The Retiring Gardener
Roof top gardening at the City Edge
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Life under Lockdown
Tuesday 1st December The current lockdown has two more days to run and then (subject to tonight's vote in the House of Commons) we are anticipating that hereabouts Tier 2 rules will apply.
But that is for the future, and for now, confined as we all are to various degrees, the wintry sun is bright, above the horizon a hazy light blue sky stretches high and wide and through the tall, skeletal trees there are pockets of Autumnal colour clinging on. In this moment I'm reminded of my fortunate circumstances.
Think of any street in a suburban or urban area, or a road in a country town or outlying village and turn it through ninety degrees, stand it on its head and there you have it – a converted Edwardian school with the old school honours boards on every floor, close to forty households and surrounded by a garden bordered by trees twice as old as time and protected by period gates liable to struggle with the complexities of entry codes. From my eerie at the top of the building I can see for miles as the leaves on the trees nearby have dropped and the skyline is once again dominated by a majestic cedar.
A little while ago someone I've known all my life, told me she thinks balcony gardens are boring. Maybe this isn't their moment, the absence of a history and a future, other than in the imagination, their transience, coming as it does with the awareness that it will only take a few hours and all is gone. It is of course possible to recover quickly from damaging winds, horticultural mistakes, neglect and overc
rowding and to conjure up wonderful displays, recover from failed experiments and have a year round display all within arms reach, and with beneficial insects and pollinators in mind. But I think I know what she might mean. There are times when planting for the future, or feeling a connection with the past, has added value and significance.
Balconies, roof gardens and other opportunistic spaces have nevertheless come into their own this year and have been a place of solace and a source of edible crops for unexpected first-time gardeners and others whose circumstances have changed during the course of the year.
While picking up a picture from a gallery I know, I recently, and rather unexpectedly, heard about an extremely successful crop of tomatoes that had grown happily through the Summer on a terrace in West London. I've never grown tomatoes as the combination of watering requirements at key points in the holiday calendar, the absence of a greenhouse and the inevitable expectation that the end of season fruits are turned into chutney (my mother's preserving pan has been a valued decorative piece for years) has never tempted me, but it's a thought.
Meanwhile I've had it both ways – the immediacy of the planting outside my bedroom door, closed firmly now as mice have been venturing indoors, with the possibility of transplanting anything that has grown too big to the gardens below, or more often to the flower strip at the allotment, for a more permanent future.
Caryopteris (bluebeard) are a case in point. These faintly scented late-flowering plants with golden, silvery or indeed mid-green leaves also come in a wide range of flower colour – pink, white or more commonly and spectacularly deep blue (including the aptly named cultivar 'Heavenly Blue'. They are happy enough in containers for one or two seasons, are beloved by pollinators, particularly bees, and are so life enhancing that the wrench at the end of the season, when another year's growth would crowd out much else, is worth the pain of separation as Autumn approaches. They come highly recommended if you want to extend the season and have masses of colour, as well as offering a feast for foraging insects later in the year, and they do transplant happily.
Saturday December 19th As allotments have remained permitted public spaces, although in other respects under the recently introduced Tier 3 rules restrictions have tightened, we have been rendezvouing most weekends with one permitted other (the 10 year old gardening grandson) and caught up too with neighbouring allotment holders, all socially distanced.
But inevitably this has to come to an end – the allotment is ready for Winter, the green manure is sprouting well while other areas have been weeded, dug over and covered for now, although another year more cabbages could fill the void. Optimistically a few herbs, including rosemary and thyme, have been carefully planted and labelled by the ten year old, the garlic has been checked over, and the broad beans are growing.
We've arrived from different directions under leaden skies, feeling somewhat subdued and distracted by the news that we are likely to hear an announcement at any moment that we will soon be in Tier 4 and inevitably changing plans for the festive season. The sombre mood is catching but begins to lift as plans for strawberry planting are instigated by the quieter than usual 10 year old who's thinking ahead. The glimpse into the future is catching.
Competition for space at the allotment is growing and as with the balcony, selecting and censoring the planting list comes with painful choices. However, containers are well suited for any number of herbs, which can be squeezed in amongst other pots and plants. But parsley never works for me in a pot, as it doesn't like drying out, and although growing mint in containers is recommended to avoid the problem of annexation of the surrounding growing space, it also needs to be kept well watered if the pot is standing on a hard surface rather than plunged into the ground.
Wednesday December 23rd 15:24 I'm distracted and struggling to write anything very coherent – my phone is close by and I'm reminded every couple of minutes by News Editors picks that a 'Brexit trade deal is imminent , says EU diplomat'. A second message says a new Covid variant from South Africa has been found in the UK, with all that that entails, and millions more people will enter Tier 4 on Boxing Day. It's difficult to hold strong and conflicting feelings (hope for the first, dread of the second) alongside the turbulent emotions engendered by memories of Christmasses past and anticipation of this very particular and different year, as well as familiar everyday anxieties about being 'ready' for Christmas – which this year means a virtual Christmas relying on Zoom, WhatsApp and the phone. I'm too old to communicate via Facebook and Twitter but not so old that I don't happily opt to Zoom to fill some of the gaps in my diary.
Oscillating between reflections on my immediate surroundings and the wider picture has an inevitably surreal quality. The contrast is stark. Certainly from the warmth and security of my comfortable vantage point, the roof garden continues to look quite lush. All
the silvery leaved evergreens are in good heart, with the olives leading the way, holding onto some fruit and with new growth emerging. A late-planted dwarf Eucalyptus Gunii (who knew there was such a thing) has yet to reassure me that it wasn't an unwise purchase as the hoped for new growth hasn't in this instance emerged and it looks rather alien amongst its Mediterranean and 'cottage garden style' neighbours. I may need to steel myself for a radical rethink but I don't think that it will be a welcome addition to the shrubberies below, still less at the allotment. I will wait and see.
Inside I have some fruiting 'gum' stems, bought from the local flower stall and bringing indoors the welcome and evocative smell of eucalyptus oil. However, earlier this morning I noticed that for the first time in many years there are no roses in bloom for Christmas – rosemary yes, hellebores yes but yet to reach their prime, the wild mallow that arrived with the heat of the Summer yes, and brightly coloured pelargoniums as well as the 'Cornish Daisy', Erigeron karvinskianus.
December 24th 8:30 The sun is up, blue skies have returned and a bumble bee is enjoying the available mallow.
News Editors picks confirms that an EU deal has been agreed and adds later that Storm Bella is forecast to hit many parts of the UK which will be battered by heavy winds over the next few days.
'I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape.
S0mething waits beneath it; the whole story doesn't show.'
Andrew Wyeth American artist 1917-2009
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Faded Glory
Early Lessons
Perhaps I can learn some elementary Italian while teaching my Sardinian neighbours some basic horticultural principles – watering, feeding, right plant right place. The lessons have begun with my neighbours being introduced to 'Spring bulbs' the stalwart of Autumn planning and planting although I have yet to learn the Italian word for bulbs.
was mid-September, and high Summer had returned briefly to the roof garden when we had the first (informal) Level 1 introductory gardening tutorial. It came as a surprise to my tutees that on-going care was often required to ensure a spectacular display in due course, that finding plants to provide bright winter colour throughout an English Winter would be a challenge on a small balcony and that there were outgoings such as plant food and compost that would need to be funded and sourced.
I later suggested adding some particularly cheerful red wallflowers to the shopping list.
At the same time, millions of acres of land were being destroyed by raging fires on the West Coast of America with mounting loss of life and livelihoods as vineyards shrivelled, smoke plumes rose and homes were lost. In Britain, after damaging floods earlier in the year the South West corner of England was battered by Atlantic storms during August, which exceptionally reached a sufficient magnitude to be named before moving north to Wales with devastating effect.
All hard to comprehend as the bees were still buzzing and the roses still blooming, flattered by the soft early morning sunlight and touched by a very gentle breeze. Hereabouts the idyll is interrupted not unusually by a noisy flock of parakeets unwilling to come too close to the building but making their presence felt perching on the dead horse chestnut opposite, while others prefer to squawk from further off. Sadly man's hand has played a part in the tree's demise, since after decades growing to full height, then lopped to ensure its twilight years, careless tarmacing by the property next door has brought this elderly, probably disease-ridden but majestic tree to its knees.
It's now mid-October and the horse-chestnut has gone, wider vistas have opened up and before I had a chance to establish an effective barricade of silver evergreens and other shrubs, the full force of Storm Alex hit. This is not without consequence as a vulnerable area, in an awkward spot (and last repaired in 2017 more or less coinciding with my first post on 3rd August that year) has resulted in water leaking into the flat below and once again we are left helpless in the face of Nature's onslaught until drier weather and further repairs are completed.
Late Offerings
I've never made it to the East Coast of America in the Fall to coincide with the trees showing their wares, displaying spectacular vivid crimson and flame coloured leaves in Vermont, New Hampshire and elsewhere. If you time it right I believe you can follow the earliest changes in colour first in the colder north before travelling south as the seasonal display unfolds. All of which is tempting but may not reach the top of my 'must see' list as and when plans of this sort can be easily entertained again.
