Rhaeadr Ddu

September 4, 2021

Falling, crashing, roaring, spraying water will always have a public. I read somewhere that cascades, fountains, breaking waves and anywhere water is violently fragmented create negative ions (don’t ask me more) that feel good and stimulate your brain. Case – as far as I’m concerned – proved. I assume it also applies to the bubbles in champagne.

Travelling for Pleasure is a book by Tony Newbery about the exploration of Snowdonia by artists and miscellaneous Romantics in the late 18th and early 19th centuries There were poets and painters on the lookout for the perfectly Picturesque view, as defined by William Gilpin. ‘Just a few yards to your right, to include that mossy stump’. A fair number of preachers took to these tracks too, rain or, occasionally, shine. Roads were rudimentary and inns appalling, but it was worth it for the scenery (variously described as ‘sublime’ or ‘awful’) of mountain, moor, forest and particularly, waterfalls. The early tourists made competitive comparisons, scoring them for setting, height, volume of water (and noise), accessibility and general air of romance.

There is a different competition these days: kayak potential. If you can paddle to the edge and drop twenty feet into a deep pool you have an alpha fall. Thirty feet is pretty sensational.

One of my favourites (not for kayaking) is the Black Falls (Rhaeader Ddu in Welsh) near Ganllwyd on the edge of the huge forest of Coed y Brenin. It is not huge; it just plunges in beautiful oak and beech and birch woodland over and through a great granite jumble. It has had its admirers since some anonymous Romantic installed a stone slab overlooking it engraved with a Latin verse and its translation by Thomas Gray (of the Elegy in a Country Churchyard). Could it have been Gray? I have sat in wonder watching the local lads take the plunge in their kayaks, steering to the edge of an upper pool , then disappearing in white water before bobbing up from the depths of the black pool below.

There are bigger and noisier falls in the forest around but none so aesthetically as well as athletically pleasing. To drink sparkling wine in the cocoon of its sound is one of the high romantic pleasures.

TripAdvisor of the time: If ever you go to Dolgellau, Don’t say at the Lion Hotel. There is nothing to put in your bellau, and no one to answer the bell.

An upgrade

August 31, 2021

I have just had two cataract ops (or ‘procedures’, to use the proper medical term), and I’m dazzled. Literally, if I rashly go out in full sunlight, but metaphorically most of the time. I realise that for years I’ve been lit by a mere 40 watt bulb. Now it’s a hundred. The procedures were four months apart, and I could scarcely believe that such a radical improvement could be so quickly and painlessly achieved. The first made me realise how there had been a yellow cast in that eye. It disappeared like a coat of old varnish from a painting. By shutting one eye I could admire the contrast. Now, with two eyes refreshed, I see the world unvarnished, and realise what I’d been missing.

The whiteness of white was the first surprise, and is still the biggest difference between the old vision and the new. All colours are brighter – or more distinct. A single clematis flower emerging from a tangle on the wall shocked me with its piquant, singing purple – a colour I don’t remember ever seeing in the garden before. A white-variegated dogwood is now as uplifting a sight as a ballooning spinnaker. The light green ovals of new leaves on the resurging magnolia in the street are eye-catchers, every one of them.

Perhaps it’s just as well that August has been oppressed with one of our unbudging zones of high pressure, a grey lid that brings a cold north wind sneaking under its edges for weeks on end. It clears at night, I don’t know why, but as the moon rides up the sky the lid of cloud often dissipates, and the garden seems brighter than in the grey-lidded day.

Sea Garden

August 12, 2021

Birders with long lenses congregate on the saltmarshes that run from Lymington to Milford-on-Sea. The Solent way follows the low-lying coast facing Yarmouth in the Isle of Wight. The Yarmouth ferries, looking like black gondolas carrying white Indian temples, criss-cross the water. Cattle wade with egrets and hundreds of geese in the shallow lagoons. In July the sea-fringe was embroidered with a dozen different flowers. The sea is in a trance, the surface is a mirror for the flowers.

