Hullo. I have decided to venture into one of the dustier corridors of my life – this blog. Time was when I used to check on its progress every day, I would write regularly and comment on other people’s stuff. This was in the heyday of the blog but, as most things in the modern (or indeed ancient) world things move on and we all now spend more time on social media than wading through blogs.

Still, it advertises itself on my website and therefore it is important to update these things occasionally. I have noticed that most of my posts over the last couple of years have been about travel. I have been lucky enough to swan around the world looking at and talking about gardens. Obviously that stopped a year or so ago – soon after I came back from Seattle where the North West Flower and Garden Show was probably the last (1) flower show before the world ground to a halt. Now we are slowly emerging, blinking like naked mole rats, into the light of normality. I have been very lucky in that I have not stopped working and, indeed, have become ridiculously busy as people spend more time at home and decide to do something about their gardens.

So today I have decided to go on a public transport jaunt…

04:50AM: The alarm goes off and I stumble out of bed. An apple in one pocket, a banana in the other and I am out into the cold morning. Unseasonably icy but bright and beautiful.

06:15AM: Milton Keynes station as I am catching the 06:23 train to Glasgow. Day trips to Scotland are something I have been doing for ages but there are very few aero planes at the moment so train is the only option. Four and a half hours each way but the views are interesting, the trains virtually empty and, because I am old, I get a special deal on first class so things could be worse.
And I am going to Glasgow to see my Horatio’s Garden and that is very exciting.

06:45AM: I have been given a breakfast box and a cup of coffee. The latter is pretty disgusting but better than nothing. The former contains two doughy croissants (the sort of pale imitation that would drain the blood from the ruddy complexions of the Parisian guild of boulangers), a yoghurt and some cheese spread.

08:04AM: I should be working but instead am writing this as we hurtle through Crewe and whizz past Warrington Bank Quay

08:48AM: Drawing on a train is really shoogly. The train manager is making frequent announcements in a Glaswegian accent as thick as a slab of black bun (2) which makes the message (that we are six minutes late) difficult to fully comprehend. Outside the window the Lake District is sparkling. Sheep, drystone walls, the River Lune and the picturesque open cast Kendal Mint Cake mines.

09:30AM: Carlisle. We always used to stop here on the way to visit my grandparents in Scotland. The most exciting thing was a bakery that sold bright green, mint flavoured meringues. They were laden with artificial additives and were probably revolting.

09:52AM: The novelty of this journey is wearing off mostly because the train is swinging around and is making me seasick. We are in the borders where there are far too many conifer plantations. Dark and depressing when growing, worse when harvested.

10:36AM: The edges of Glasgow are never terribly alluring but the station is a good one. Quite odd though as all shops firmly closed – except Boots where I found a bargain box of Sushi for £1.00. It never seems quite right to buy food from the same place as once might buy corn plasters or condoms but I was starving.

11:20AM: Horatio’s Garden, Scotland is glinting in the sunshine. Fresh birch leaves, loads of Narcissii, Fritillaries en fete etc etc etc. The best thing though is seeing Sallie and the other volunteers, to see patients picking flowers in the woodland and everybody happy.

5:00PM: I am back at the station where I am greeted by some extremely stoned people lying on the ground and doing a lot of shouting. Nothing like a bit of local colour. I am given an Afternoon Snack box which is considerably weirder than ther breakfast offering – it contains a fruit scone and some chicken pate.

7:30PM: The Lake District is still sparkling as we trundle south finally ending up at Milton Keynes at about 11:00PM which, if I am honest, does not sparkle much although that might just be me as it has been a very long day… only another hour’s driving before bed.

I was listening earlier to Just A Minute. The top picture is Tulip Slawa

  1. for some unfathomable reason spellcheck decided that at this point I was not writing the simple word “last” but “lasagna”.
  2. for those unfamiliar with this – it is a Scottish cake traditionally served to first footers at Hogmanay. It is basically a fruit cake wrapped in pastry because (obviously) a fruit cake on its own will not provide enough saturated fat.

My apologies but I started writing this blogpost a year ago and then forgot to post it – as you will see if you decide to read on it is quite season specific and would have been a bit weird if I had put it out there in the spring. So I have waited twelve months and the moment has come round again: as things tend to do in gardening so the story is still relevant.

Another early morning start in order to get to Horatio’s Garden in Glasgow by 9.00am. Increasingly as I get older I am becoming a creature of habit and don’t like my routine being disrupted which is, of course, a very good reason for so doing. It is good for me to do different things otherwise I will become unbearable and cantankerous too soon.

So it is mind broadening to force myself out of a warm bed at 4:30am, to forgo my breakfast and to bundle myself out into the darkness in order to get to Birmingham airport for the 7.00am flight. Quick snooze, bumpy landing, Croque Monsieur and a cup of coffee in Starbucks and off to the Spinal Unit and the Queen Elizabeth Hospital.