More immediately there are any number of spectacular displays closer to home, with gardens and hedgerows full of berries and leaves in Autumnal colours, which as they fall reveal half-hidden gems, like the magnificent cedar rising above the surrounding deciduous trees nearby no longer hidden by the craggy horse chestnut.
The combination of listening to the radio while preparing food often works well, and thus it was I happened upon the tail end of an interesting and comprehensive expositon of the processes by which leaves turn from green to yellow and red as the days shorten, and morning mists return. Key fluctuations in the weather, as well as the quality of the soil, play their part in this complex Autumnal rite with the emergence too of anthocyanin to add red colouration, and made afresh alongside the redistribution of nutrients associated with the breakdown of chlorophyll.
My attempts to introduce some Autumn colour, berries preferred, onto the roof garden have never met with much success. The nearest I managed was a rather neglected blueberry which did it's best but as it wasn't one of a pair didn't fare well. Cotoneasters have been recommended and there are smaller varieties such as Cotoneaster naoujanensis 'Buried Treasure', which I have planted in the large containers which front the main entrance to the building, but its arching branches may take up too much space aloft, although I'm tempted to try and wonder why I haven't done so before.
Hits and Near Misses
If you want to find make use of a roof-top space these would be my top tips, none of which are original, but which certainly hold true if you enjoy gardening, want to make use of an outdoor space however small and have a sunny situation. The same is probably true of a shady spot but plants choices would have to be rather different.
Plant what you like rather than what you think would be a sensible choice for a particular situation. In a very small space you will treasure every plant and each will be very visible. But I'm beginning to think that my wonderful thulbaghias, which are the mainstay of the floral display from April to December, may have to be kept in check – they are alliums and the oniony aroma has rather dominated the space this Summer.
Plant as many tall plants and small trees as space and weight considerations allow. As the taller plants form a framework, your roof garden will become a 3-D space. The thalictrum flowered for months this year, with the tallest over 8ft, and formed an informal hedge filling in some of the gaps between the bay and olives and taller roses and clematii. As they are herbaceous perennials th
ey arrive as the days lengthen and vanish again as the days shorten, so ensuring that you don't lose precious daylight in the Winter months, but they will take two or three years to reach their full potential. They are also surprisingly resilient even when grown in comparatively small containers. Unphazed by the Summer storms and happy to intermingle with other tall plants, including gaura and verbena bonariensis, they formed a fairly successful mutual support group this year, benefiting from their different growing habits.
If they are plants you like (see point 1) silver leaved trees and shrubs can combine permanent planting and continuity without cutting out too much light. I have four olives in various containers in different parts of the balcony and along pathways leading to the main, albeit miniature, terrace. They all get fed and watered quite regularly but not very systematically – three are producing olives, looking healthy and are very beautiful, the fourth has been in the 'sick-bay' all year and hasn't really responded to my care and attention so I could/should use the container for something else. But I haven't the heart to let my sickly olive go, partly I suspect as I think I overlooked it last year when we were again dealing with floods and roof repairs.
If you are fortunate you will have wonderful neighbours who share their water supply, or perhaps pass on plants as they come and go. Four of my favourite silver leaved plants, including one of my treasured olives and a rosemary, were a departing gift and I'm hopeful that the same plants might be given temporary lodgings by the new occupants as and when the way has to be cleared for surveyors and builders.
It's disappointing to plant something, whether on a whim, or carefully thought out, that turns out for one reason or another to be the wrong plant in the wrong place, but depending on your circumstances and inclination experiments can have surprising results and are well worth considering. Not so much an experiment, but arguably an unnecessary expense, have been garden or outdoor items that never quite did what it said on the tin: such as the beautiful and expensive heavy oak doorstop bought to keep open a door to nowhere except a small area for plants, that wasn't tall enough, and is now acting as a prop for some other garden equipment. Or the narrow headed, long handled brush, specially designed to reach awkward corners of balconies and terraces, but which couldn't be used at its full extent with the bristles at an effective angle.
But on the other hand who knew that self-seeded mallows will attract the bees well into Autumn, clematii and roses of all sorts are wonderfully happy aloft and if you are lucky enough to have a back-drop of tall trees and far reaching views you are well compensated for all the planting plans and garden projects that can never make it onto the drawing board, while of course missing the rustle of leaves underfoot and pining for space for a few more plants.
Nota bene – according to the Chambers dictionary –'il bulbo' is the Italian for bulb, or perhaps more correctly, 'bulb', the English word for any subterranean bud with swollen bases in which reserve materials are stored, is derived from L – bulbus or Gk – bolbos (onion). Meanwhile I have yet to have my first Italian lesson.
John Keats – 1795-1821
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,–
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Soft Refreshing Rain
Sultry Summer Days
Mid-August was hot and humid for days. Thunder and lightning but no r
ain, and for a long while grass like straw, shrivelled plants, early leaf fall and dust in the air.
But the bees on the balcony still had a ball – Caryopteris, Verbena Bonariensis and my unnamed self-seeded mallow, which came back into flower, provided plenty to enjoy, with olive fruits adding to the Provencal scene. However, lingering outside in the evenings wasn't without it's challenges (competition from the roar of returning traffic being the most obvious) while the various sensual pleasures evoked treasured but elusive memories before they quickly slipped away again.
I also returned to some proper gardening (clipping, weeding, dead-heading, planning ahead) as opposed to providing a life support system of food and water – the former rather erratic in supply locally as the benefits of seaweed based preparations are leading to shortages or maybe stockpiling, who knows, and the latter possibly not as often as the plants would like, but more than any water shortage measures would support. The thalictrum have been cut down to size after flowering for months, and their willowy beauty being admired from afar, all Summer long. On the allotment, garlic and purple sprouting broccoli are already being sourced for Autumn planting, prompted by a visit from the interested ten year old – now the proud producer of a very impressive cucumber.
But what a difference a day makes – a twenty minute shower and we could all breath again and after another forty-eight hours of intermittent thundery rain, an Atlantic mist then settled over the neighbourhood, with the church spire on the brow only just visible.
This is the time when thoughts turn to next year and the successes and failures of this Summer season. One being missing out on planting nerine bulbs earlier in the year. These would be flowering now and adding a certain slightly over the top vivid, or possibly slightly more subdued, pink display.
Summer is now tipping into Autumn and one of my favourite clematis has come back into flower, rather moth-eaten and not as prolific as first time around, nor is the unexpected flush of the rambling rose outside the bedroom window quite as rosy pink, but the wild mallow is flowering prolifically again, as are the salvias, and August is happily the month for the variegated tulbaghia to outshine everything else.
Horticultural Lessons
My father was a keen gardener, much in love with, and in awe of, the gardens at Rousham House, Oxfordshire, designed by William Kent but also with an eye for the combination of shapes and colour that traditional herbaceous boarders could do well on any scale. If I was lucky as a little girl I would travel in state on top of the wheel barrow bearing their cut-down stems, together with Autumn leaves, en route to the compost pile, which by bonfire night had morphed into a funeral pyre before being straddled by an old stuffed shirt with a mask and hat on top and set alight as the prelude to an evening of catherine wheels and rockets, sparklers and sausages, with the kitchen window a convenient viewing gallery.
I was never particularly keen on dahlias, one of the mainstays of the gardens of my childhood, until the relatively recent renewed enthusiasm, with Christopher Lloyd and Great Dixter leading the charge, for both older and new varieties. The wide ranging forms, as well as the bright and also beautifully soft colours, began to tempt me. But I chose unwisely for the flower strip at the allotment a couple of years ago and might have done better to emulate the neighbouring plots planted with long stemmed varieties in unmissably bright colours, or better still the family expert whose WhatsApp photos of coral pink and rich red dahlias, with long-lasting flowers, confirm they are evidently growing happily in a flower border in Wiltshire. For any keen flower arranger these blooms would be enviable pickings, unlike the dahlias I grew, which were quickly eclipsed by the taller cosmos and rotted without a trace at the end of the season.
I have also been put off by the dedication required to lift, store and label – all of which I now understand is unnecessary if you live in a warmer part of the country (tick) and give the crowns a generous layer of Winter protection.
However, to really embrace dahlia growing I might need to put childhood memories to one side.
As I grew older, helping our lovely Saturday gardener (mentioned in previous editions) was educational and something of a treat as he always shooed me indoors at the point when I was getting bored and he needed to get on. My formidable father on the other hand always overestimated my enthusiasm and particularly on the brink of a family holiday, with tensions riding high, and the ritual deadheading and watering to be done and time running out, stepping into the role of under-gardener was always rather fraught as my father's sensitive soul was deeply hidden at these moments.
