Ecstasy

March 25, 2019

Readers will judge whether Trad has joined the so-called ‘woke’. I can just about picture a ‘woke’ gardener. A ‘woke’ garden? Full of xerophytes, I suppose, certainly no lawn, clumps of nettles…. I have no argument with it; what riles me is that in waking we have been robbed of some irreplaceable words. ‘Gay’ and ‘queer’ have left holes in the language, and ‘ecstasy’ is threatened by an amphetamine.

 

While we still have it, let me deploy ecstasy where it really belongs, to describe our – certainly my – feelings in the garden in spring. Many poets, perhaps most, have had a go, at least in passing (although autumn may have had more verse-inches). My favourite words on spring come from Gerard Manley Hopkins, who became a Jesuit, quit and invented a new form of verse he called ‘sprung rhythm’ that in some ways reminds me of the Metaphysical poets, Donne and co.  Here he is, alarmed, demanding

‘What is all this juice and all this joy?

A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning

In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,

Before it cloud,

It is his urgency that pulls me. Urgency and ‘juice’ – the essence of shoots springing from the ground, from old wood, to ripen in due course, but in the urgent moment green and vulnerable and demanding to be loved.

 

Reticent? Moi?

March 12, 2019

STOP PRESS. Spring can't wait.

 Few will have noticed, and none I hope been concerned by, a certain reticence from Trad over the past few weeks.

He (I slip back easily into the third person I used for Trad’s first decade, forty years ago) has been submerged in the creation of the eighth edition of The World Atlas of Wine. Once every six years, for the past 48 years, this work has been growing and growing to keep pace with a world of wine we once thought was mature, but now realise was still in short pants. Now it is in full adolescence, unruly, if not ungainly not exactly gainly. In the 1970s we took serious account of California and Australia, in the ‘80s of Washington, Oregon and New Zealand, in the ‘90s of Chile, the ‘00s of South Africa and Argentina, the ‘10s of Eastern Europe, with Hungary to the fore – and now it’s China. China, huge in gardening, once thought a minnow in wine, is suddenly one of the world’s biggest consumers – and producers. After four editions I had a brainwave: I recruited the most able wine critic of the coming generation, Jancis Robinson, to help me. Four editions later it is much more her book than mine, and needs constant revision more urgently than ever.

So what does wine have to do with gardening, apart from a glass after a day with the hoe? Both have been my preoccupation, and delight, over the forty five years since I wrote a book on trees (having, as I then thought, shot my bolt on wine) and became embroiled with the R.H.S. and gardening. Trad was born in 1975. Besides, they have much in common. They are both sensual pleasures with a strong tincture of the intellectual. They call for understanding, reward curiosity, and satisfy several senses. They demand a working memory. They repay acute observation. They can bring moments of intense pleasure.

A certain sensibility, it seems to me, applies to both. You look at a flower with focussed vision, to delight in its texture, its structure, the originality of its form, its colours, and perhaps its scent. The glass of wine in my hand brings on the same close attention, to its colour, its denser or more delicate substance, its scent as it develops in my glass and its flavours, simpler or more complex, as they develop in my mouth, ending abruptly or dying gradually away to leave me savouring some elusive sweetness.

Plants and wine both bring on the human urge to name and classify. We find pleasure hardly justified on any grounds of utility in dividing and subdividing and naming categories of both. Do we need three thousand varieties of rose? Do we need to name and classify and attribute different and precise qualities to each of the little fields of vines in Burgundy? Six hundred are named, ranked and priced separately. They are not natural species, like birds, or butterflies. They are not the same sort of deliberate creations as, for example, postage stamps. They are collaborations of man and nature to an essentially aesthetic end. They engage the senses and the intellect together. They also call for patience – in growing, nurturing, and waiting (sometimes for years) for maturity.

Trees are the plants that engage me most: such wines as claret, that can age for as long as a man (if not perhaps a tree) are capable of giving me moments of almost unworldly pleasure. Finding words for the pleasures they give is the challenge I most enjoy.

 

 

 

Tomtoms

February 18, 2019

They can outshine the snowdrops – literally, since their pale lilac petals shimmer in the sun. They are sundials, though: no sun, they are mum. Crocus tommasinianus – let’s call them Tommies – are taking over, popping up everywhere, spreading like ….. wildflowers. Even at Kew.

We have a regular date at Kew in mid-February. We head straight in from the Victoria Gate towards where the magnolias are pale bare skeletons, where an immense mauve carpet under the trees shines like a lilac (or is lavender?) sea. I have photos of it going back for years.

Now it seems the gardeners have realized what a draw it is: it is replicated here and there round the gardens – but it clearly needs no help. Seedlings are scattered far and wide, dotting the shrub beds, the great brown circles of mulch under the trees, in the rockery and even the walled garden where the order beds keep rigid discipline. The little devils giggle at botanical austerity. Are they the only officially classified weed with an Award of Garden Merit?

