This blog has been alive for six years this month: both here and, previously, here.

Hooray!

Six years worth of drivel has trickled from my fingers to clutter up the outer reaches of the hypernet. Nobody noticed for quite a long time, which was okay but blogging is much more fun when you are certain that somebody is reading the thing.

What a sterling use of technology.

Sometimes I wonder what will happen to all this stuff that we broadcast. Will any of it exist in fifty years time?

Indeed, should it exist ? or should it just pop like floating soap bubbles colliding with a stationary hedgehog ? Will future historians ever show any interest in the billions of self-indulgent words that we have written? Who knows, but, almost every time I publish a blog post, it always strikes me as remarkable that it was only six hundred odd years ago that every individual book was laboriously copied out by monks with chilblained fingers and grubby habits. Each book cost a fortune and was mostly only seen by a handful of people, the subject matter was also somewhat limited being confined to religion. There was no illuminated detective fiction or saucy romance. Then Caxton and Gutenburg and that lot got going and soon the printed word was, while not exactly available to all, much more widespread. Nowadays any old sod can find an audience.

Anyway…

Spring is coming and there are things to be done. Included on my list of January achievements are:

Gone to listen to a recording of Gardeners Question Time in Spalding, Lincolnshire. My learned friend Nigel Colborn recently launched an impassioned defence of his home county but he skates over the bleakness of this particular area in favour of various wolds and luminaries such as Isaac Newton and Nicholas Parsons. There is nothing woldish about Spalding : unless your idea of an area of outstanding natural beauty includes heaps of sugar beet, concrete barns and ditches. Maybe I caught it on a bad day, in the wrong light or perhaps I missed the best bits.Anyway, when I got there the gloriously fragrant Matthew Wilson was on the panel so all was sunshine. It was interesting: I sat in a rather comfortable van with the sweetly scented Lucy Dichmont watching the broadcast while she uttered slight direction into the ear of Eric Robson. There was cake but not in the luxuriant quantities I had been led to expect.

I am very admiring of the GQT panel: my mind kept going blank when I tried to come up with an answer and I was not even out there snuggling up to Bunny and Christine. It is one of those perennial problems that I have: as soon as somebody asks me a specific question like “What shall I plant in my dark moist corners?” (or something similar) I have a moment of blankness when all I can think of are plants that thrive in the windswept aridness of the high plains. Somehow the brain eventually re-engages and I start spouting about ferns.

I have attended two meetings of the RHS Judging review panel. We are examining the show garden judging process which is interesting: we are also making progress which is excellent. There will be a public meeting in early February so that any interested parties can come and chip in their opinions.

I have collected a new and rather spiffy suit (single breasted birdseye).

I have organised some trees and seen assorted clients all of whom seem reasonably happy.

Had a very fine lunch with Cinead from the English Garden.

My daughter has become very keen on the idea of taxidermy. She has spent much of Christmas skinning things including nine moles and three squirrels. A skinned squirrel looks just like a rat.

Errrrr….. that is about it really.

Oh, and I am reaching the zenith of a very exciting project which will completely change the world of gardening media for ever. Details will follow very soon: please remain poised.

I am listening to You’ll be Sorry One Day by Slim Harpo.

The picture is of a frosted Phlomis.

I know this is a very dull thing to say but I am jolly well going to say it anyway…

My goodness, how time flies past.

Another year, another Garden Media Guild shindig under our belts. This year, as you may already be aware, Three Men were officiating. We made a short film and then tarted about for a bit which is always a jolly a way of spending an afternoon. As you are also doubtless well aware, Mark Diacono won three consecutive awards which was very gratifying. If you like that vegetably sort of thing.

I managed to stick a piece of paper on his back saying “Kick Me” and noticed Lia Leendertz sharpening the toe of her Jimmy Choos as I left.

There was then the usual drunken shenanigans in the pub where the usual suspects fell over to general hilarity. If you are interested you can watch the whole ceremony (apart from the falling over bits) here. As always it was a very jolly occasion with a lot of moustaches in evidence. Movember is now over and we have raised a shade over £20,000. I am terribly proud of everybody: we exceeded my wildest expectations. At the beginning I just thought it would be quite fun and we could raise a few hundred quid, thank you to all who participated and especially to those who coughed up the cash. I made a short film to commemorate the occasion, the music is by Nick Riddle who snuck into our team with fraudulent bonafides: he is not a gardener but we forgive him because of the excellent whistling and faraway look.