My job was often to deadhead the dahlias so that we would come back from our travels to a beautiful display. I had been shown what to do, I knew what to do
but under the pressure of the moment the round buds yet to come into flower could easily be confused with the conical shaped seedpods that I was tasked to remove. The herbaceous border was long and the dahlias buried amongst a range of other plants including golden rod, mildewy Michaelmas daises and prickly roses with ants' nests underfoot. Luckily the compost pile wasn't far away so a little deft re-arranging of some grass cuttings over the bucket load of dead headed dahlia stems covered my trail and with it my dread of getting it wrong.
Looking after other peoples' gardens, in what ever way, always feels onerous – not least because private passions and gaps in knowledge can so easily collide, and it often takes a while to acquire a certain useful level of horticultural knowledge. I imagine that confusing flowers that have come to the end of their life with plants that have died, might be a difficult distinction particularly by mid-August, customarily mid-holiday season, as by then everything tends to have begun to look somewhat sorry for itself. So it is particularly impressive to hear of someone continuing to water the plants in her mother's garden with the belief that doing so might be futile. Meanwhile her mother waited anxiously to see what had survived and the answer, unexpectedly but unsurprisingly, was everything.
I've admitted previously that I am by nature rather too bossy to be safely let loose offering gardening advice to anyone with horticultural questions, particularly as I'm also keener on the overall set design than on really learning more about a wider range of plants and planting conditions as opposed to greater appreciation of their decorative qualities or appeal to pollinators.
I've never been very good at doing my home-work and it might be true that my spelling did not improve as I grew older, perhaps partly in response to my mother's spelling corrections – frequently part of the contents of her letters to me when I was away at school and actually old enough to spell quite well. The family news and general interest in my world with its ups and downs made for much more absorbing reading, but I later headed for a profession notorious for it's poor hand-writing (my weapon of choice to conceal my bad spelling in pre-spell checker days) and a career my mother was always strongly in favour of: make of that what you will.
Instead I've tended too often to rely on 'winging it' although it is also true to say I've absorbed a certain amount of knowledge along the way which has certainly added to my interest in the world of horticulture and the part in plays in the lives of many of us, revealing as it often does our preferences and privileges – from childhood ambitions to have a ride-on mower, the careful nurturing of souvenir cacti, growing mustard and cress on window-sills or hyacinth bulbs indoors, planting and pruning alongside family and friends, the stirrings of garden envy and elaborate planting ambitions, the rewards of growing from 'plant to plate', a wider interest in all green issues and the dawning reality that not all is possible, especially as you get older.
Sheltering from the Storm
Finding insects aloft is always a delight but certainly not to be taken for granted. The Caryopteris is teeming with bees at this time of year and while the bumble bees head first for the verbena their solitary relations also visit in large numbers, so hopefully my various bee/bug homes have found favour. Ladybirds are very common, indoors and out, and plenty of woodlice and other unidentified life too – more surprising (remembering that the balcony is on the fourth floor of an Edwardian building with high ceilings) is the occasional passing cabbage white butterfly but a grasshopper! It may have leapt too far as it vanished after spending a few hours resting stock still on a kitchen cabinet and resisted all attempts to lure it outside. However, the next morning it unexpectedly joined us for breakfast, landing first on an available forearm before accepting the invitation to re-join the outside world.
So much to observe and take in, albeit on a minute scale, but the roof garden has been a fortunate, safe sanctuary during the recent long and uncertain days. First in the silence, then the coming together of the Thursday 'clap', conversations across the roof spaces, and later offering the possibility of welcome privacy when sheltering furtively under the shade of the flimsy parasol. Now the familiar patter of rain drops has taken over as steady rain has settled in for another day keeping me indoors while in the wider world, and in different ways, the lockdown is being partially lifted.
Yasmine Shamma has written in 'The Conversation" about gardening, and makeshift gardens, as 'a universal antidote'. The hope and optimism that refugees, particularly in Jordan, invest, while waiting, in the cultivation of the land and the planting of seeds is humbling and inspiring too with the central importance for refugee gardens, of measuring time, as they do, 'as a slow, seasonal clock'.
A Postscript
If the rhythms of gardening and the tending of plants, with all the various anciliary activities, can provide hope, solace, visual pleasure and much more, then a recent walk along a cliff path, while staying in Cornwall, was a reminder that nature often does it best – not so flamboyant maybe, but full of the hidden treasures as captured above.
A Purple Patch
That Rainy Day in London Town
How many hours a day, or week, does it take to look after one small roof terrace and a number of plant filled passages? It's the sort of question that I rather enjoyed at school – if it takes six men 5 days to plough three fields how many days would it take eight men to plough 13 fields?
I have about 75 containers at any one time; with small succulents needing very little attention, small trees (including olives, my favoured Eucalpytus Nicholii, pittosporum and a bay) also on the whole needing very little attention as long as I remember to feed, water and occassionally prune a bit, and a wide range of attention seeking herbaceous and seasonal plants. Not forgetting roses and climbers which are pretty forgiving.
Access to some parts of the narrowest planted areas is challenging. Watering and feeding involve leaning out of bed-room windows, while anything requiring greater horticultual skill or endeavour also involves clambering out of the same windows, and of course back in again. So best to avoid wrenching a muscle or injuring a foot the wrong side of the bedroom window. In truth the passages all interconnect with the main balcony, but since getting past the containers of roses and other large plants to reach a door is as challenging as clambering back indoors, keeping uninjured is recommended.
I have very vivid memories of locking myself out of a garden flat in West London. At the time it was still quite a bohemian area, with antique dealers and antiquarian book-sellers dominating the browsing and shopping scene. It later became an expensive high-end retail destination but luckily for me that was yet to come. If you are going to lock yourself out, it's best to be dressed in rather more than a shabby dressing-gown with bare feet, and better still to be close to a small hotel used to eccentric requests. In that pre-mobile phone era I needed someone to call a locksmith, which the receptionist did, without batting an eyelid, while her colleague was talking to an elegant couple checking out of the hotel. My excuse was that I had 'flu at the time, and had answered the front door when the postman rang and for some reason then crossed the threshold as the door closed firmly behind me.
I had a lot to be grateful for, although I was also quite shocked by the speed and effortlessness with which the locksmith opened the door, which rather detracted from my faith in expensive locks.
Mid-June, and before wind, rain and yet more wind became the norm after the earlier languid days, I did some rearranging on the main terrace, swapping over a very heavy container with a bay tree, and one of the olives. It was a good idea, and reassuringly easy, as my left shoulder has at long last recovered from an early lockdown injury. Pulling large containers backwards and forwards, through the seasons and for different light conditions, flowering interest and general well-being is a good alternative to other exercise regimes.
And as the weather changed I began to notice the emergence of several, delightful Hellebore flowers, which more usually arrive in time for Christmas.
Now to the plants:
Tall herbaceous perennials surprisingly seem to cope with the cramped conditions, and the extremes of heat and wind, that the relatively small containers and changeable weather has thrown at them.
Verbena bonariensis heading for the skies, thalictrum delavayi tallest of all at eight foot and more, and the unmemorably named Veronicastrun virginicum 'Lavendelturm' (Culver's foot) are all competing for height and have recently been joined by the pretty spikes of Gaura lindheimeri, which answers to a number of variations of its name. Anyone who is growing thalictrum amongst other tall plants may have discovered that in addition to their delicate beauty they do a very good job of supporting any other tall plants nearby, as long as they themselves have enough support to allow some gentle swaying in the wind without the risk of keeling over.
They are all very beautiful and surprisingly happy; I would recommend them to anyone who wants to sit amongst the summer show, watching the insect world, surrounded by plants of all heights offering different interest. In the quiet of the hot days of the early lockdown the possibility of plants feet taller than me seemed very remote. Now it's the norm to be outranked, but the colour choice is conservative.
Meanwhile at ground level different varieties of tulbaghia have taken over.
After my success rearing butternut squash and sweetcorn seedlings for the allotment it is my turn now: Aquilegia 'Lime Sorbet'. You may have a packet too as they came free with June's edition of Gardener's World Magazine. While engaging with much of the outside world – talking with friends, music lessons, quizzes or professional meetings, not forgetting shopping, is done remotely, and news comes on-line, a few months ago we reversed the trend and went back to hard-copy for the GW magazine, not so much for the very welcome free seeds but for ease of flitting between articles.
Aquilegias are great plants for pots and flower happily as late Spring turns into Summer. My absolute favourite is Aquilegia vulgaris var. stellata 'Ruby Port'. It's a soft deep red, happy in sun or shade and always looks very at home. None this year though as last year's Autumn planting was interrupted. 'Lime Sorbet' on the other hand is a beautiful soft limey white and will hopefully look good when there's not much competition around.