Kew was packed at the weekend. Half an hour before opening time the queue stretched a hundred yards down Richmond Road. The big attraction was the Colombian Carnival. The northern tip of South America is apparently the most densely biodiverse country on earth, with both Pacific and Atlantic coasts, rising in the Andes to 5000 metres. The carnival was all about its richly various indigenous orchids, displayed with extraordinary artistry in the Princess of Wales Conservatory, to the sound of drummers and the scents of some pretty biodiverse food.

What would Joseph Hooker have said, I asked myself. Hallelujah, I hope – to both the Tommies and the drums.

 

 

Tokyo, too

February 12, 2019

I was just wondering whether there was anything original, or helpful, I could say about yo-yoing temperatures (Friday -5’, Monday +10’) when my faithful correspondent in Japan sent me evidence that we are not alone.

“Yesterday (3 Feb)’, she wrote, “between the winter solstice and vernal equinox, was a special day to mark the coming of spring, usually just wishful thinking.  But indeed it came full-scale.   It was 19 degrees today around noon, the warmest ever in Tokyo for this date.   It would have been normal to have snow.   Temperatures are expected to plunge to 4 degrees tomorrow morning.

“For this seasonal event, families with small children throw roasted soy beans outside to scare off demons.  Homes in western Japan put out branches of Osmanthus heterophyllus with heads of cooked sardines on the spiny leaves to drive away bad spirits.  Maybe similar to garlic against Count Dracula.  When strange things happen, like 19 degrees in February, old, totally illogical customs might paradoxically be our last resort to try to make sense.”

Retrospect

January 25, 2019

It’s pure escapism, but this month there is plenty to escape from: politics above all, and on days like today the weather. I escape into the past – specifically the gardening past. I’m not a fan of drama and suspense: the advantage of the past is that it’s over – we know the ending: it’s Today.

My time machine is The Gardeners Magazine, started and ‘conducted’ by J.C. Loudon between 1826 and 1845. Yesterday I chose 1829 to take down from the shelf. He hadn’t started 200 years ago, so 190 will have to do. The volume starts with the ‘conductor’s’ four-month tour through France and Germany in the previous autumn. It was typically rigorous. “The knowledge required by the traveller should extend to all that has been done or written in his own country… on the subject of his pursuits?” All? (And he was interested in agriculture, too). But before long he is off on another hobby horse, the education of children, which he finds so much better in Wurttemberg and Bavaria (and also France) that the manners and morals of ‘all classes of society’ are superior to the British. ‘There are no mendicants among them, and very few imprisoned’.

He sets off, oddly enough, from Brighton and sails to Dieppe, which he clearly prefers. He was a socialist at heart, feels alienated by the obvious wealth, display and novelty of Brighton, and attracted by the accumulated culture of a relatively poor town, where people build (and dress) with respect for economy and durability. Dieppe, in today’s terms, was relatively ‘sustainable’.

Loudon’s tour via Paris, Strasbourg, Ulm, Augsburg, Munich, Ratisbon (or Regensburg), Nuremberg, Stuttgart, Baden and back via Metz makes many pages of escapist reading. Even more escapist though, is the next article, by A Landscape Gardener On the Siting of Palaces, Royal and Episcopal, Abbeys, Priories. Castellated Mansions, Cottages Ornés……….each with its appropriate landscape treatment. (‘Seclusion and solemn quiet’ are what to look for in siting a bishop’s palace).

The conductor’s range always astonishes me. In a few pages he tackles palms, mealy bug and white scale, the flora of Choco (where? In Colombia, and as poor and remote as they come), the pay and workload of a journeyman gardener (‘A man for every acre’) and a plant I should love to see, the Jersey Cow Cabbage. Fact or fantasy, I don’t know, though one might want to escape the smell.

Renewal at Kew

January 14, 2019

Kew: reordering the Order Beds

Pink has taken over in the garden. They’ve all come out a once: Daphne odora, Prunus ‘Autumnalis’ (second go round), Camellia ‘Top Hat’ with the near-perfect colour match of the perpetual Parson’s Pink China growing through it, a bizarre double hellebore and our neighbour’s enormous Viburnum x bodnantense. Only the Sarcococca declines to blush, and at ground level the ravishing wide-open flowers of Iris unguicularis , a shade of warm violet that has no peer in any season.

Why the unison? Pink seems to come before yellow in the chromatic calendar. Soon the yellows will be unavoidable. Already there is winter jasmine (not in this garden) and forsythia (over the wall). ‘February Gold’ is almost upon us; the yellow tide is coming in. A single primrose leads the way. One reliable marker of the season is Hardenbergia violacea, which my invaluable index tells me I last recorded on February 6, 2013. In another season you might overlook its tiny bright purple racemes of pea flowers, but in early February, in the shelter of the cold greenhouse it brings a little message from Australia I am happy to read.