Apart from all this glamorous swanning about at awards ceremonies and growing whiskers there has been work going on: well, if you count wandering around looking at rocks work. These are very big rocks and there are lots of them: the reason is that we are rebuilding a quarry.Let me explain, in one of my gardens is a big scrape in the ground – about 35 feet deep at its steepest – which used to be a quarry. The idea is to make it look sort of quarryish again by reinstalling big lumps of stone which will then be interesting to climb on and could be planted with ferns, trees and general stuff.

So Tuesday found me wandering around a vast site in Oxfordshire choosing monster rocks. I do love this sort of thing, I come over all Tonka truckish at the sight of large diggers and deep mud. Which is quite odd as I have never been very interested in cars, I had Dinky Cars but was never much of a Brrrm, Brrrm kind of child. I am left unmoved by Ferraris and Formula One but get very excited by a large digger and a deep trench. Anyway, we chose a selection of rocks which are now being slowly transported across to Gloucestershire, doubtless much to the annoyance of the traffic on the A44: my apologies if you find yourselves stuck behind a straining tractor.

I have also been to the RHS Garden at Hyde Hall. I had never been before and, now I am responsible in some small way for its upkeep, thought I had better show my face. It is the newest RHS Garden and is very much under development (there is a handsome newly dug lake), lots of trees are being planted, borders hewn from fields, the Dry Garden is being extended and new car parks built. I may not have chosen the best day for a visit as it was markedly chilly. The wind howled across battering the collection of christmas trees decorated by local branches of the WI which stand amongst the borders: I suspect that tinsel will be being picked from trees across Essex for months to come. Still, it was interesting and bracing and we got turkey for lunch. Oh, and the best bit was the live willow weaving. They have groups of pollarded willow in the borders that have been bunched together and tied into various shapes: very effective and sculptural.

Before you go, here is another film: this was made by a very clever fellow called Sebastian Solberg about Jeremy and Camilla Swift’s extraordinary garden in Wales. I arrived there after going to a memorial service (hence spiffy tie) and was immediately sat down and required to spout stuff. It is an extraordinary garden varying from pretty orchards to ruined hovels via high Classicism, steep woodlands, theatres, turtles and the Kingdom of the Moor. It is open for the NGS at some point: but for goodness sake, take a raincoat, it is Welsh Wales, after all.

I am listening to Wild america by Iggy Pop. The picture is of the aforementioned willows at Hyde Hall.

August seems to be bringing out the listlessness in me. It is something to do with the weather and the fact that loads of people seem to be on holiday. I know that I should be using this month to be organised and useful in preparation for the Autumn. But I am not.

I should be ordering bulbs and getting ahead with plant lists. Writing things and dealing with a number of other ‘portant things.

But instead I am pootling around , looking out of the window and eating biscuits interspersed with brief bursts of extreme activity. It is much easier when the sun doesn’t shine.

I made a very vague commitment to write about gardens last time we met so I will endeavour to stick roughly to the point. In this garden I am cross with most of my Dahlias. Usually they would be beefy, strapping fellows by now with ripe thighs and deltoids like pig iron. They are not: they are not dying or sick just a bit feeble. I have cast about for some sort of plant food in the shed and am now dosing them with some Phostrogen I found (i). They better perk up or there will be words.

On the wildlife front: the poppies are being eaten by Blue Tits which is very charming, the swallows are flicking through brochures and lining up on electricity wires chatting about migration, Chiff Chaffs are all over the place chuffing and chaffing and young jackdaws are sunbathing on the barn roof. This last is a very odd sight as they stretch out their wings and look as if they have been spatchcocked .

There are ladybirds everywhere: they can be a little bit creepy en masse. As if they are just watching and biding their time. Like the birds in The Birds, but with fewer feathers. Enough wildlife, I think.

I do have a couple of gardens that are looking (if I might be so bold) extremely alluring right now. This one I have written about before (I cannot exactly remember when) and it appeared in Gardens Illustrated when it was younger. The strutting hunk of beefiness that is M.Wilson wrote the piece. It has now grown into itself rather well and gets me quite flushed.

The second one is much younger as I only planted it this year but the idea is to form a giant sized meadow with, I think, about 1500 Calmagrostis and all sorts of other things flitting about amongst the grasses. It is still young but bits of it look very promising. It needs time and for the builders to go away.