Luckily since our local garden centre is open again, having managed to keep going through the bleakest days of the lockdown, I'm hoping to find some seed compost and horticultural grit. My last purchase was a terracotta pot that turned out to be too small for 'potting on' my favourite olive, which will now have to make do with some extra seaweed feed. I clearly need to pay more attention to detail before embarking on any more purchases. In many situations an extra, generously proportioned pot, bought half-price, would be something of a bonus, another mini project, something to fill another time. Unfortunately on the balcony it's created pressure on space that I could really do without as everything is growing well and spilling over into the gangways. So if I remain true to my earlier pledge to ensure that it is always possible to walk across the terrace without undue difficulty, even in high Summer, I must pass it on.
Pests, Weeds and Diseases
The difference between a gardener with a real interest in horticulture and a gardener who wants to have a few favourite plants and trees, that enhance the outdoor space without generating too much hard work, might be exemplified by the following question posed by a nearly 10yr old, while wandering together but yards apart across the Surrey Downs – "what should we be planting now?"
We've missed his horticultural wisdom, energetic digging and enthusiastic watering.
Equally enthused by recently planted seeds showing promise, and remarkably patient when growing vegetables, he has a sense of the need to think and plan ahead for the gardening year which I only grasped much later in life. As he already has a cucumber plant, and his broccoli seeds are germinating, beetroot or carrots might be the answer, but I couldn't come up with anything at the time and instead covered up with a reminder that it was really a growing season rather than a planting season. True, but only up to a point. A good question deserved a better answer.
And the answer to the question about how much time does it take to look after the balcony is quite a lot, and always more than I have. However, my hunch is that anyone interested in gardening will often include enough complexity, and be sufficiently susceptible to the allure of another plant or horticultural project, to ensure that there will always be something to to do to fill the time available. My next job is to plant the strawberry plants I have just been given and I do have a suitable container for them.
If you want to avoid slugs and snails roof-top gardening might be the thing to do. Occasional slugs do appear, presumably transported aloft with a newly acquired plant, and aphids are happy at high altitude, but generally speaking, the combination of hard surfaces, ladybirds and other predators and exposure to wind, rain and direct sunlight, deter many pests and diseases. Weeds seem to be absorbed in the general planting mix and the use of any measures to combat pests and diseases can generally be completely avoided unless you include squashing aphids, which is relatively straightforward.
However, oxalis is a lover of containers and enjoys a close association with plants in pots, noticeably my roses and olives. There are apparently over 800 species of oxalis, most being ornamental, but two or three of my largest containers are overrun with this pretty but persistent intruder and removing all remnants requires more patience and determination than I can muster.
Any tips would be very welcome.
Meanwhile response to the inclusion of poetry in my last post has been mixed – mostly in favour but some disappointment about the lack of horticultural content, which I can also understand. So if you want another suggestion, at this moment when late June has slipped by, with all this represents, you might try Edward Thomas's poem 'Adelstrop', written in 1914.
While up aloft the drying, damaging wind continues to fling the plants around and some of the thalictrum have lost their trailing tops, at the allotment, adjacent to a large nettle patch, a tortoiseshell butterfly appeared and happily lingered in the flower strip, oblivious to the winds above.
Through all the Changing Scenes of Life
Here Comes the Wind
Yesterday the wind was back and after a while I was driven indoors by the fierce gusts blowing the dusty dry compost skywards and threatening the strategically placed, but flimsy garden parasol. An area of high pressure apparently came up against an area of low pressure, keeping the temperature up and the winds lively. Today the wind has relented.
It's not always easy to be sure why a particular association comes to mind, but the solitude of gardening can be a good jumping off point. So it was that while watching the bumble bees flitting from flower to flower I remembered Henry Reed's multi-layered poem 'The Naming of Parts'. The poem, written in 1942, interposes lines recalling nature in Springtime with the voice of an army instructor, naming parts of a rifle – beauty and brutality.
….. 'the early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers' and we, here and now, have not only 'got bumble bees going rapidly backwards and forwards' but swallows, or more proba
bly house martins, darting and dancing above. Improbably, actually, as we are close to a main route to the Surrey Hills, the traffic is beginning to build up again at peak times and we can at moments be nearer to the heavens and the aerial feeding birds, than the ground nesting bees.
However, it has quickly become obvious that the plants that were last in line when it came to watering before my retreat indoors, were the plants that suffered most, but in rather unexpected ways. One of my olives, unwatered for several days and with the foliage acting as a sail, had been spun round on its axis, losing leaves and damaging branches as each rotation involved a challenging encounter with the heavy railings that form the roof-top boundary. I'm expecting it to recover from this auto-pruning but a favourite clematis and, surprisingly perhaps, a container largely of often resilient salvias, but as dry as a bone, were cut off at compost level by the wind's thrashing motion.
I have been delighted by the unheralded arrival of a wild lavatera or mallow, identified by a kind and knowledgeable friend, and much favoured by the bumble bees. But having been overly pre-occupied with other gardening concerns, and evidently insufficiently vigilant about the watering, I now obviously need to do better.
We are losing /have lost the enveloping protection and summer green of the vulnerable, elderly horse chestnut a few feet from the balcony. Favoured by a wide variety of visiting birds, as well as the local grey squirrels, it now has to be removed. A leaf-mining moth might be partly to blame but a more immediate cause is likely to be extensive tarmacing alongside the boundary fence, sealing off the tree's water supply. This happened a couple of years ago when the neighbouring property, a school with limited outside space, understandably extended their usuable outdoor area. Sadly they did so without anybody noticing the risk to the nearby tree and including some alternative surface materials to channel rainwater towards the roots.
However, I read that water percolation is only one of the many hazards for mature trees growing close to buildings and surrounded by hard surfaces; tarmac can be permeable and it's easy to be wise after the event.
A PiCUS test has nevertheless been done. PiCUS Sonic Tomography I now know is the arboreal equivalent of ultra sound, and the results are not good – the tree must be removed before Autumn gales replace the warming summer winds and it will leave a large gap.
Weathering the Weather
Thinking of wind and gardens invites thoughts of Dungeness and Prospect Cottage, another garden I've only enjoyed through magazine pictures and virtual images. Film director, diarist and gardener, Derek Jarman's horticultural challenge had been to introduce beauty and life into an exposed, harsh, barren area of shingle in the shadow of the Dungeness nuclear power station.
I'm anticipating that the complete exposure of the balcony to the winter winds will alter the micro-climate in the area below the metal railings, which is in effect a miniature walled garden with a brick surround. More challenging might be the impact on the taller plants and shrubs, many of them like the olives, bay and rosemary having their ancestral roots in the warmer climes of the Mediterranean and their horticultural heads way above the parapet. My particular concern is actually for the younger of my two E Nicholii, a small narrow leaved eucalyptus, endemic in New South Wales. It was battered through the winter and is only just beginning to recover so I will move it to a small recess in the balcony as next Winter descends, in the hope of protecting it. An older tree, planted against a wall, although in a wind tunnel which catches the lashing winds from the North-East, seems more resilient and forgiving, recovers quickly from neglect or harsh treatment and is a truly beautiful specimen – as a container grown tree I strongly recommend it.
The jumbled planting of gaura, tall verbena bonariensis, lemon verbena now a metre high and mixed underplanting, interspersed with roses, is coming into being as a treasure trove for pollinators and a pretty (a word I usually avoid) display, although the compost is old and the planting scheme random.
However, the salvias look weary and may need replacing next year and I'm trying again with geums (Mai Tai to be precise), which I've admired from afar in other people's gardens but never managed to grow successfully in pots. Too much competition I suspect may be part of the problem so I'm trying to offer them more growing space for now, but ultimately, like everything else, they will have to fend for themselves and try and manage with less.
Derek Jarman imbued hope and optimism into his gardening projects – I'll take my cue from him.
The lockdown has, I know, been an opportunity for all sorts of creative initiatives. Mine are rather small scale and I am disproportionately proud of my efforts. A small table, a sheltered area on the balcony, a couple of sheets of bubble wrap and some clothes pegs and a roof-top mini greenhouse was born in the manner of Blue Peter.
The seeds came mail order just as the final design features were completed. All available containers were planted either with butternut squash or sweetcorn seeds, both of which are large and so in line with my previously admitted limitations as a propagator of small seeds.
Benefiting from the exceptionally warm weather, and occasional misting using a re-purposed hair-spray product bottle, promising volume boost and shine, the butternut squash seedlings did well, tolerated being 'potted on' and then were successfully transplanted to the sun-baked allotment where they are happily installed and will hopefully continue to thrive. Last year's crop suffered from a rather underwhelming amount of Summer heat, and being on the shady side of the sweet corn, which grew tall.
This year there have been lengthy discussions about the best planting lay-out for these late Summer crops, which need to be on the sunny side of the street with room to stretch out. Hopefully there will also be enough wind to get good pollination of the sweetcorn – not a complete success last year.
The flower strip is doing well with the first sweet peas in flower, and the battle against the mares tails (Hippuris vulgaris, not to be confused with horsetail) a score draw at the moment as regular hoeing and less frequent digging give at least an improved appearance although inevitably they will keep re-appearing until late Summer. The allotment is in walking distance of the Thames which increases the odds in favour of the weed which likes mud flats apparently.