I always thought it sounds a bit preachy to say you prefer natural species to the catwalk versions that are often all one finds in nurseries – certainly in garden centres. But then you see, in all its purity and innocence, a parent of an all-too-familiar nursery favourite. The little alpine house at Kew is my favourite excursion at this time of year. I missed my special pin-up today: there was no Scilla maderensis, the exquisite over-sized squill. Squill, they tell me, has been used as a tonic for fluttering hearts; perhaps it was a visitor to Kew who discovered its properties. The plant that moved me this time was a cyclamen of heart-stopping purity and grace. The label was hidden s so I couldn’t see which Mediterranean country it comes from, put it makes the florists’ ‘Persicum’ look like what a Victorian would call a fallen woman.

Kew has been in a state of radical renewal now for several years. Last year alone we were treated to the restored Temperate House and the pagoda in its party dress again. The year before it was the Hive and the Great Borders. Now the Order Beds are under radical revision; they earth is bare, the pergola bereft of its roses. The Director, Richard Deverell, was a  force for positive change at the BBC, especially in being inclusive to children. The same spirit seems to be energising Kew. And I am happy to see that the revised walled garden will be given the name of the proactive chairman, Marcus Agius.

Repton and the prince

December 14, 2018

Repton has always been the landscaper for me. He seems more human (and of course marginally more modern) than Brown. For one thing he writes clearly and eloquently about his aims and methods. I often find myself quoting the sound sense of his ‘Observations’. For another he seems to have a gardener’s weakness for the beauty of flowers and the pleasure of wandering among different plants.

All this comes across in the brilliant little exhibition at The Garden Museum that commemorates 200 years since he died. And then yesterday I came across a description of what sounds very like one of his gardens in the letters of Prince Puckler-Muskau. The prince has just spent a long hot day at Ascot. He rides off with an army friend to visit a fashionable lady who lives at Windsor. They arrive at her house, with no one there:

‘It was like the enchanted dwelling of a fairy. If only you could have seen it! The house stood on a hill, half hidden beneath magnificent old trees. Its various projections, dating from different eras, were concealed by shrubs here and there, so there was no possibility of getting an impression of the whole. A gallery-like rose arbour bursting with hundreds of flowers led directly to the entrance hall, and passing through a few other rooms and then a corridor, we arrived in the dining room, where the table had already been handsomely laid. But there was still no one to be seen.

From here the gardens extended before us, a true paradise, brilliantly illuminated by the evening sun. Verandas of varying shapes and sizes ran along the whole length of the house; some jutted forward, some retreated, and all were covered with different blossoming vines. These served as a border for the colourful flower garden that extended all across the hillside. A meadowy valley, deep and narrow, adjoined this, and behind the terrain rose again to a higher crest, its slopes appointed with ancient beeches. To the left, at the valley’s end, the view was closed by water, and in the distance, over the tops of the trees, we could see the Round Tower of Windsor Castle, with its colossal royal flag rising into the blue sky.’

If you haven’t met Prince Puckler, his letters to his wife in Germany are the most vivid and entertaining account of fashionable England in the 1820s. They were published (a very fat book) by Dumbarton Oaks in 2016 under the rather odd title of Letters of a Dead Man. He was determined to transform his inheritance of a mansion and its large park in Germany into an English landscape garden. The question was how to find the money. His wife agreed to an amicable divorce if he could find a rich English bride. The letters are his account of his (finally fruitless) search,  while he explores England from palace to pub, enjoying every minute.

Grandpa’s Shed

November 30, 2018

Our first move when we arrived in this London house with its little London garden was to build a greenhouse. It’s only tiny: about nine foot square (and we didn’t build it; Alitex did). It takes up a quarter of the west side of the garden, leaning on the wall, flanked by the centre path. I knew it would be useful, but I had no idea how much pleasure it would give me, especially in winter. It makes some sort of garden business, however pootling, possible – and indeed both a necessity and a pleasure – every day.

I keep it full of green. The pelargoniums have virtually stopped flowering, and following the classic instructions I should be cutting them back and taking cuttings for next year. I’ve taken some cuttings, but have kept the handsome little bushes intact to enjoy their leaves, crowded together with cyclamen (whose seedlings invade their pots, and any available medium), early bulbs, an iris or two, the still-towering Brillantaisia (which has only just lost its last salvia-style flowers), fuchsias (quiescent but elegant) and the nimble Hardenbergia, swarming up into the roof ready to flower in February.

More pots, to fill the floor, will be coming in shortly, or whenever winter shows any sign of arriving. Fuchsia boliviana is the tallest, a good six feet: then Tulbaghia, Clivia and anything else I take pity on. My daily routine is examining all the leaves and stems for any sign of a bug or fungus and feeling the pots to judge whether to add a drop of water. Half an hour well spent – or on dozy days even an hour.

Hugh’s Gardening Books

Trees

Trees was first published in 1973 as The International Book of Trees, two years after The World Atlas of Wine….

Hugh’s Wine Books

Hugh Johnson’s Pocket Wine Book

I wrote my first Pocket Wine Book in 1977, was quite surprised to be asked to revise it in 1978,…

Friends of Trad

The International Dendrology Society (IDS)