Purple sea lavender forms rafts in the shallows between low-and-high-water marks. Its intricate flowers rise above salad-green leaves. Samphire covers the sea-washed flats, and Golden Samphire, bold upright tufts breaking into yellow flowers, the drier higher ground. Yarrow and wild carrot dot it with white, ragwort, tall and bushy, and bristly ox-tongue with yellow, teasel and low-lying rugosa roses with pale purple.

I know this path, and these marshes, in all seasons. In summer the deep channel is crowded with yachts at their moorings. The mystery is the owners of these expensive conveyances who seem never to sail them. They sit all summer, moving only with the tides. In winter there is no colour except in the sky, with lingering sunsets followed by the silver moon-track across the Solent and the red blinking of the lighthouse at the Needles.

In the 1830s Colonel Peter Hawker, a veteran of the Peninsular War, made wild-fowling here an industry, going out with his punt-gun at dawn, he and his man pushing the punt through the mud up to their waists, and recording killing 200 wigeon with a single blast of his blunderbuss. His diaries make good reading, not just about shooting; he invented a new method of teaching the piano, and travelled to Paris to teach. Wigeon? You’d be lucky to see twenty today.


August 11, 2021

Could anyone calculate the tonnage of new leaves in our parks since it started to rain last week? Summer rain is of one of nature’s greatest luxuries; its first pitter-patter on a warm day one of its most delicious sounds. After a long drought it feels like the all-clear. Emergency over.

After nearly two weeks of daily rain the consolation, as you shake out your umbrella, is that ponds are brimming, streams are burbling, and autumn will be lush and leafy. The blue bags our London borough provides for garden rubbish are already full, waiting for their Wednesday collection. I’ve been snipping the surging shorts as never before, emptying saucers under the pots every day, watching what looks like Jack’s Beanstalk: Verbena bonariensis has overtaken the winter cherry, poking its flowers out through its branches to look down smugly on a mere tree. At midnight in the garden the sounds of rain and the constant splash into our little tank shuts out the world.

The year so far has borne out everything the boffins have predicted about global warming, though the extremes here have been more wet than warm. I feel almost guilty talking to friends in California, where the fire department is demanding firebreaks 200 yards wide – some of them through vineyards, which are relatively incombustible, compared with forest and brush. I fear wine is already being affected by warmer weather – not always for the better. If something is perfect, as great wines can be, how can it be improved?

Walking in the Shade

July 22, 2021

A week of temperatures over 80 old-fashioned degrees. It’s tempting to stay at home and read. Sun never reaches the terrace by the kitchen door; I hose down the ferns in their pots and sit back in the transat. Do you know the expression? One of those chaises longues on the decks of transatlantique liners (French, First Class).

When I do sally out I plan my course to avoid walking in the sun. There is a sort of science to it, and certainly ground rules. Be back home by eleven, and ten if possible. Avoid streets running north/south for two hours either side of noon, and east/west streets as the sun begins to settle in the west, often its most burning time.

Trees can be your best ally, but don’t rely on them. There will be gaps, and little trees like flowering cherries are not ideal. Planes, limes or horse chestnuts are best. Tall buildings close to the street give the most certain shade (but very tall ones can cause gusty winds). Houses with front gardens stand too far back to be much help, unless their gardens have rather tall trees.

When you turn a corner sum up which side of the new street offers more shade, even if it’s not on your direct route – and be prepared to cross the road as often as necessary to avoid unshaded stretches of pavement.

Key to the whole thing is registering where the sun is in the sky, and where it’s going. (To the right, if you haven’t noticed). Plan your route to have it on your back, rather than in your eyes, as much as possible; too bad if your destination is in the west, or in the early morning, the east.

Looking up

July 18, 2021

Where do plants find the extra reserves to react to rain with such glee? And where do they store them? Within hours of a downpour that flooded the streets (and sub-basements across the road that suddenly seemed not such a good idea) there were foot-long extensions on trees. Lammas, the ancient ‘Loaf Mass’ is traditionally the first of August, but Lammas shoots can happen after any good late-summer shower.