From Cradle to Grave – five stages of cistus
The reorganisation of the roof garden, in part to ensure better access for maintenance work (the last stage of essential leak repair work that loyal readers may remember has been something of a saga over recent months is due this week) also involved the pragmatic choice of replacing the two garden chairs with a bench.
Two occupied chairs with adult legs outstretched take up more surface area than one bench with two people sitting side by side, or so it seems. The straight backed bench can go right against the wall, under a canopy, facing out across the planting and long established trees to the church spire on the rise beyond. And more immediately is a perfect spot for sitting amongst the plants and watching what is going on.
Most eye-catching of all has been the spectacular display this year of the cistus purpureus, a particularly colourful rock-rose, with each individual flower a treat, the whole display spectacular and the Mediterranean plant, for once, enjoying Mediterranean temperatures, at least in the day-time. However, the end was inevitable as the shrub was elderly and straggly and ultimately could no longer support life. It had long outgrown its own life support system, a space limited terracotta pot, and as the last of the petals fell they seemingly replicated Millais's depiction of Shakespeare's Ophelia, with flowers floating on the water illustrating growth and decay.
Meanwhile the tallest of my Thalictrum plants is already as high as an elephant's eye, and the ram-rod straight Verbena Bonariensis are too, and I will replace the cistus like for like whenever access to my local garden centre allows.
The Naming of Parts The Death of Ophelia
Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday, There is a willow grows askant the brook
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning, That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day, Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies and long purples,
Glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name
And today we have naming of parts. But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them.
This is the lower sling swivel. And this There on pendant boughs her crownet weeds
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see, Clambering to hang, and envious sliver broke,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, When down her weedy trophies and herself
Which in your case you have not got. The branches Fellin the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, And mermaid-like awhile they bore her up,
Which in our case we have not got. Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds
This is the safety-catch, which is always released As one incapable of her own distress,
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me Or like a creature native and endued
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy Unto that element. But long it could not be
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
Any of them using their finger. To muddy death.
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 7.
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.
Earthly Delights
A Cultivated Space
I'm surrounded by beautiful blossom, most spectacularly a wonderful Judas tree (less memorably but more correctly known as Cercis siliquastrum) a lilac and a young apple with fading cherries, in various pinks, not far away. Perhaps just past their peak in this southerly spot, but the puffs of blossom have been a delight, both walking through the surrounding garden and on my weekly trips for essential shopping. However, most of the drama takes place down below. Looking straight out from my rooftop domain the only pink to be seen is in the blurry middle distance, all of which is a seasonal treat but nothing to compare with the display of Taihaku cherry blossom at Alnwick Castle. https://www.alnwickgarden.com/the-garden/cherry-blossom/
Once upon a time I tried introducing blossom on the balcony. My prunus Kojo-no-mai didn't live up to its reputation, courtesy of the RHS, of being 'perfect for pots', and was finally drowned by last year's 'Beast from the East', while blue berries without enough cross pollination (self pollinators don't always do what it says on the tin) and a fruiting cherry, which grew too big for the balcony, and is now happily installed on the allotment, were also part of the failed project.
So instead I enjoy what's round about and wait impatiently for the earliest summer colour to arrive. The scabious, scabiosa columbaria 'Flutter Rose Pink' http://retiringgardener.uk/2020/04/14/a-city-stilled/ to be more exact, forming the advance party.
But there are moments, and this is one, when this comfortable high level living, with the inevitable lurch from Spring to Summer (as container gardening doesn't always manage easy, slow paced transitions from one season to another) doesn't feel enough.
Cow parsley billowing in the hedgerows is what I yearn for but will be gone before I next cross the M25. Full of the promise of languid days, surrounded by soft and subtly different greens, accompanied by bird-song, this is where my urban soul meets the natural world most readily.
Meanwhile there are other opportunities to think about what it means to be human and our relationship with the natural world; this might be one worth exploring:
To register please email Stella Lyons at
stella_grace_lyons@hotmail.com
https://stellagracelyons.com/
A City Stilled
Into the fourth week of a lockdown, which in this city edge neighbourhood is apparently well observed: the restaurants are shut, the supermarket queues spaced out and the local garden centre closed, although occasionally a figure is seen wandering through the plants, tending and watering and hopefully keeping this fraction of the nation's much needed plant stock alive and ready for sale when the time comes.
I am firmly on the side of re-opening nurseries and garden centres. The plants are needed for people and pollinators and I miss wandering and dreaming as I go through the seasonal displays.
Meanwhile the main 'A' road taking traffic from this South London borough into Surrey and beyond is largely silent, except for infrequent penetrating interruptions as emergency vehicles and boy racers on motor bikes screech past, accelerating through the empty streets.
A Less Familiar World
The roof garden sits at tree-top height, atop a former county secondary school, surrounded by lime trees and elderly horse chestnuts that gradually screen
out far-away landmarks with the leaf canopy thickening as Spring becomes Summer.
Built in the Edwardian era, in the characteristic red brick of the period with some impressive ornamental stone features, the school opened in 1907. However, the original top storey was set ablaze by an incendiary bomb during the second world war, so schooling in the building was then suspended and the girls educated for a while elsewhere, going to different sites for different classes – joining the local boys' school for science lessons and going separately to the nearby College of Art for art lessons. After a chequered post-war existence the building was later converted into apartments surrounded by a fragment of the original extensive school grounds and now with an industrial flat roof, all of which would presumably have come as a surprise to the original architects.
Lockdown in a flat with its own outdoor space and access to an allotment is indeed to be fortunate. Nevertheless there are complicated routines to be observed at the allotment site regarding locks and water taps (and the washing of hands) but reminders to observe social distancing requirements are largely unneccesary as self-isolating tends to be the order of the day.
The balconies on the other hand, while never being part of the original designs for the building, now offer a treasured opportunity to chat to neighbours across the dividing space, to 'Clap for Carers' on Thursday evenings or raise a glass as the sun goes down.
If you are interested in architecture and artists of the early twentieth century you might like to register for this talk by Stella Grace Lyons, one in her series of Stella Talks:
Charles Rennie Mackintosh – more than just a tea room!
Did you know that when Charles Rennie Mackintosh died, his entire estate was valued at just £88. Glaswegian-born Mackintosh, a designer, architect and artist, was the foremost Celtic exponent of Art Nouveau, and had a considerable influence on European art. But he is an even more enigmatic figure today than when he was alive. Both Mackintosh's and his wife Margaret Macdonald's work has a distinctive character, one that captures the transition between the Victorian era and the modern age. This talk will consider both Charles and Margaret's life, work and legacy.
When? Friday 17th April, 11.0am (UK time) Where? Online, via Zoom
Cost: £7.50 paid via Zoom (using PayPal) Duration: 30 mins followed by a Q&A session
Speaker: Art Historian Stella Grace Lyons http://www.stellagracelyons.com
How do I register? Here's the Zoom link to register for the Mackintosh talk: https://us02web.zoom.us/webinar/register/WN_p16Kk8sXQ85E24nAXjkdJg
Revised Expectations
I'm always wary of giving gardening advice as it seems presumptious because, as I've mentioned before, I tend to know very little about quite a lot rather than having a real depth of knowledge about anything horticultural.
But I'm happy to pass on tips based on my experience. So
if you want early Spring interest, and you garden in containers, hellebores are highly recommended. They please the bees, come in a wide variety of colours and forms and are exceptionally long lasting. An added bonus is that during their dormant season, while the rest of the balcony, patio or whereever you garden, is coming into bloom, the containers can be tucked out of the way in shady spots until their time comes round again. Their success aloft is rather a surprise as these plants have a preference for shady woodland, very different from the exposed windy conditions of my sunny south facing balcony.
Unfortunately my beautiful hellebores are currently eleven miles away, lodging with a family member who has grown fond of them. A temporary expedient to manage the urgent need for access to the balcony, when rainwater was flooding the flat below, has become more permanent, with the current restrictions on travel and associating with others.
Tempting as it is to consider all my plants and containers as 'essential', I have plenty, many of which like me, have been enjoying the warmth of the recent settled sunny days. Indeed lingering on the balcony with secateurs or hose in hand has been a pleasure and everything is beginning to look particularly neat. Not a horticultural look I generally seek and the pleasure is somewhat surreal.
Meanwhile my heart goes out to gardeners who can't be in their gardens, city families with no nearby outdoor space and the plant growers whose livelihoods are currently under threat.
compost is a very scarce commodity at the moment (as are many other gardening essentials including seeds and plants, plant food, grit and horticultural sand…… I could go on) so best to use what you have for perennials and other plants destined for a lon
g stay and consider using old 'spent' compost for planting seeds if you having got anything more specific. The elderly 'mangetout' seeds that I recently planted in a couple of seed trays using some long abandoned compost (which I had been using as ballast at the bottom of a large container while waiting for a new climber and some more nutricious compost to turn up) has provided quite an effective growing medium. However, late in the day I have learnt that pea seedlings are averse to root disturbance so it was probably a mistake to plant them two at a time. I think the answer might be to work round the problem and nip the top off the weakest seedlings rather than pulling them apart.
