I have not written a blog for ages but will makes no apologies as life is like that sometimes and I cannot always think of anything interesting about which I want to write. It would be very dull if I felt an obligation to write stuff and churned out an equivalent of my childhood diary. I think it was called the Letts Schoolboy diary and was full of interesting facts about the countries of the world and their various exports. Some of it sank in – Sierra Leone * exports diamonds, and bauxite for use in the manufacture of aluminium. The Canadian prairie provinces are Alberta, Manitoba and Saskatchewan. Anyway my point is that you would get quite bored by a string of blogs that said variations on “Irish stew for lunch (yuk) then mucked around” or “nothing much happened” or “played Heatherdown: we won 2-1”.

Instead I am saving things up until the urge takes me which is usually when I am trying to distract myself from something important (but dull) or I am on a train (as I am now). I thought it would be faintly diverting to write about mud as that is a major constituent in my life at the moment. I have a number of jobs under construction and as a result a lot of this year has been spent up to my shins in various grades of mud. This means that I have become a bit of an expert in the subject and my conclusions are that no matter where the mud is situated – be it in Wiltshire, Northamptonshire or Buckinghamshire (which are the locations of my largest mud piles) – is is always annoyingly muddy.

Buckinghamshire

This may lack the edge of pioneering science that some of you might expect from me but it does back up a number of historic theories. In the Middle Ages everything was muddy from people and animals to bedding and cookware. It was unavoidable due to the lack of tarmac roads and the fact that nobody had yet invented the coir doormat. Nowadays we are spoilt in that we can walk from our houses onto dry, mud free pavements and not have to worry about getting topsoil out of our underwear.

Northamptonshire

Other conclusions that I have drawn include:

Building site mud is very unlike the sort of mud one is likely to find in facial mud packs. That mud is the colour of chocolate and the texture of peanut butter: it does not smell of mould or diesel like site mud does.

Wiltshire

The Hippopotami who sang “follow me follow, down to the hollow and there let us wallow in glooooorious mud” were also thinking of a completely different calibre of mud.

No matter how careful you may be you will always get mud on your trousers – often a loose splattering that looks as if it has been flicked at you.

Derbyshire

So that is what I have learned. Underneath the mud, however, interesting things are happening and some fine and handsome gardens are likely to eventually emerge. I look forward to sharing them with you over the next couple of years as they gradually come into their own. In the meantime I will continue to slosh about in the goo, happy as Larry**

I am listening to The Ballad of Ira Hayes by Johnny Cash. The picture is of a daffodil field in Cornwall – lest we forget that spring is coming.

* Sierra Leone, incidentally was the answer to a question that marks one of my greatest achievements (and greatest disappointments). Years ago I was on Celebrity Eggheads and beat CJ (the one who may have murdered somebody by pushing them into a canal) with a question whose answer was Sierra Leone.

** Larry, for those of you who ever wondered is the Australian boxer Larry Foley who, 1879, retired undefeated at 32 having banked a decent wedge. Thus he was deemed to be pretty content with his lot.

Every year I fall into a sort of relaxed stupor around February. My brain tells me that it’s ages until Springtime and there is nothing whatsoever wrong with a bit more hibernation and procrastination. Of course that planting plan can wait until next week.
Naturally, we do not have to rush because it is still winter.
And then, quite suddenly, I realise that it is bloody nearly Spring and there are things left undone that should have been done.
The same thing happens in August when I think that the Autumn will never come so am again caught napping.
This has been going on for years and one would have thought that I should have learned my lesson by now.
Oh no…. Bit dim, Sunny Jim.

As a result I have been in a maelstrom of activity. Unfortunately all this activity is incomplete so, as I take you on a quick tour, the pictures will consist almost exclusively of patches of brown earth and leafless tree: not terribly inspiring but it is only March (in spite of the summeriness of the weather) so give us a break. i will try very hard to remember to come back to these three jobs later in the year.

So, take last Wednesday as an example. I began in a large hole near Shipston-on-Stour where we are digging a truly magnificent lake. It will be like a huge natural infinity pool with spectacular views and vast skies. I am very happy because there are ( I mentioned in my last post) lots of big yellow diggers doing exactly what I tell them. This appeals to my Tonka toy mentality and also to my cunningly concealed control freakery.

Next stop was a very steep field near High Wycombe to lay out the beginnings of a Forest Garden. This is a posh name for a woodland with fruit. Amongst the usual native plants we will intersperse apples, pears, walnuts, chestnuts, mulberries, quinces, plums etc etc ( you get the picture) all under planted with a sea of flowery grass. My fruity friend Mark Diacono is providing various weird fruit trees while I provide taste and style (something a bit lacking in his life- as can be seen from his choice of shirtings). You will notice the pile of trees in the picture: the far slope will be forest garden (augmented by some proper natives to dilute the edibles) while the near slope will be meadowy with some biggish trees.