I have been meaning to write about Horatio’s for ages and have failed spectacularly. The background story is pretty well known now (details here) suffice to say that from an appalling tragedy and extraordinary thing has been born and I am so thrilled to be part of it. It has been a truly extraordinary experience full of remarkable people. Moments of extreme joy, moments of mild anxiety and waves of powerful emotion – I have wept a lot over strange things like Corian worktops and pond coping stones. I think, no actually I know, that it has been the most moving and most important garden I have ever designed.

The greatest pleasure has been watching patients emerge, like blinking moles, from the antiseptic gloom of the wards and beginning to use the garden. Be it for sitting, for cake eating, for salad harvesting, bird feeding of just watching the flowers move in breeze from the Clyde.

So, as you can see from these pictures, we have built stuff (at the least the endlessly patient Kenny McFadyen from Endricks Landscapes has built everything), planted everything shrubby and herbaceous so it is time for……… the bulbathon…

I have been plotting this for a while (along with Sallie the head gardener). My part of the arrangement is to organise the delivery of 12,500 bulbs, her part is to find enough people to help plant them. That may seem, justifiably, to be a slightly uneven distribution of labour but she was amazing and the place was swamped with volunteers, doctors and assorted gardeners. My job was to direct and supervise and also to actually get down in there and dig some holes and plant stuff – yah boo sucks to those doubters amongst my readers who thought I was too old and fey for such on carryings.

For those interested in lists we have planted
Allium Mont Blanc/atropurpureum/Purple Sensation/cernuum
Anemone blanda/nemerosa
Chionodoxa Forbesii
Crocus Cream Beauty/Remembrance
Eremurus Cleopatra/White Beauty
Fritillaria meleagris
Gladiolus The Bride
Iris Katharine Hodgkin
Iris Gordon
Iris Kent Pride
Lilium martagon Hansonii
Lilium martagon Manitoba Morning
Muscari
Narcissus February Gold/Cheerfulness/pseudonarcissus/Actaea
Tulip Abu Hassan/White Triumphator/Ronaldo/Spring green/Negrita/turkestanica/China Pink
All of them in abundance…..

It was a glorious couple of days with shiny weather, smiley people and the wonderful sense of anticipation that comes with bulb planting. All that glorious flower wrapped up in a brown nubble of concentrated energy. Bulbs are so basic – plant them, go away, have a jolly Christmas, endure the dark days of January and then come back to four months of continuous flower.

A note from a twelve month later…
Well that worked – come the spring we had sensational tulips, cracking daffodils etc etc. Weeks of joyous bulb filled ecstasy. Every day something new happened and all patients and visitors were thrilled. What a start to the season.
So now November has come round again and we have had Bulbathon part two and have planted another 6,000 bulbs – I was worried that we would not have room for them but I was wrong, there is loads of new space that needs planting. Nine volunteers and various patients and staff rallied round and my goodness they worked hard. For the listy among you here is another – we also planted more of the same as last year.

Allium afflatuense
Crocus Barr’s Purple
Narcissus Cheerfulness/cyclamineus/Altun Ha
Tulip sylvestris/Ronaldo/Royal Pretender/Purissima/Jackpot/Armani

The garden has now been open for a year. All four seasons have passed and I still adore everything about the place. The volunteers are amazing – their energy and dedication is indefatigable the patients are complimentary about the garden, the staff are amazing and our little bit of Glasgow is so much better than it was a couple of years ago. This is a garden that will, over the next years, make hundreds of peoples’ lives better and that is something that makes me very, very happy. And has also made me start sobbing again..

I am listening to Kiss with a Fist by Florence and the Machine*,  the picture is of various tulips in jugs.

*I built a garden for Florence’s parents in Camberwell many years ago. If I remember rightly we did a very neat bit of stone cutting around a drain.

Golly, it has been rather longer than I anticipated since my last Blog. Did you miss me? No, don’t answer that: scrupulous honesty might be unsettling and outright fibs may be bad for your Karma.

What has happened? Quite a lot really but at the same time not much. You know the feeling. I have been to Luxembourg to write about another garden but this time, instead of tearing back again, I was accompanied by both my sons so we overnighted in Brussels on the way back. Life is odd sometimes: haven’t been to Belgium for about thirty years then twice within a week. We decided that we needed to do a bit of rapid absorption of the ways of the Belge so we took the train from Luxembourg (very slow and rather uninteresting) to Brussels Central and then mooched about.

It is a remarkably scruffy city with a lot of graffiti, many empty lots and all the parks look a bit unkempt. Rather disappointing really, I thought it would be awash with EU sponsored spiffiness. Luxembourg is oozing shininess. We ate at the restaurant where, apparently, they invented Steak Tartare. That may, or may not, be the case (i) what it did mean was that one of us (me) had to eat an indecent quantity of raw meat – with chips. It was then considered churlish not to try the puddings which were all extremely large. I was defeated and Max had to step in. I know, I know it is very shaming when one’s child can eat more whipped cream, hot chocolate sauce, meringue and ice cream than you but that is one of the many humiliations a chap of declining years has to endure.