I'm far too idle to grow things from seed (and of course the lack of a greenhouse is a perfect excuse, although there is the odd sheltered corner on the balcony) unless in child-like fashion the seeds are encouragingly large – peas being one such, nasturtiums another. I have been known to look at seed catelogues rather as I look as recipes, searching for the largest seeds or fewest ingredients, but now, at this moment in time, and against the backdrop of so much loss and uncertainty it is heartening indeed to see the peas sprouting and signs of renewal.
I'm also put to shame by Sue who pointed out in her comment on my last post http://retiringgardener.uk/ that because of the difficulty of finding thalictrum to buy, she would be growing them from seed. I am full of admiration and curiosity – my new plants (ordered early and safely arriving through the post) are growing apace so this evidence of a certain robustness might apply to the seeds too. It will be interesting to hear more.
try to resist the temptation to discard any plant that lacks promise prematurely, particularly at the moment as acquiring replacements may be problematic for some while to come. Having once admired a friend's shoulder high lemon verbena plant, admittedly growing in a pretty, sheltered courtyard garden, I now always preserve the plants I have left in the Autumn, rather than uprooting them.
They may or may not fare well, but if one or two do steal a march on the new season's additions, it's an ornamental reward with the added bonus of early leaves to use for herbal teas.
Last season's lemon verbena plants should be cut back by a third (or was it cut to a third) in the Spring and in time green shoots will appear. It pays to be optimistic, certainly at this latitude, as they generally do appear, although winter damage may mean that the plant is never a complete success.
A Closely Observed Balcony
The scabious have been out for weeks but the few tulips I have this year are holding back – true they are a late flowering variety but I'd quite like my container back and I'm now wishing I'd gone for an earlier flowering variety as the short sleeved sunny weather, with tulips still in tight bud, seem a rather curious combination. I'm also regretting buying tulips with variegated leaves which I don't think I really like in this space-compromised spot. The strongly marked, white edged leaves of China Town, a pretty pink tulip when it eventually arrives, are overly prominent and eye catching and distracting, so a somewhat disappointing experiment.
The much admired and ever larger rosemary is losing its flowers, which is a shame as the bees are out and about and with my best hellebores miles away I haven't got much else on offer for the moment, although the 'Cornish daises', with the unmemorable name of Erigeron karvinskianus are coming in to flower.
So too are the smallest, daintiest of the thulbaghia, another plant with 'wafty' lavender pink flowers. I have three varieties, the largest being Thulbaghia Violacea. They are generally tough and as long as you water them and feed them, but not too much, they will flower right up to Christmas. However, I may have pushed my luck with the Violacea. The pot and plant were bound together and the clump urgently needed dividing so having borrowed a spade from the allotment, with a struggle what was once whole was divided into quarters, with two small clumps re-potted. This may be a misnomer as I had miscalculated and didn't have nearly enough compost of any quality to cover the roots. So I have an inadequate arrangement with the limited supply of compost mounded up in the centre of the two large containers, more or less covering the roots, which I water daily, with a large gap round the margin of the pot waiting to be filled with compost – a doughnut in reverse.
There are things to be said for gardening and living at a slower pace, but impatience, as I've discovered, can problematically fill a vacuum.
Meanwhile I'm looking forward to the blowsier plants of summer. The Lysimachia atropurpurea have already doubled in size and are looking promising among some elderly salvias which needed a bit of cheering up. The roses are looking healthy and contrary to the concerns about growing in pots continue to accept their relatively cramped conditions and are emerging shiny leaved and ready to flower, while honeysuckle and clematii are almost ready to burst into flower, prompted by the recent warm weather.
All of which is in marked contrast to the agonies being endured, and the heroic efforts being made, elsewhere across this quiet city.
Thank you for all your messages and comments.
A Sad Song
The annual drumbeat of greater spotted woodpeckers advertising their presence and excavating the ancient, and arguably dying, horse chestnuts facing the balcony, began early and has continued through the morning. The search for insects and other food prompts this regular migration from the densely wooded areas not far away to the gardens and trees round about. This species is described as having 'a huge range and large population with no widespread threats, so it is classed as a species of least concern' by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN).
If only the same could be said of Covid-19, that like the woodpeckers evidently now has a huge range and no widespread threats, and is increasingly a very great and grave concern, which one way or another is beginning to affect us all. I feel fortunate to have a green space of my own, and the balcony I'm sure will be a place of refuge in the weeks ahead, while familiar certainties, and time with friends and family, are for the moment suspended.
Spring days, and longed for long hot summers, are also for me a poignant reminder of the passing of time, accompanied by an aching sense of sadness and loss, alongside the joys and delights of warm evenings, summer scents and happy times. This year, or so it seems at the moment, I will have the time and opportunity to take care of the pots and plants while reflecting on these alarming times with escalating measures to manage and ameliorate the health and financial consequences of the coronavirus. Meanwhile we learn that as the virus spreads, and traffic stills, air pollutants and CO2 levels both show a significant drop.
Time Moves On
At the height of the recent, but now rather forgotten storms, our neighbours left London and left me the pick of their plants to add to my collection. Another olive tree, and a particularly nicely shaped dark purple-bronze pittosporum, were the first to make the short journey from one balcony to another where two of the four ball topped steel stakes I recently acquired are ready to lend support.
Generosity takes many forms but at this time of year I am indebted to the person I share my life with. The main terrace leads directly off the main bedroom which sounds much grander than it is, but in the absence of a shed, side paths or whatever to store pots, bags of compost, grit etc, which I've been amassing for the planting season ahead, the bedroom has to act as an antechamber and temporarily or more permanently houses things heading for the terrace.
Currently it is mostly a question of bags of crocks, but recently included bags of horticultural grit which I left too long on the carpet and they leaked. At other times the horticultural smells of compost have mingled with the rather more synthetic smells of shower gel and shampoo from the en-suite.
All this is tolerated without a murmur.
Meanwhile on the allotment, the plan had been to make space for a 'shed made of glass' for the visiting nine year old who hadn't come across the word greenhouse, but is nevertheless very keen on growing from seed, and is developing into a knowledgeable and enthusiastic gardener. In the past he has wondered why the family plot doesn't make the ecological contribution, as well as offer the enchantments, of its own wildlife pond, and more recently raised the question of emulating the neighbouring plot and getting a greenhouse. It is unlikely to produce the wonderful crops of tomatoes that he's been hoping for, as tending the allotment generally has to fit in with other demands and pleasures, so is inclined to the erratic at key moments in the summer (watering in August comes to mind) which is never a plus when growing veg. In the interests of health and safety the intention has been to look for polycarbonate 'glazing', but a shed made of polycarbonate is a bit of a mouthful so we'll probably carry on referring to glass.
All this is of course on hold while family generations need to keep apart.
A Little Learning
My conversational French can give the impression that I am much more fluent than I am. So too with gardening – my enthusiasm can be mistaken for learning by those knowing less than me. However, being faced with questions or conversations which expose the fragility of my gardening knowledge does not necessarily stop me making suggestions or giving advice, perhaps not amounting to 'a very dangerous thing' but probably unwise and maybe unhelpful.
This tendency to fill the gap came close to being my undoing many years ago, when applying for a university course involved filling in an UCCA form, a forerunner of the current system. A surprisingly large amount of space was given to hobbies and interests, but describing my general interest in the theatre and visual arts (based in truth and demonstrating, I hoped, a certain well-roundedness since I was applying for a science course) only filled half the space, although looking back I'm sure I could have expanded on my descriptions of some of the wonderful theatre productions I'd been lucky enough to see, and the impact they had had; Vanessa Redgrave in 'As You Like It' being at the top of the list.
Instead I resorted to being somewhat economical with the truth, and chose to expand my recently acquired skills in the art of fencing into an account which suggested more talent and skill, as well as success, than I could justify. One of my interviewers turned out to be a keen fencer and was involved in organising fencing competitions for schools and young people. Enough said.
Gardening is one of the few occupations which can keep, more or less, to a familiar, ordinary, tried and tested time-table in these extremely testing times – and at this time of year, as early summer flowers emerge, seeds need planting, shrubs need tidying, plants need feeding and designs need planning. The latter being a particular favourite of mine although as yet I've never managed to bring into reality the scheme in my imagination, largely because I am always swayed by what is in front of me (in a nursery or garden centre) so go for the spontaneous purchase, or am undone by a significant gap in my horticultural knowledge and so plant the wrong plant in the wrong place.