What else? Oh, I had my first semi-official RHS duty to perform yesterday. I went and sat in a comfortable meeting room surrounded by portraits of bearded dignitaries (ii) and talked to a very nice chap about the RHS web presence. I think it may need a bit of attention.

So that’s it really. Some gardens, bit of lethargy, odd bursts of enthusiasm, sunshine, tennis. August in a nutshell.

I am listening to the Test Match.

In 2006 I had just got back from holiday.

This time in 2007 I was writing about other Garden Blogs (including my first encounter with his Highness The Garden Monkey).

In 2008 it was raining and I was watching the Olympics and going to Watford.

The photograph is of Sanguisorba CDC282 and some Verbena bonariensis.

(i) Interestingly I was once arrested for being in possession of a jar of Phostrogen. The police thought it was altogether something more exotic and were rather disappointed to discover that I was a gardener and not Pablo Escobar in disguise.

(ii) If you are on Twitter I mentioned this before but one notable sported the enviable handsome name of The Rev H.Honywood D’ombrain. He was the Founder and First Secretary of The Horticultural Club and a fine figure of a fellow. His father was in charge of the Irish Coastguard and young Henry was brought up in Dublin where, apparently, “a bed of Persian Ranunculus made a deep impression on him”. He went on to found the Rose Society, be awarded one of the first VMHs and grew a spectacular beard. So now you know.

I am sitting in the Novotel at Grand Designs, well not exactly at Grand Designs but very close.

There are a number of interesting things happening at the show including the customary handsome display of hot tubs. I am running a very smart Garden Design studio with my name on a big yellow cube dangling from the ceiling.

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The form is that there are four newly qualified garden designers giving free consultations while I hover and offer sage advice when required. All very jolly, you can come and take advantage of all this if you hurry: the show runs until Sunday night and Three Men are cavorting on stage in the afternoon.

The Novotel meanwhile has surprised me. My first impression was that it was the sort of place where former communist apparatchiks would come to drink themselves stupid, cavort with doughy thighed good time girls and, in certain cases, fling themselves from windows. Actually it is quiet, cleanish and has a view of the Victoria dock. The breakfast, however, is utterly loathsome: in particular the scrambled eggs.

After Sunday there is Malvern to look forward to next week. This will be my seventh Malvern (I think) in which time it has changed a great deal. This year there is more serious side to the show as the theme of Biodiversity runs through the things that are happening in the theatre: this leaves no room for Joe Swift and I to do flower arranging. This will doubtless come as a huge relief to the ranks of Floral Artists out there as we did little to promote high standards in the world of competitive floristry. Instead there will be wise words from Matthew Wilson and Jekka McVicar (on Thursday), Chris Beardshaw (on Friday), Joe Swift (on Saturday) and Mike Dilger and Terry Walton (on Sunday).

I will be flitting around doing links and other stuff including an interview with Sue Biggs on Friday morning: she is, as I am sure you know, the Director General of the RHS and a thoroughly good egg. If you wish to ask searching questions about the future of the organisation then this is the place to be – hecklers welcome.

We also have a book slot where I chat to various garden writers and you get the chance to buy signed copies of their glossy ouevres. Included are the Guardian Royal Bouquet correspondent, Lia Leendertz. Martyn Cox (who writes a couple of books a week), Noel Kingsbury (also very prolific but with a Phd: Martyn just has a gelled forelock),) Anne Wareham who will talk about her book -The Bad Tempered Gardener – which is opinionated and alternately annoying and amusing (a bit like picking a scab) and Mark “Veg Head” Diacono whose book, the Taste of the Unexpected, is quite old now but still very readable(ii)

I am exhausted already. I am hoping that there will be various bloggers and Twitterati loafing about as well.

I have also found some time this week to visit Arundel. Rather a pretty town with a castle and softly flowing river overlooked by gentle Sussex countryside blah, blah, blah. There is also a rather remarkable garden belonging to the Duke of Norfolk and designed by Julian and Isabel Bannerman.

My visit was quite fleeting so this will not be any more than a quick postcard but, in brief: Trademark whopping oak structures, some very floaty planting (excluding a rather ugly variegated elder at one point) and some spectacular fountains including a dancing coronet – a gold crown rotating on top of a high power jet of water surrounded by exquisite shell work.

Proper Bannerman showmanship in other words. Beautifully constructed, theatrical and exciting.