Final stop of the day was near Chipping Norton where we are planting large trees. I love this sort of thing – more diggers and control freakery: I wrote about it in my blog for Crocus (the one that nobody ever comments on unless I beg). We have also dug a steep sided canyon, when I say “dug” I mean that we have rearranged a vast amount of spoil to make said canyon. It will be flowery and spectacular. All needs to be in place for the end of June when there will, not only be a wedding but a visit from various folk from the Garden Museum who are venturing in this direction to come a see Blackpitts and two other gardens of mine. All in a day, let us hope it raineth not and that the place is not completely trampled by wedding planners. As a bonus we had to plant an Olive Tree that I had bought from the delightful Tim and Jackie at Olive Grove Nurseries. It weighs a ton and three quarters so was not going to be an easy job. But what is more exciting than a digger? You guessed it, a crane. A big extending pole into which all manner of Freudian psycho sexual overtones may be read but, in spite of that, it is the very thing for lifting heavy objects over walls and across pools without mishap. Damn thing better not die.

I have a couple more, similarish, jobs going on but they involve fewer diggers at the moment so are less captivating. I will doubtless drone on about them when the time comes. Suffice to say that we are indulging in a bit of Dunnettry (aka meadow planting in a few places), dispatching lorryloads of the last bare root stuff around the country, searching for water butts, talking to structural engineers etc etc etc.

It is not looking like it will be a spring for relaxation and watching the daffodils flower. Which is odd because this time last year we were swanning around South East Asia with nary a thought about work and stuff. The main picture is of a Camellia photographed at Borde Hill in Sussex.

I am listening to First Night by The Hold  Steady.

At this time in 2008 I was writing about dog bites, Clement Freud and stakes

Right. I am going on holiday now. Well, on Monday anyway.

This week has been unnecessarily frantic involving much rushing about trying to tie in all the flapping ends of my life. I have probably failed but as from Monday, it is too late.

Important facts which I would like to share with you before I go:

By the time we get back the Spring will have properly begun: this is a good thing although I will miss the fading of the Snowdrops. These are in a client’s garden and are due for major dividing and spreading around. This will be miraculously accomplished in my absence by elves. Those same elves will also prepare some beds and finish the vegetable garden before moving on elsewhere to build a greenhouse foundation. They will also build two sets of magnificent steps, seed three fields, build a pond and many yards of fencing.

Robert Peston has a really annoying tone of voice and poor taste in neckwear.

I have a very spiffy new Blog courtesy of the nice people at Crocus. You can see it here. I have preloaded it so, even when I am away, it will continue to lob out something every Tuesday. There is a wistful photograph of me communing with the natural world.

I have placed an extravagant number of largish trees this week: by the time I get back they will all have been planted. The elves again. The biggest one is nine metres high which is probably the biggest tree I have ever planted: that one will wait until I get back because moving that a couple of feet to the left after the event will make me very unpopular indeed.

This week I have been to Nottingham and found it wanting: except for the trams which were shiny and exciting. I especially admired the way that they showed no weakness when somebody with one of the largest velour covered bottoms I have ever seen climbed on board. The suspension did not even quiver which always inspires confidence.(i)

This week I have wandered through an awful lot of mud in various parts of the country. This is probably the best. With luck more elves will have made this a bit better as well by the time I get back. Just beyond that rather besieged looking Cedar we are building a Ha-Ha so hopefully some of that chalky clay will disappear.

The BBC continuity announcer on Sunday said “and now the reason for getting HD”. The programme of which he spoke was the Antiques Roadshow and, much as I find myself fancying Fiona Bruce, I just cannot quite see the connection. If I had invented HD then I would be a little depressed that this was deemed to be the pinnacle of my achievement.

The Bath Gardening School is a new venture by Emma Bond. I have the honour of being the inaugural lecturer  on April 2nd. A Saturday. I will drivel on for a bit about the joys and challenges of gardening in the countryside. If you feel the need for a day’s diversion then please book yourself a ticket. It will be jolly and, if you ask nicely, I will juggle while tap dancing.

Blogs that play music to you without asking are really annoying. You then have to scrabble around trying to find the off button: once one realises that there is strange music coming from somewhere close by.

We were told that it was a good idea to take some stuff called Spirolina before going away. This was appalling advice. Not only does it taste like pond sludge but, on further examination of the jar, it actually is pond sludge. To think that I paid twelve pounds for it as well. I could have gone out and licked some paving for free.

Thursday was a fantastic day. Warm sunny, clear skies and the sound of things stretching and growing. I spent almost all of it outside playing with trees.

Hooray for Elves.

The picture is of emerging Spring.

I am listening to This Door Swings Both Ways by Herman’s Hermits. Innocent days.

(i) We went there to watch Rory Kinnear do Hamlet. And very impressive it was too. I never cease to be amazed how plays written four hundred years ago are still captivating. Even though we have all seen them before and know exactly what is going to happen. Without wishing to spoil it for anybody: all Shakespearian tragedies end badly. Just so you know.