It is sunny now after an exceptionally wet and windy Winter and early Spring, with ominous grey clouds never far away, although with alluring intervals of sunshine and blue skies more recently that for now are seemingly settled. So having spent seemingly weeks trying to avoid the cold and rain by sheltering indoors (now of course largely confined for other reasons) I have been scheming and shopping, both on-line and at nearby garden centres too, while trying to restrain the temptation to order more than I have space for. Largely going for familiar plants that seem to be happy with high-rise living I've also avoided too many 'pops of colour', never something I've mastered in this limited space, or to be honest, elsewhere.
However, this annual ritual, buying seeds and plants, clearing away Winter debris, re-discovering the garden (or in my case forgotten pots) feels very different this year as the daily pre-occupations of the required restrictions, with the accompanying toll on well-being and livelihoods, dominate the scene. Local garden centres are for the moment open for people to shop one by one, and if this continues I will consider myself lucky indeed if I'm amongst those who know someone who is able to get some supplies which I can make use of, and enjoy, in the absence of family and friends.
With no opportunity, even under ideal circumstances, for expansive drifts of planting, unlike the generous acres of Jimi Blake's garden, south west of Dublin, which as yet I have only seen in snapshots through the TV lens, his planting remains to me 'such stuff as dreams are made on'.
Visiting Hunting Brook Gardens http://www.huntingbrook.com/ is on my wish-list although like so much else will have to be deferred until travel plans can be resumed again. Meanwhile as a nod to the countless Thalictrum plants that have been, and may still be found in his gardens (although I've read that Jimi Blake, who comes across as a restless spirit, changes his planting plans whenever he feels inclined), and are a feature of Hunting Brook, I've gone for broke and ordered a few. The original plants suffered badly in last year's emergency balcony clearance, after a wonderful summer when they scaled great heights. The replacements will be particularly appreciated if they ever arrive, and if not, another time.
Lorries may be requisitioned for other uses and in the current emergency, flowering plants might understandably be considered decorative rather than essential supplies, although the plight of pollinators could be considered a greater, or certainly longer term, emergency.
The school playground next door has been silent except for a few children playing table-tennis and kicking a ball to and fro outside for a while, presumably the sons (no daughters today) of our local key workers.
And the familiar queue of aeroplanes overhead has gone for now.
Meanwhile, since January we have been eating purple sprouting broccoli from the allotment – a bumper crop which is still in production but I had begun to grow weary of. However, it now seems fortunate indeed to have had a freshly grown crop which we can enjoy and leave on the doorstop of one or two close friends and family as we pass by.
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Overlapping Circles
My planting principles in 'Eulerian' form.
I can't remember when Venn diagrams first came into my life but in my mind they are closely associated with flip charts, felt tip marker pens and a degree of anxiety – attending conferences on topics I knew I should have been more committed to, in break out rooms with people I had never met (with the requirement that I should be able to strike up immediate and creative working relations) and in buildings that always underestimated the number of women needing to use the loos.
We are indebted to John Venn, who in 1880, in a paper entitled 'On the Diagrammatic and Mechanical Representation of Propositions and Reasonings' introduced 'Venn' diagrams, which he referred to as 'Eulerian Circles' based on earlier work in this field. As with many other subjects my understanding of the underlying principles is limited to the superficial and fleeting, and indeed the Wikipedia entry says the introduction of their article is 'too technical for most', so I am not alone, but the visual representation of three overlapping circles, which have migrated over the centuries from the domain of philosophy to much wider usage, and the focus on the area where all the three circles do overlap, is actually, and perhaps surprisingly, one I frequently have in my mind's eye. Reasoned choices I suppose always involve assembling information, but I just happen to like the notion of this diagrammatic aid that I was first became conscious of in a bygone age.
Japanese Cherry (Kojo-No-Mai) Couldn't tolerate exposure to heavy winter rains
I have also been musing on the much loved shrubs and other plants that have been and gone during my tenure aloft. These include a beautiful Japanese cherry tree which became water-logged after a sustained rainy period, and never recovered, a particularly bee friendly bluebeard (Caryopteris) which inevitably grew too big and spent too much of the year looking twiggy (but I might re-introduce as a late Summer treat for both me and the bees) and a blueberry which struggled. Thinking back has reminded me to ask those of all ages in charge of the family allotment to plant a pair of blueberries to assist pollination, in pots of ericaceous compost, for the delight of birds and others and I will enjoy the early blossum, Summer fruit and Autumn leaf colour as I wander by.
Caryopteris 'Sterling Silver' Truly a magnet for bees, but too big.
So back to gardening, and sustainable planting options, as I begin to plan ahead. This has to be a project confined for the moment to the main terrace, as the narrower walkways, that need more structural work to ensure no further leaks to the property below, are still out of bounds pending further work. But no matter, I am reconciled to the delay, have more or less got over my disappointment that coming home, or welcoming visitors, relies on houseplants for greenery until reaching the terrace, and I have negotiated the acquisition of a new bench which will take up less room than the original garden chairs since space is still a key consideration in this exposed roof terrace.
Edible Blueberry which on lts own was only briefly rewarding. It needed a partner.
Having done an audit in a brief moment recently, when the wild weather gave way to chilly still air and the balcony was basking under the Winter sun, I had confirmation that several plants had taken advantage of the wet, warm Winter and gone for growth. So running with this theme I am anticipating fewer containers this year, (in my hay day I had well over seventy) with larger plants giving a greater sense of scale and more effective wind protection as well as seasonal interest, while reducing the trip hazard that multiple smaller pots offer. And I can see that with thought and attention to detail I can build on what I've got and create a rather lovely display, both to look out at and sit amongst, that will satisfy the three essential conditions of being wildlife friendly all year, able to tolerate the winds and weather year on year and form a tapestry of colours and textures that can be tweaked and developed but retain charm and interest, including more scent, as well as food and shelter for visiting birds and bees.
This rather grandiose plan will involve a certain amount of self-denial – a beautiful hydrangea such as hydrangea aspera Villosa, with eye-catching saucer shaped purple flowers, that would need vastly more space than I can provide, and has a short flowering season but looks very tempting, won't make the list. On
the other hand relinquishing my Abelia 'Edouard Goucher' because it doesn't meet the selection criteria, and I have never grown fond of it, will come as something on a relief. On completely unreasonable grounds I have never warmed to this long flowering, tolerant shrub, although on the balcony as elsewhere in the southern reaches of the District Line, it grows like topsy, providing flowers for months on end. Instead I'm hoping that by buying one or two additional small eucalyptus trees which can huddle together in moveable containers (more pot movers being on the shopping list) they will be an effective wind break and like my Eucalpytus Nicholii exude fragrant oil as you brush past on hot, sunny days.
I wonder too if reducing the overall number of pots and plants will offer enough opportunity to garden, to fiddle about with, to nurture inbetween waiting for the potatoes to boil and supper to be ready? I'm not sure, and there's a nagging anxiety that the overall endeavour will veer too far in the direction of good taste.
Meanwhile I'm feeling the effects of no 'hands-on' gardening over recent months as the works to prevent water penetration are now imminent but not yet completed, and the Winter aloft has been particularly windy and wet, neither of which I enjoy unless in the midst of a horticultural project which demands complete attention – lugging pots and compost around comes to mind. Surprisingly the absence of any opportunity to do any gardening has temporarily diminished, rather than increased my interest in gardens and gardening, which presumably is an attempt on my part to avoid stirring up too much by way of frustration and envy with no immediate consoling outlet.
And today, Tuesday 21st January, on another beautiful wintry morning, the birds are darting about, a bumble bee has just headed for the flowers on the rosemary bush, the sun is shining and there is much in prospect that does feel worth waiting for in this Metropolitan high-rise hide-away, offering rewards of different sorts and respite from the wider world. In the meantime we are heading for nearby Richmond Park with some quickly assembled sandwiches.
Tulipomania
I have long been a fan of Anna Pavord, a columnist through the print years of 'The Independent', whose prose weaved the personal joys and frustrations of planning and growing, with horticultural knowledge and gardening wisdom. And now twenty years after it was first published, her acclaimed book 'The Tulip' has been re-issued and has arrived in time for my birthday. Part I is full of interesting sections on the author's travels in search of the bulb itself, it's place, particularly in Western European culture and history, as well as fascinating accounts of the early growers and cultivators of these sought after bulbs. All accompanied by illustrations unsurprisingly mostly of tulips but including cartoons, pamphlets, fabrics of different sorts and 17th Century still life paintings. Part II is a listing of tulip species. All this amounts to a heavy tome rather than light reading – and I commend it.
Many years ago I lived just off the Fulham Road and from time to time would wander into an independent book shop not far away, run by an enthusiastic book-seller of changeable mood who fluctuated between an over the top enthusiasm for anything that crossed her path and a withdrawn morose quality that could permeate the shop – not always easy for potential customers. Into this milieu one day came Anna Pavord, who I immediately recognised and consequentially got caught up in my own excitement at the proximity. However, I was particularly dismayed when the shop-owner, characteristically absorbed in her own world, failed to recognise Anna Pavord who had to introduce herself, and was quietly explaining that she had come by arrangement to sign some copies of her book (as distinct from coming for a 'book signing') as I withdrew and left, reflecting on my various discomforts.