The next day we went to the Magritte Museum where two statuesque Flemish women fussed over whether we were allowed to put bags in the left luggage or whether they should be hung on hooks. Then we attended the music museum where you wander around wearing headphones and, whenever you pause near an exhibit, you connect with a wireless link that plays a snippet of solo Sackbut or a duet of Mandolin and Fife. Very jolly.

We then ate buckets of Mussels (with chips) and went off to catch the Eurostar.

On our return we then went off to Scotland where it was sometimes sunny and occasionally very wet (as is its won’t). I spent much of Saturday night dancing reels with the net result that my knees were a bit shaky the next day. Amongst others there were reels of the 51st, Dukes of Perth, Postie’s Jigs, Eightsomes, Willows were Stripped, Sergeants were Dashed, Gordons were Gayed, Canadian Barns were sorted and two completely knackering Highland Schottisches (thank you Jill) were cavorted. For those of you who have never done any Scottish Country Dancing then, believe me, you are missing out on a very joyous part of life. We have only one kilt in this family (that was made for my Great Grandfather – born 1860 – so it is quite ancient): it fits both my sons and I so we had a bit of a contretemps as to who was going to wear it: Max won. Which in retrospect was fortunate for the wider public as I had to spend some of Saturday evening up a ladder and one thing you do not want to do is accidentally look upwards when there is a bloke in a kilt half way up a ladder. Believe me, nobody looks that hot from that angle.

And now we are back and August stretches out before us: all the frantic excitements and rushing around tarting about on stages is over for the Summer. It was fun. The weird thing is that you never know whether or not it will be the last. Those of us who work for ourselves get used to answering to nobody – if I want to design a garden then I will. If I want to take a day off and do the weeding/eat bacon/go and watch my children do something/  then I can. When it comes to the other stuff there are people in conference rooms deciding who stays and who goes. So who knows if I will get to do it all again next year: I hope so.

Nothing at all one can do about it except smile. And never let them look up your kilt. In the meantime there are assorted clients that need sorting: I feel that I may not have actually written much about gardens for ages. Before we know it, it will be autumn and there will be bulbs and plants and wind and rain and business. Every year I decide to be organised and spend August preparing: every year I fail dismally by being distracted by other things. I have a huge distraction looming about which I will tell you more very soon.

I have also been reading quite a lot of RHS stuff in readiness for my first Council Meeting at the beginning of September. There is a lot to take in, fortunately most of it is quite interesting. I am sorting out which of the many committees I should be on: if I am let anywhere near anything to do with finance then you should probably pull the communication cord and have me ejected. The garden here is going through a bit of a sulky moment so this weekend I must roll up my sleeves and do a bit of thrashing about.

And it is my birthday: today.

The picture is of harvested poppy heads and I am listening to Soul Man by Sam and Dave.

(i) Apparently it could be credited to the Tatars who never had time to cook so ate raw meat tenderised by being tucked under their saddles all day. Which may explain at least some of the 9th Century carryings on around the Gobi Desert. They must have dreamed about a nice Cauliflower Cheese or simple Pork Pie after picking all that horse hair out of their teeth. To add extra confusion the dish is called Steak a l’Americaine: which seems to be a cause of passing the buck.

Been away for a week or so alternately basking and dripping on the very, very lovely Isle of Colonsay. My hearty recommendation to anybody looking for somewhere to go – great hotel (www.thecolonsay.com). I have a slightly ulterior motive as I am also helping with the garden at Colonsay House (www.colonsay.org.uk) which is open during the summer. Lots of highlights especially driving my newish Landrover at speed through the largest puddle in Scotland having neglected to close the windows. Lots of squealing children. It was also my birthday while we were there – I am much older than I used to be.

Bit hectic since I got back – lots of rushing around including a presentation to some charming people from Marks and Spencer at Barnsley House. As I am sure you know this was Rosemary Verey’s garden but is now a spiffy hotel. I went to the garden about ten years ago and have not been since. Last time I found it a bit disappointing as all the iconic parts (laburnum walk and potager) seemed very small. They still are and the asymmetry of some of the views is slightly annoying.

Went to look at my borders at Cottesbrooke Hall on Tuesday which are just beginning to grow into themselves. Still a bit of necessary tweaking but getting there. Over the past couple of years we have pulled them apart completely, dug them over and replanted. No matter how good, gardens need a good kicking occasionally to stop them becoming complacent. The biggest change was removing the venerable old Yuccas that marked the paths. Exciting things are happening at Cottesbrooke: at the moment Arne Maynard, Angel Collins and I are all doing stuff there.

It is a very pretty house as well (www.cottesbrookehall.co.uk)

I am listening to The Magic Numbers and the picture is of Colonsay.