The clue is probably in the word Tragedy. Shakespeare was quite good at this but, obviously, the final words have to remain with legend that was Steps (improving on the pioneering work of the Bee Gees) . Never a truer word than “When the feeling’s gone and you can’t go on, It is tragedy”  likewise “when you lose control and you’ve got no soul” that too is Tragedy.  No wonder Hamlet is so miserable.

There is not a huge amount of gardening in this post.

I have spent a fair bit of time since I last wrote laying out plants amongst some very serious mud but there is nothing really worth showing as one muddy site looks, in my experience, much like another. Here, to prove my point, is one of my muddiest sites and it is, I think you will agree, an uninvigorating spectacle. I am now confined to the office after a routine shoulder operation (nothing even slightly life threatening or dramatic, I’m afraid) so I cannot drive for about a week which is unfortunate as, finally, all my bulb orders are arriving on clients doorsteps all over the country and really I need to go and plant the little rotters as soon as possible. And before any smartypants expresses amazement that I might be planting anything. you are right, I will be scattering bulby goodness in the appropriate places for others to come along and do the actual digging.

I do not often spend much time watching breakfast television (honestly) but while sitting waiting to escape from hospital the other day  I realised that the batteries of both my iPad (i) and telephone were dangerously low, I had finished my book and read the newspaper so there was nothing left for me to do but watch whatever was on. I have, however, discovered the secret behind presenting breakfast television.

Two people on a sofa; both in shot but only one of them talking (obviously). The interesting bit is not what is being said, nor the person who is actually saying it: the interest is the person who is not actually speaking but has to project a supportive and appropriate impression purely through the medium of facial mime.

For example: a light item about art = a gentle smile and slight eyebrow lift.

A piece about inadequate social services = slight sympathetic tilt to head and almost imperceptible headshake of disbelief meaning “What is the world coming to?”.

A snippet about food = enthusiastic smiling (although not so enthusiastic as to upstage partner).

A joke = slight affectionate lean to one side and look of platonic love.

Economic news = neutral expression and barely discernible furrowing of brow. Eyes wide.

It is fascinating to watch: after a bit you can turn the sound down and guess the story from the facial expressions. Sadly by the time I worked that out, it was over and I watched the appalling Jeremy Kyle interviewing some really, really unsavoury fat people about their sex lives. The audience was very young and wore a lot of foundation. Then there was a programme about buying run down houses with corner bath units at auction.

Amongst other things: I noticed Anna Ryder-Richardson who, if I remember rightly I last saw in Changing Rooms, giving away £25,000 worth of Christmas food from Lidl to anybody who can correctly guess how many sorts of cheese there are on a Quattro Formaggio Pizza (Clue: 4, 5 or 6).

And a bloke from Eastenders urging me to sue people through injurylawyers4U (“100% Lawyers, 100% 4U”). He was wearing a very badly fitting suit. I know that I am fearfully middle aged but I get very grumpy about things like 4U or CUL8R or tooth grating Twitter expressions like Peeps or Tweeps. My children give me a hard time for writing Okay instead of OK in text messages. I am no luddite and am determined not to turn into a less eloquent version of Nigel Colborn so will leave it right there…

Other news, the very excellent Mr Christopher Young has been promoted to the Editor’s chair at The Garden. This was achieved through the rather unpleasant process of putting Ian Hodgson and Chris into a room with various interviewers: only one of them could survive. Like a sort of corporate Gladiatorial contest: the Murmillo against the Hoplomachus. My congratulations to Mr Young (Ed) and my best wishes to Ian.

There is fine article in the English Garden about a garden I made: it is on page 51, one of the few pages in the magazine without a picture of the grinning face of Mark Diacono.

I am currently listening to Just Travelling Through by The Thrills.

The picture is of an impertinent Kniphofia (there has been just too much stuff about vegetables here recently)

Two years ago I was watching St Trinians.

(i) Particularly annoying as I was near to the end of the excellent Battle of the Bulge. Starring Robert Shaw (with blonde dye job), Henry Fonda, Robert Ryan and Telly Savalas. And lots of tanks.

A bold hippopotamus was standing one day
On the banks of the cool Shalimar
He gazed at the bottom as he peacefully lay
By the light of the evening star
Away on the hilltop sat combing her hair
His fair hippopotami maid
The hippopotamus was no ignoramus
And sang her this sweet serenade

Chorus:
Mud, mud, glorious mud
Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood
So follow me follow, down to the hollow
And there let me wallow in glorious mud
The fair hippopotama he aimed to entice
From her seat on that hilltop above
As she hadn’t got a ma to give her advice
Came tiptoeing down to her love
Like thunder the forest re-echoed the sound
Of the song that they sang when they met
His inamorata adjusted her garter
And lifted her voice in duet

Now more hippopotami began to convene
On the banks of that river so wide
I wonder now what am I to say of the scene
That ensued by the Shalimar side
They dived all at once with an ear-splitting splosh
Then rose to the surface again
A regular army of hippopotami
All singing this haunting refrain

Chorus

I think all that is pretty self explanatory.