Lingering longer
than a musical note but shorter by far than many man-made structures, the most enduring plants and flowers (other than the olives and for the record one beautifully scented rose which seemingly goes on for ever) apparently enjoy roof-top living on my south facing balcony. Whilst never particularly long livers as they battle against the elements and my erratic feeding and watering, they do last, moderately happily, and flowering well, for a number of years.
With the help of the archive on my ever present smart phone some of the most ephemera
l flowers are on record and the roses particularly, including a rambler which of course flowers briefly but gives the birds very welcome cover, actually seem to do well in spite of the additional challenge of some black spot and the damage done earlier in the year by the inevitable green fly.
I always enjoy comments and advice and mostly follow it, learning as I go, although the results are not always the hoped for outcome – my fruiting cherry outgrew the balcony and is now thriving on the allotment with more space and plenty of trees nearby for cross-pollination. And I regret not having thanked the West Country reader who forwarded this cutting from a week-end gardening section. It was interesting to read but surprising too, as roses seem to be one of my most bankable plants – including ramblers, china roses, shrub roses and others I can't identify. Once upon a time I spent my university years in the North of England and a fellow southerner calculated that one way or another you lost a month of daylight by travelling two hundred or so miles North. The calculation may be wrong but it seemed all too true to my southern sensibility. Perhaps I've been lucky with my roses but certainly they thrive with their faces in the sun. This is actually a problem as the blooms along the southern edge of the balcony all turn to face the sun and are then, frustratingly, best seen from the car park way below. Whether the sunny, south facing aspect is cause or effect, or a chance association, I can't be sure but it might be worth trying again.
Since roses are part of my theme I've included photos of some of my roses from times past in the hope of encouraging all high rise container growers to try growing roses, although perhaps ramblers are rather ambitious and in truth after the very dry summer of 2018 I was on the point of abandoning mine – but the cooler, wetter weather of 2019 has saved it. The tits and robins appreciate the protection it offers and it's extremely effective at keeping the magpies away from the feeders.
Undiscovered Ends
Hovering somewhere between detailed plans and overall scheme is the question of style – a word that has become ever more closely associated in the gardening press with words like contemporary and project – cottage garden style, formal style, Mediterranean style, or on my micro scale, a mixture of all three. Other words like 'naturalistic planting' and 'wild life friendly', both of which I favour, have also found their way into the language of everyday gardening.
Before the relentless Autumn rain made any planting an unlikely ambition, a conversation en route to the local garden centre with a nine year old aspiring dog owner, turned to the favoured breed of dog (golden retriever as it happens) to be followed by a very definite statement that he doesn't like 'mixed dogs' because 'you don't know what sort of character they will have'. I'm not sure you can ever be sure but I think I know where he's coming from. A definite style of garden like a definite breed gives you some reference points and a mixture risks becoming a mish-mash.
The shopping trip itself led to an impressive conversation about relative value. Was the rather spindly Trachelospermum Jasminoides (a London favourite) at half the size, better value than the much taller plants arrayed alongside the entrance gates at three times the price?
We went optimistically for the smaller plant with the hope that on a
suitable diet and in a desirable location it would plump out, and it has. In fact there has been rather a lot of healthy growth and plumping out, almost to excess, of plants and trees on the terrace during this period leading up to these darkest days of Winter, when access has also been hampered by essential work to repair a leak into the flat below from a narrow walk-way leading to the main terrace. At the height of the emergency, portable pots and plants were rapidly relocated to friends and family and everything else that might impede the essential work was piled onto the main balcony and then once again neglected, but with rain continuing to fall there was an Autumnal growth spurt and even now plants confused
by the intermittently milder weather, and frequent downpours, seem unsure about the moment to make their entrance or leave the stage.
I spotted an unseasonal scabious putting on a bit of a show earlier today (Sunday December 22nd 2019, the day of the Winter solstice) as well as one or two roses lingering on and most surprising of all a pelargonium sending out shoots somewhat ambitiously.
Having relinquished all thoughts of plant placement during the crisis, rather like a scattering of bulbs randomly thrown into an orchard to look more natural, which presumably in this context means distributed as nature intended, the various remaining large containers landed haphazardly. Of course the bulbs themselves in any natural planting scheme may or may not be the host of smaller native daffodils of Wordsworth and the wild.
Meanwhile I like what I see.
Still no space for the chairs first piled up against a wall, and now lodging with my ever tolerant sister-in-law, but otherwise liberated from too much planning, the terrace has emerged, as it happens, with a surprising charm. Meanwhile we have all entered calmer waters as the leak has been temporarily dealt with, water is no longer pouring in, the 'at risk' ceiling seems to be made of stern stuff and hasn't collapsed to add to the disruption and discomfort below, the birds are back and there is time to consider what next.
will include a return visit by the surveyors and workmen to complete the further definitive work to prevent another leak, now being blamed largely on poor design and an aging membrane, a replacement work bench on the balcony as several years of outdoor living have taken their toll and over time the effort required to prop it up has outstripped its contribution to outdoor life aloft, and hopefully creating a space for the chairs in the eventual scheme of things.
This is not to underestimate the losses – unplanted fritillary seeds sent by a cousin and hopefully still viable next year, no opportunity for Spring bulbs in the remaining upturned containers and much missed moments immersing myself in this city-edge roof garden, now with views for miles around, as the surrounding lime trees, due to be crown pruned before too long, have long since surrendered the last of their leaves. Nothing of course on the scale of the loss and devastation in parts of Yorkshire, or further afield in Venice, and now in neighbouring Surrey too as flood water reaps havoc on homes and habitats.
Throughout the second half of the year the white thrift (Armeria maritima) has gone on and on flowering. It arrived in a ubiquitous back plastic container at a moment when the plant stand opposite the main bedroom, and exposed to all the elem
ents, was looking particularly sorrowful. So having found a terracotta pot, I put the plastic pot inside it's more decorative counter-part with the intention of planting it properly but never did, and now never will, as it has rewarded my forgetfulness by giving an extended display, unlike the pots of pink thrift which I like rather more, but have been less impressive this year, and perhaps would prefer rather different planting conditions.
Who would have thought that this was the way to enjoy a plant native to British coastal areas but happily transplanted to this urban cliff edge also favoured by Mediterranean and other plants, including herbs such as bay and rosemary, as well as cistus and sweet box (Sarcococca), all of which have been recommended to me and have adapted surprisingly happily to container life at altitude.
I'm no numismatist, and have only just learnt to spell the word, as the collecting of coins has never been my interest. But for those who are, the British thruppenny bit had a design of thrift on the reverse for nearly twenty years until the early nineteen fifties and then remained in circulation up until decimalisation, ceasing to be legal tender in August 19
71. I remember it well, and also as I grew older my childish annoyance that the aptly chosen, copper tolerant plant was reproduced with disproportionately large flowers, unlike anything found in nature. I might also have been annoyed at the allusion to frugal living, not my natural inclination, but something of a post-war necessity in a waste-not want-not age and now a necessity to counter the impact of climate change, and the ravages of a throwaway society.
Many moons ago, I went on a poetry writing course in Provence that unexpectedly spanned the period between the death of Princess Diana and the outpouring of public grief, alongside the private agony, up to the funeral, memorable in particular ways. Whilst away from events in London, on the sun-soaked terrace and in the cooler interiors of the elegant 'fin de siecle' building we were using, I learned the eternal truth, namely that in writing a poem, or indeed in crafting any piece of writing, it is only through the act itself that you really find where the writing is taking you, and come to discover what there is to understand along the way. This came as an unexpected observation at the time, but so it is and as with writing so with gardening.
A serendipitous self-seeded plant, or a new bench, can shape and change things in very unexpected ways and I'm now converted to the possibility of an uncluttered future with larger containers and bigger plants replacing the many smaller pots that have long been a firm favourite. Of course I may break my resolve as the temptation to plant more, do more, grow more, experiment more is likely to be hard to resist.
However, at the moment the possibility of more space between things holds an allure.
Meanwhile the roses which should have been pruned by now are continuing to produce buds, although some are struggling with black spot on leaves which I sh
ould have carefully removed several weeks ago but didn't.
The combination of stunted buds, washed out colour and disfigured leaves, with scent a distant memory, falls short, I suppose, of high summer and abundant blooms. But there is a magic in these determined efforts to ensure that there are flowers of some sort throughout the year even if they need a bit of seeking out in sheltered spots which might catch some Winter warmth, and will undoubtedly soon disappear again. But for now each flower or bud can be enjoyed and cherished, in a way that is very different from the lights and glitter not far away, or the massed banks of flowers that accumulated feet deep in Kensington Gardens over twenty years ago.
Annie Ruscoe on Life under Lockdown
Jane on Life under Lockdown
Annie Ruscoe on Faded Glory
Ted Leverton on Faded Glory
Sue on Soft Refreshing Rain