They are most obvious on oak, being pale green, or often red. I have not been so aware of them on elms, but was happy to see extensions of a foot or more on the pioneering file of disease-resistant Lutèce elms in front of Kensington Palace – trees that admittedly get preferential treatment from the Royal Park staff, with Kew-style circles of mulch.

I know I’m notorious for looking up when most gardeners look down. It earned me my name of Treedescant. I can’t help wondering, all the same, about so many people’s indifference to trees. People who will coo over the details of a flower ignore the giant vegetable offering them shade. The explanation can be simple: it’s not mine; I didn’t plant it, it’s not my business. It’s true that large numbers of gardeners have room to plant one tree, or none at all. Surely that makes the free gift of every tree in the street, the park, the square all the more precious.

You can collect trees without owning them. It’s been a hobby of mine for decades. After a while you identify and register the vast majority almost subconsciously. I still focus on an oak, say, if it surprises me in some way: size, different-shaped leaves, unhealthy dieback in the crown. And any tree that doesn’t fit a recognisable category demands a second look, even a detour, to find out what it is.

By happy chance our street is a mini-arboretum. I’ve never discovered which enthusiast chose to plant twenty different things instead of the customary avenue of one species. Right to left are: the common street pear, ‘Chanticleer’, two tall double white native cherries, a Caucasian maple, the Japanese Prunus sargentii, Amelanchier ‘Ballerina’, a fastigiate hornbeam (way past its prime), a London plane… and so on for three blocks of intriguing variety. Each contributes something, season by season. How many of the street’s gardeners even know their names? (I haven’t asked).

Down and dirty

July 6, 2021

Am I the only gardener who suffers from the Clean Shirt Syndrome? I go out to the greenhouse in the morning, spot a plant that could do with a bigger pot, spot a suitable empty one (unwashed) and think “I have a few minutes; I’ll do it now”. There’s the bag of compost, I can find some crocks; I tap the plant out to inspect its root and the rootball falls to pieces in my hands. I thought it would be a quick finger-tip job. I’m still holding it as if it could bite; it’s my clean shirt, on this morning. I can’t roll up the sleeves with compost on my hands. I’m stuck; half-committed.

Gardening only works if you get down and dirty, hands in the soil. Every plant knows when you’re in earnest. It can feel your fingers loving it as you lower it into its bed and press the soil round it, gently but firmly, like a blanket round it’s neck before kissing it goodnight. Planting is the great moment of commitment in gardening. You’ve sown the seed or taken the cutting. You’ve done the nurturing, made the decisions. Now you give it its place for life….. from now it’s all hope and expectation. Water is all you can offer it.

Your shirt is still clean? The plant will notice.

Met office

June 20, 2021

I came back to our Hampshire plantation after that mean May wind to find a sorry sight. The gale came at the precise moment when many leaves were in their most vulnerable infancy: just emerging, as tender as nurslings. The wind blew for three days, not far above freezing, and blow-torched the unlucky plants on the point of flushing. The blasts were precise, focussed, rushing up the hill, leaving trees at a lower level merely battered, but searing the growth a few feet higher. One American pin oak, Quercus palustris, was left in full leaf for its bottom ten feet, the upper fifteen feet blasted bare. Of a pair of English oaks flanking the drive by the house one was stripped of two thirds of its young leaves, the other unscathed.

You looked for explanations: what had sheltered one while the other suffered? The corner of a wall, a few pines? The blast was evidently deflected by random insubstantial obstacles, was stronger (or colder) in the middle of the slope than higher or lower, but above all damaged growth that was uncallused and unprepared. As with so many aspects of growth an outcome depends on precise timing. Two related plants may be days apart in leafing, but it can be enough.

The sequel is happier: deluges of rain in June have produced volumes of new growth, long shoots and big leaves. I was talking to a wine-growing friend in California the other day. The mood in the Napa Valley is despairing as they start in their third successive summer of unrelenting drought. Our wine-growers don’t like rainclouds, but would they prefer the opposite?

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