abroad

So, here's the thing: every time I attend a garden bloggers' fling in the United States, there is a heatwave. Before I go, I tell friends I'm going to Seattle, or San Francisco, or (in this case) Portland, Oregon. They snigger and say things like: "Remember to take a raincoat, huhr, huhr." The north-west coast of America, like the north-west coast of the UK, is notoriously damp and chilly.
When I arrive at the destination, the sky is blue, the temperature is about 38C (100.4F) and everyone is sweltering. I will already know this of course, because I will have been tracking the weather on the BBC's site, which is usually pretty foolproof.
Even better, when I get home from the fling, the heatwave has migrated to the UK, and southern England is basking in temperatures more usually found on the Riviera.
The "Fling" was first flung in 2008, in Austin, Texas, where a group of garden bloggers decided that it would be fun to have a national event and invite people from all over the US - and the rest of the world. Most of the "flingers" - but not all - are professional garden writers, or master gardeners, or involved in the horticultural trade in some way.
Since then, there have been flings in Seattle, Chicago, San Francisco, Asheville, NC and Buffalo, NY. Typically the programme last three or four days and includes visits to both private and public gardens, trips to nurseries and plenty of opportunities to make friends.
In the past four years, Brits like me have started to infiltrate, and we are always given a typically warm American welcome. This year marked the highest number of Brits ever, including me; my friend Michelle from Veg Plotting, down the road in Chippenham;  Charlotte Weychan from The Galloping Gardener and Mark and Gaz from Alternative Eden. Here we are, posing for a group photograph at the International Rose Test Garden in Portland.


It's always difficult to know where to begin writing about all the astonishing gardens we visit on a fling. This time, I thought I might start at the end, and work backwards, because one of the greatest pleasures of a fling is to potter round the garden when I come home and digest all the interesting things I've seen.
I also think that, while it is important to scrutinise your own garden as dispassionately as you can (it's amazingly easy to see what you want to see, rather than what is actually there), it's also important NOT to look at your garden for a while. Going away for a couple of weeks allows you to see things with a fresh eye when you return.
There are times when I find my garden frustrating because it seems as if everything is determined to remain less than two feet high. Most of the plants you can see in the pictures below have been planted by me in the 18 months since I moved in, so it's not surprising that they are still quite small - some of the shrubs and trees, for example, will not attain their full height for many years.
However, when I came back from America, I realised for the first time that things really were beginning to fill out a bit, and give a vague impression of how the finished result might look.


My garden uses what most people would recognise as cottage garden plants, but there are also some exotic interlopers. I had a sub-tropical garden when I lived in London (see Victoria's Backyard), and I love bright colours, and coloured foliage. The challenge for me, when I moved to the Cotswolds, was to find a way to make my favourite plants work in a more traditional setting.
The starting point for a colour scheme at Awkward Hill was the Cotswold stone of the walls, which is a golden grey. It becomes covered in moss and lichen, which together add splotches of black/brown (where the moss dries out in summer), a bright yellow/ochre, and white.


So I have lots of grey plants - santolina, lavender, catmint - alongside gold foliage (in this case, Libertia ixioides 'Goldfinger' to the right of the staddle stone), purple leaves (Physocarpus opulifolius 'Diabolo' and Sambucus nigra 'Black Tower') and the subtle, multi-coloured spears of Phormium tenax 'Alison Blackman'.


Mario fits into this colour scheme very neatly.


I think I meant to take a picture of the heuchera on the left, which are 'Bronze Beauty' - a really showstopping variety with vast amber-coloured leaves. They look a bit weird bobbing up in the middle of pale-pink Geranium endressii, but everyone always stops to ask what they are. What can I say? You can take the girl out of the exotic garden, but you can't take the exotic garden out of the girl ...


I say I meant to take a picture: I got distracted by Luigi, who was posing prettily in front of the lavatera.


This is Nigella papillosa 'African Bride', which I bought as seedlings from Sarah Raven. It's not the most economical way to buy plants, but I don't have a greenhouse (yet), so it makes a kind of sense to me. Nothing went to waste, nor did I have any disasters.


Looking down the garden, you can just see the fastigiate yews I planted this spring to form a boundary between the formal part of the garden and the wilder part. I spent ages deliberating whether to plant a hedge or have a fence. In the end, I decided on what I call "not a hedge". The idea is that the yews will form a line of pillars, which are interplanted, for now, with white broom (Cytisus x praecox 'Albus'), Libertia grandiflora, yellow crocosmia (Crocosmia crocosmiiflora 'George Davison'), Leucanthemum x superbum 'Broadway Lights' and various grasses.