There is, however, a strange arrangement of rock and palm trees sitting in the middle of a grass labyrinth which I really could not fathom. Why was it there? It seemed like a step too far. There may well be a perfectly logical explanation but it looked cluttered and detracted from both surroundings and labyrinth. I must do some research to discover what is going on.

I am listening to the gentle hum of the air conditioning as I cannot work out how to open the window, nor can I understand the taps. There seems to be no clear indication which way is hot and which way cold so I am skittering between third degree burns and hypothermia. At the risk of sounding like a disgruntled old Colborn: what is wrong with having one tap labelled ‘Hot’ and one ‘Cold’.

The picture is of ants on peony buds.

(i) I was reminded by @nicelittleplace on Twitter the other day that the abbreviative noun for a group of floral artists is Flarts. As is “Over there is the Flart tent”. This is not intended to be at all pejorative but merely affectionate. The other acronym is for the Chris Beardshaw Scholarship Gardens who are known as the CBeebies.

(ii) It also has many other uses for those who have been given a copy as a gift but prefer not to read such stuff. For example, as a chopping board, a waterproof hat, a partially effective cricket box, a frisbee, an oven glove and a way of ironing out unruly body hair. It has also just been nominated for yet another award (yawn) this time by the Guild of Food Writers. I think it unlikely that any of the other authors (not even Anne) are in the running for that one. Bravo.

After all the hurly-burly of last week’s Blog I am feeling rather wan and exhausted. One of the nice things about WordPress is that I can reply individually to each comment although this becomes rather time consuming and exhausting when a brawl breaks out in the comments layer. Still, it seems impolite not to reply – especially to new people who have emerged from the shadows. Thank you all for your contributions.

I have seen various important people over the last week or so: firstly I had lunch with Sue Biggs the Director General of the RHS. A deux. In James Rudoni’s office at Wisley . I had a delightful time discussing all sorts of things about the RHS while eating slabs of rather weighty quiche and small round chocolate cakes. Also on offer were oranges cut into quarters: rather like those which used to be on offer at half-time during football matches. I don’t know if they are still standard fare or if today’s players prefer a bag of monster munch and some intimate massage: anyway, neither of us could work out an elegant way of eating them so they were left untouched.

I have also been to visit the offices of Somethin’ Else who make Gardeners Question Time. I like a fizzy office especially one with a pool table and table football. It reminds me of Thirtysomething which some of you might remember. It was a late Eighties television series about rather perfect couples with young children and exciting jobs: this was a time when we had a very small baby and were permanently exhausted.. The blokes worked in an advertising agency with a basketball net into which they potted (i) balls while having creative thoughts. I had a mad crush on Mel Harris who played a character called Hope. Unlike them this office also had a roof garden with fine (though cold) views and a selection of containers bearing the fading vestiges of sweetcorn and other things. Apparently the pumpkins were removed as it was considered a health and safety issue to have large vegetables teetering on ledges six storeys above the street.

The frost (ii) has, as I am sure you have noticed, spectacular. It was minus 10c here on Monday and the only way to sit at my desk was by wearing a velveteen Turkish skullcap, a large scarf, many layers of thermal underwear, two fleeces, a travel rug and a pair of luxuriantly cashmere socks. The alternative was to jog around the house stopping occasionally for a strenuous press-up or two or to go out. We went to the cinema at one point because we were so cold (iii) and at one point I went and sat in my car because it has heated seats and my buttocks needed thawing. The countryside and garden looked delicious and I, like many others, spent time tootling around taking photographs like this. My sympathies go out to Andrea Jones (photographer de luxe) who spent the night with some truckers on the M8. It was doubtlessly quite tough on the truckers as well.

I feel I must warn you about the January crop of garden magazines. House and Garden features the first instalment of the Top Twenty Garden Designers (about which I wrote here and Nigel Colborn went all ranty: which is always gratifying to the rest of us). It consists of a rather nice group picture and then a (I think) deeply unflattering individual picture of me looking as if I have just emerged from a chilly evening spent marinading in a deep pool of lemon juice. But that is foolish vanity and it is very lovely to be included: even though not everybody will approve of the choices. Part Two featuring the much sexier Sturgeon and West is next month. Also English Garden features my column, my garden and a piece I wrote on Tom Stuart Smith’s garden: such saturation is only for those with stronger constitutions.  To make things worse there is more to come as I have a piece in January Gardens Illustrated (iv) and a snippet in The Garden. Sorry.

