Let’s stoke the blog – it’s been a while and nobody really reads these things any more but a quick shovel of fuel does no harm.
I have just come back from four days at the new RHS Show at Wentworth Woodhouse. This a ludicrously large house in Yorkshire. Allegedly it has 365 rooms (I did not count them all) and was built on the money earned from coal by the Rockingham family. Unsurprisingly it has been downhill for a while as coal became less lucrative, the family had feuds, fortunes were unwisely invested, the government dug an open cast mine in the garden, all the contents (including the amazing Stubbs painting of Lord R’s
favourite racehorse Whistlejacket) were sold off and the house steadily crumbled. The house is now owned by a trust that do their best but it is tricky keeping it all together. Hopefully having a flower show helps keep the roof on. The story of the house is interesting with family feuds, heiresses eloping with footmen, coal mines that lapped against the house, follies in honour of court martially Admirals and lots of other stuff.
Sunday: arrived and wandered around a bit, looked at the gardens I am to judge and hugged some people. Was just thinking about leaving when a burly chap who was putting up a tent struck a metal spike with such gusto and application that it went straight through the mains water pipe. Hundreds and hundreds of gallons gushed out and flowed like the river Tigris through a garden. There was a lot of rallying round, digging of trenches, pumps and drains. The pathway was washed away but the plants seem to survive and there was a happy outcome. These things happen at flower shows and they bring out the best in people.
Dinner at the hotel and an evening with the women’s Euros where England beat Wales by an impolite margin. In the circumstances when two teams are so ill matched then I think 3-0 is enough: anything more than that is quite rude.
Monday: Assessment day. 29 degrees so not fearfully comfortable but jolly. We lunched in a very smart wood panelled room at the end of a long gallery looking out up the drive. Having assessed I then went off for a curry on the outskirts of Barnsley with my friend and fellow podcaster Joe Swift. I have never had a biryani that included an omelette – it may be a once in a lifetime experience. It was followed (as part of the meal deal experience) by some of the most tasteless ice cream I have ever eaten: I fear that the inclusion of the word ‘cream’ might have been generous and it should have said ‘ice laboratory manufacturedl fats and sugars’. Not as snappy but more accurate. At the end we discovered that it was a cash only restaurant which was a bit of a shock. I had to be left as a hostage while Joe went off to the garage to find a cash machine. The final drama of the evening was that we had to record a bit of podcast introduction: the car park was a bit noisy so we found a cup-de-sac. I am sure the residents thought we were dogging.
Tuesday was judging day. Everything was completed, primped, tidied and scrubbed. We had a good session with lots of lively conversations: everyone had their say and a good time was had by all. At this point in a normal blog I would insert a series of photographs of the gardens along with appropriate credits and pithy comments. Sadly I failed to take any pictures apart from those attached – one of which shows the pretty magnificent portico of the house and others a selection of completely gorgeous soft fruit that was being exhibited in one of the grander rooms.
Dinner that evening was with Ann-Marie Powell in an Italian restaurant on an industrial estate on the edge of Rotherham. It was quite unexpected with little tiled overhangs and an upper storey that looked like a crack den. Food good, waiting staff delightful, quite pleased that I don’t live there.
Wednesday: early start to take a tour round the show gardens. I ended up with the lady mayor of Rotherham and the mayoress who happens to be the mayor’s daughter. They were charming and very keen on a selfie. The Mayor was on every garden and even on a dirt bike (stationary). I wandered around the house and found some sensational fruit and vegetable exhibits and then tootled off to Beverley. Why? I may tell you one day but at the moment it is not fearfully exciting.
I failed dismally to take any photographs of gardens. The picture at the top is of some of the most wonderful gooseberries I have ever seen.