To top it all I am on Eggheads this Friday at 6.00pm on BBC2. You might remember my writing about it in the summer, here to be exact. It is for Celebrity Eggheads (v) (using the word in an even looser fashion than they use it on I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here) and I was on the Home and Garden team with Toby Buckland, Chris Collins (the Blue Peter gardener), Aggie McKenzie (the unscary one of the two people who clean people’s houses) and Craig (off Big Brother).

Did we beat the Eggheads? You will have to watch and see. Set your video recorders or new fangled Sky Plus machines. 6pm Friday

The picture is of Viburnum opulus berries in the frost.

I am listening to Baby Please Don’t Go by Van Morrison.

Two years ago I was shamelessly trying to flog you copies of my book – which are still available, incidentally, if you send me a fiver.

  1. Is that the right word? Almost certainly not. Dropped? Slotted? Basketed? Popped? Dunked? (or is that only appropriate for the Slam Dunk?)
  2. Spectacular for us but probably nothing to write home about to those of you from Omsk, Finland or Alaska.
  3. The American with George Clooney. Quite good and particularly notable for an exceptionally beautiful Italian playing a small town prostitute. So beautiful was she that her presence in the brothel of some rural hill town in the middle of Italy seemed fanciful to say the least. If one took the British equivalent – for example, Melton Mowbray or Banff – I am pretty sure that the standards would not be quite so high. I may, of course, be wrong and welcome comments from those among the readers of this blog who regularly patronise rural cathouses.
  4. The more observant of you might have noticed (I did not) that my article in December’s GI about the charming naked folk at Abbey House included a slight misprint. The owner Barbara Pollard was called Su Pollard at one point (after the actress best known for playing the bespectacled chalet maid in Hi-De-Hi): fortunately it was taken well.
  5. For the benefit of the uninitiated (or foreign) Eggheads is a television quiz programme where a team of  people (could be a pub quiz team, work group, football club or, as in this case, a scratch team of the best brains around exhaustively selected from literally hundreds of applications) challenge the Eggheads. This is a group of serious social misfits who have dedicated their lives to absorbing trivial facts. Some might say that this is in compensation for their having few friends but I could not really comment.

To begin with some horticulture….I have been at the NEC in Birmingham this weekend and came across an inner courtyard (mostly used for smoking and sandwich eating) that was planted exclusively with Heucheras in various colours. It was like a secret Heuchera refuge: like that bit at the end of Farenheit 451 when they escape to a hideout where each person hasmemorised a book but without the message of hope and redemption. There were red ones and diced carrot coloured ones and spotty green ones and urine yellow ones. Had you been in the NEC and witnessed a pale faced fellow with weak knees and wildly staring eyes escaping down the travelator then that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was I.

I have seen visions of the apocalypse and the Four Horseman all carried Heucheras (except one who had a flowering currant).

Some of you may know that I have a monthly column in Gardeners World Magazine. In it I have a lovely time describing plants in increasingly irrelevant ways. It is not the most serious piece of journalism in the world and is intended as light relief with a small smattering of horticulture. This month I have attracted a letter of complaint which can be viewed on page 122 but, for those of you too skint or tight to buy your own copy of this excellent magazine I will reproduce it for you.

I love your magazine but I wonder if I am the only subscriber who finds James Alexander-Sinclair’s choice of similes unfortunate. I don`t wish to link balmy summer evenings with “post coital cigarettes” (i). Even more offensive did I find the comparison of fluttering leaves to the “quivering lips of a troubled toddler” (ii).  I don`t want to be reminded of “troubled toddlers” when I am trying to relax with a garden magazine. I have never found the pictures of crying children amusing or attractive. There are too many miserable children in the world – I focus on them when I have to, but while reading Gardeners World.

It was the same with description “fuchsias looking like hippos in tutus”, though not offensive, is not how I would choose to remember one of my favourite flowers.

These kind of descriptions are getting more frequent and less palatable.

If I am the only one who minds, then I will just have to look elsewhere for my escapist pleasure I suppose.  But if it is an oversight, please can the author restrain himself a little ?

I am a married woman with grown up children and 3 grand children and I have no quarrel with the birds and the bees, or sex, or children or tears – but to me a flower is a flower – a thing of beauty in its own right.

  1. This is a reference to a phrase in the August edition “…the bustle of June and the flurries of July are over and this is the closest our gardens ever get to a post coital cigarette”. Somebody else sent an email in about this as they thought I was encouraging young people to start smoking.
  2. A reference to my description of the leaves of Tetracentron sinense “….are they not as finely shaped and as furrowed as the unbotoxed brow of Michael Douglas? Do they not flutter as finely as the quivering lip of a troubled toddler?”

It is never my intention to upset people so my apologies to those who take offence but it does at least mean that somebody is reading the stuff. Although it would be better if they did not take things too seriously. I have never been complained about before so cannot help part of me feeling a tiny bit chuffed.

On the other hand I have been finally taken seriously by the gardening intellectual elite: my blogpost about Highgrove has been published on ThinkinGardens. It slightly ruins its gravitas by beginning with a picture of a mongrammed Cupcake. I am not sure that many of the more radical political pamphlets of the Nineteenth Century began in that way but I suppose that in this modern world there is always room for innovation.

Appearances can be deceptive. While sitting happily on the train the other day I was joined but an elderly lady. Sensible beige shoes. Tan tights. Buttoned cardi. Floral dress. The full works. She then unpacked a Tupperware box with sandwiches and a battered flask and got herself nicely settled. The large sensible handbag was then delved into again and I must admit that I was expecting a barley sugar and a copy of  The People’s Friend. Instead, she produced a shiny new net book and an iPod.

Never judge a book by it’s cover.

When I say ‘never’ I actually mean ‘usually’ because on the way back my neighbour removed her shoes, put them on the table between us and sang loudly to herself. I judged that book as being a trifle deranged.

I changed carriages.

We (Joe,Cleve and I) have quartered the country doing the Three Men Live Shows. Firstly at the RHS Garden at Harlow Carr in what is, apparently, the greenest building in the country (wind turbines, green roof, floors made of recycled stuff etc). It was a good evening: we were beautifully looked after (you might even say cossetted) by the staff and the audience seemed to leave happy: maybe they were just happy because they could at last go home.

We failed to see any of the garden as we arrived in the dark. We were one of a series of RHS Lectures to celebrate the 60th Anniversary of Harlow Carr. Oddly many of the posters had been defaced. We have no idea how this happened and thoroughly disapprove of such behaviour.

We also missed most of the historic spa town of Harrogate (i) as we left early in the morning to get to gig number two (and three) at the NEC Birmingham. En route, somehow I managed to lose my wallet which was really very annoying indeed. Two performances at the NEC went down well. We did one on the Gardens stage which is about the size of a snooker table and another on the main stage. This is normally occupied by Kevin McLoud or a procession of architects saying things like ‘The door handle is the hand shake of a building”. Us playing silly games and talking nonsense came as a bit of a change.

I am listening to Elvis Costello’s Watching the Detectives.

The picture is of a very ancient and pleasingly gnarly Acer campestre in a hedgeline.

It may be that .me is being tricky about comments. Don’t forget it is also available here.

(i) We stayed in one of those very old, formerly grand hotels that have received a cheap makeover. This involves putting too many cushions on the bed and hanging drapes around the place in order to make it look designery and chic. It doesn’t work: hotels should be judged on mattresses and showers neither of which were much cop. I had an ‘invigorating’ whirlpool bath in my room and, having not experienced such a thing outside certain films so I looked forward to being aerated. Needless to say it produced neither bubble nor froth. I emerged clean but uninvigorated.

Firstly, thank you for the cavalcade of comments on my last Blog post. In spite of what my friends Chris Young (Dep.Ed) and  Cleve West say, I wasn’t really begging for comments just musing on my reactions and the essence of why people Blog. However, I am grateful for the nice things, thank you.

I played cricket on Saturday: it is much more exhausting that you might expect and I had thighs that ached until Wednesday. It is not something I do very often (once a year) and again escaped without completely disgracing myself (one fine catch on the boundary and ten runs: although I did succeed in running out the renowned actor Hugh Bonneville which has probably knocked me off the Oscars guest list.) Mark Diacono and Joe Swift were also cricketing this week in the Gardeners World v. River Cottage Test. They had better cakes but their outfits were a bit ropey as you can see here (picture shamelessly stolen from Louise Jolley). I know that the person on the right is probably Toby Buckland and not Mark but, as we all know, they are identical twins.

This week has been a week of trains and much travelling. My trusty iPad and I have travelled to Dorset (to see a new client), to Tatton Park (to be royally entertained by the RHS) and to Sussex to show drawings to another client. As a result I can give a report on the state of the railways.

Monday

It began badly when I had to stand all the way from Milton Keynes to Waterloo:I rather hoped that some OAP or pregnant woman might give up their seat for me ( I have been on the Telly, you know!) but the modern world is a slough of bad manners nowadays.

The train to Sherborne was comfortable and not too crowded and got a high score. I know this train very well as my parents used to live in Dorset so I would get on this train in order to go and visit them. I remember one visit in about 1977 when I got off the train wearing a red leather dog collar,bronze eyeshadow, PVC trousers, a torn T Shirt printed with some unsavoury slogan and a plastic frog pinned to my lapel. This was not an outfit considered 100% suitable for a weekend in the countryside: I know this firstly, because I narrowly escaped being beaten up in the loos between Tisbury and Gillingham and secondly because the expression on my mother’s face was very telling. This time I was more soberly dressed.

Wednesday

“The train has been cancelled due to vandalism.”

Apparently somebody from the Coventry area had stolen a chunk of cable presumably without electrocuting themselves too badly. Not really a very good start to the day but possibly not as bad as actually being on the train while it was being vandalised .

Eventually a train arrived and very slinky it was: one of Mr Branson’s finest Pendolinos. They are very fast although they do tend to make me feel a little nauseous especially if one is facing the wrong way. I got off at Stockport ( pronounced, according to Helen Yem ‘Stopport’.) And got a cheery taxi to Tatton Park for the RHS Show where we were royally entertained by the RHS. Luncheon was provided and we mooched about the show – the we in this case being my daughter, Stroma, and I: she is very good at working out exactly what does and does not work in a garden.

Parts of it were quite lovely although most of the show gardens were, if you don’t mind my saying, a bit ghastly. Not enough sponsorship and overambitious designs lead to dogs breakfasts. If I had my way then all show garden designers should be forced (at gunpoint if necessary) to simplify their schemes as all decent gardens are based on simple ideas. Of course it is also possible to cock up with some truly dreadful planting: I can’t remember who planted this but it was a very bad idea all round.

Among the highlights was the Euroflowers marquee where there was a sort of floral equivalent of the Eurovision Song Contest. Young Florists (many of them quite camp) from all over Europe were competing. The hot favourite apparently is the Hungarian whose name is Attilla Kiss. We were also keen on the chubby Italian. The arrangements were pleasingly over the top and beautifully assembled.

Matthew Wilson was present. He wore white linen and sleek sunglasses. My heart could not help but skip a beat. Others went a step further: those of you not on Twitter may be interested to see these. This from Mr Mark Diacono and this (more satirical version) from Madame La Sock.

There were a couple of good gardens: the Visionary category included an offering by the always entertaining Tony Smith who found yet another way to create something interesting out of salad: this time involving a stranded alien nestling amongst the Lollo Rosso.

Thursday

Another train: this is becoming a habit.This time I go through London and out the other side to get myself down to Sussex. It is comfortable but generally uninteresting although any journey that involves stations called Wivelsfield and Plumpton cannot be an altogether bad thing. The latter, which was my eventual destination, is the one of the most charming stations I have ever visited. The window boxes are colourful and healthy, the view of the racecourse and Downs delightful and the waiting room has squashy sofas.

People talk in loud voices on stopping trains. But, rather selfishly, often not loudly enough to satisfy the curiosity. For example the people behind me….there was a conversation containing the words Russian aristocrat, colours, birthday, reincarnation,shipping forecast and a big pink suitcase. Fascinating but I am unsure how they are all connected.

On Inter City trains people are generally silent unless they are on their telephones when they talk loudly about busy and important things. I talk very quietly on the telephone in case somebody hears that I am only talking about topsoil and girly flowers rather than international sales targets. If they realise that I am not negotiating a major takeover then I worry that they might take me to the spacious lavatory and duff me up.

Among other news…. my WordPress incarnation of this Blog has been polished further: indeed it is now so shiny that I do not actually know how to make it work. This situation will soon be amended: bear with me please.

I am going on holiday for a week on Friday – which is also, incidentally, my birthday. I will be a boyish fifty-one years old. I will be back amongst you soon. please behave in my absence.

I am listening to Killing Machine by Let’s Go.

The picture is of a Sussex Down – they are called Downs in spite of the fact that they are very obviously Ups. And quite steep Ups in places. Aah, the intricacies of the English Language (i)

This time last year I was writing about Future Gardens and the filming of the first ever Three Men Went To Mow – the latest version of which, incidentally, was filmed yesterday at The Gibberd Garden in Essex.

What future for Urban Gardens: Eden or Extinction ? This was the subject of this year’s RHS debate held at the Festival Hall last night.  I believe that the essence of the argument is that gardens in towns are designated as brown-field sites (like disused factories and bus garages) and, therefore, it is easier to obtain planning permission and therefore developers are seeking to build extra houses in larger back gardens. The other problem is that (due to the rise in car ownership) more and more people are paving over their front gardens to provide off street parking. All this against the government’s decree that lots of new houses should be built.

More details from http://www.rhs.org.uk/whatson/events/gardenforum.asp

I have missed previous such events so was determined to get there without fail to listen enraptured to soaring oratory and passionately expressed opinions. So, hair brushed and socks clean I settled myself into my (surprisingly comfortable) seat in the erudite company of the sparkling intelligentsia of the horticultural world (and Ann Marie Powell and Joe Swift representing the tabloid end of things).

The speakers were fluent and convincing (especially Ken Thompson who spoke about wildlife gardening) but in very quickly dawned on me that this was a completely pointless debate.

Every single person in the audience agreed with everything that everyone on the panel said.  There was no debate just a gentle evening of preaching to the converted. Of course all these assembled gardeners agree that we should preserve urban gardens and of course everybody agrees that we should all have room to grow plants and wildlife should be allowed to frolic unfettered throughout suburbia.

On the other hand…………..

the problem was that there was no other hand. There was nobody from the government or any property developers to argue that people are more important than plants and this is really the simplest, least obtrusive way to let as many people as possible enjoy a decent standard of housing.

What is the point of a one sided debate? it was so woolly that by the end it was making me very cross. We ended up with diversions about urban foxes digging holes in people’s gardens which really had even less to do with the price of parsnips than anything else.

Apparently (according to Hayley Monckton from the RHS – upon whom I vented my spleen later and to whom I apologise as it was perhaps a bit much on first acquaintance) the RHS had tried to get property developers and politicans but nobody would consent to appearing. In which case perhaps the subject should have been changed so that there could have been a proper debate and discussion.

At the end Stephen Anderton made the interesting point that the media is partly to blame for the fact that gardening issues are never taken seriously but are just an “and finally” item on news programmes. If we are to have futile debates without opposition or satisfactory conclusion then it is no wonder that gardening is down there with the vulgar vegetables and escaping lemurs.

The whole experience was akin to tootling along to the Circus Maximus in eager anticipation of a few skewered Gladiators and chewed Christians only to discover them all sitting on the sand hugging each other.

The evening got better but I will tackle that in another episode – this one is getting too long.

I am listening to Over and Over Again by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. The picture is of Kirengeshoma palmata.

Busy couple of days.

Went to an RHS cocktail party at the Kensington Roof Gardens last night.

I had not been there since 1982 when it was, I think, a place called Regines. Regine was, if I remember correctly, a rather terrifying red headed French harridan who bestrode the world of slightly tacky 1980s nightclubs. However, my position was as scullion rather than guest so I had never seen the gardens. I stood at a sink from about 10pm until 4am washing huge copper saucepans and polishing them with a mixture of sand and lemon juice. Distressingly these were then removed by loud and abusive French chefs who then dirtied them again before flinging them back at me whereupon the whole process had to begin again. Our only comfort was to polish off the dregs from half empty glasses as they passed us on their way to the dishwashing machines.

I can still remember the taste of warm banana daquiri with a topdressing of fag ash.

Last night I was raised to respectability: the gardens are extraordinary with flamingos, ducks and mature trees – all of it six stories up on top of Marks and Spencer. My main criticism is that you have no idea that you are up there: the walls are high and you cannot see the roofs below you. You could be in any London garden. There needs to be lower boundaries and a bit of vertigo.

It was a jolly occasion with a smattering of RHS benefactors and a generous dusting of gardeners and journalists. I was in trouble on two fronts: from Jane Owen for trying to be helpful over her non functioning camera and succeeding only in making it worse and from Penny Meadmore because I (totally inadvertently) got a job that she was up for as well. May I take this opportunity to publicly pour ashes upon my head and apologise to both.

Had a very jolly dinner with Joe Swift, Andy Sturgeon and Stephen Lacey planning an armed putsch on the Royal Horticultural Society in order to install Stephen as President.

I am listening to Afterlife by Moby and the picture is of Gunnera.