Sweet and singular

February 23, 2018

Edgeworthia chrysantha and Daphne bohlua

There are winter scents that can stop you in your tracks. Sarcococca is perhaps the most frequent these days; it seems to have matriculated from confidential to common in the past few years. Mahonia japonica has its sweet lily of the valley smell; daphnes are indispensable, viburnums almost universal. Winter honeysuckle becomes effusive indoors. Which insects deserve this outlay of perfume I’m not sure; the garden is certainly not buzzing with them. I would add Edgeworthia to this pantheon. It should, in the time-honoured phrase, be planted more often.

I have one particular plant in mind; one that shares a narrow north-facing London front garden with a champion Daphne bohlua. The edgeworthia measures nine feet across and six or seven high, a nest of twenty pliable, rather bare stems, yellowish in colour, each terminated by a white and bright yellow knob, covered  all over with silky white hairs, containing fifty or so little tubular flowers. Scents are notoriously hard to describe; this is sweet and singular, with a hint of lilac, and in combination with the daphne, crosses the roadway to arrest you.

Edgeworthia chrysantha is the one you will see most (but not very) often. There is a bright orange scarlet (presumably Welsh) form called Red Dragon, but I found that hard to grow. Who was Edgeworth? An Anglo-Irish adventurer who ended up as a police chief in British India, He found his plant (and many others) in the Himalayan foothills. He sounds an unusual policeman, corresponding with Darwin and Hooker and the Linnean Society. His sister Maria, meanwhile, (there were 24 Edgeworth children in all), wrote novels about Irish life (Castle Rackrent among them) that rivalled Jane Austen’s.

Thai night

February 16, 2018

A simple vase

Orchids, especially the white Phalaenopsis that supermarkets sell for next to nothing, have become such a decorator’s cliché that no one cares whether they are real or fake. I admit we have one against a mirror beside the bath that I hardly notice. Once a year or so I give the whole thing a bath; it comes out one shade whiter. Oddly enough, when I do focus on it I think it’s extremely elegant.

But this is Orchid time at Kew. Every year in February the Princess of Wales Conservatory becomes an exotic jewel-house. The Director of the gardens hosts an evening party for gardening’s Great and Good (and Trad sneaks in). You turn out into a cold and rainy night, walk the lighted path from Kew Green to the conservatory, and find yourself in (this year) a Tribute to Thailand.

There are apparently 1,100 species of orchid native to what was once called Siam. Kew didn’t say how many of them were on display; I suspect not a vast range; artistry, rather than botany, is the main point – in floral arches, tall pillars woven with cascading blooms, classic vases, a model royal palace in a moat, a flower boat, a golden gong and a wonderfully evocative rice paddy where miniature orchids among the rice plants presumably represented weeds, and a stuffed water buffalo stood looking patient but puzzled, with a basket of orchids on his back.

Kew, the director told us, has a very busy year ahead. The opening of the Temperate House after its costly 4-year restoration is the great event in May. It is an awesome sight already as its wraps gradually come off.

Next comes the pagoda, its scores of golden dragons, unseen since the 18th century, back in place the summer and the staircase opened to the top. Can you see Windsor Castle from up there? Later comes a new children’s garden near the Brentford Gate. And of course the Great Borders, in their third season, will vaut le voyage.

Daydream

February 10, 2018

My forest walks – walks anywhere in fact – are always overlaid with visions of what could, or might, replace, and in my opinion improve, what I see around me. I expect Lancelot Brown felt just the same.  In town I imagine scruffy jumbles of nondescript buildings replaced with well-proportioned terraces or gleaming towers. From the train I envisage rivers and woods and rolling pastures full of calm cattle. From our favourite bench in deepest France, with a huge view of undulating bocage, I used to imagine a snow-capped mountain range on the horizon.

There is a little valley in our Welsh woods where two lively streams converge. Two more little streams glide down through culverts to make a meeting of four waters. All this hydro-activity was hidden under dark smothering spruces until a gale last summer felled a great tangle of trunks and branches, and toppled two in a line of tall Western hemlocks. The hemlock is not a tree foresters respect or sawmills want to buy, but in my view the most handsome of the potentially giant conifers we have from West Coast America.

Clearing up the resulting chaos revealed the potential beauty of this corner of the forest. The main stream comes crashing out of dense woodland higher on the hill and springs from a gap in a mossy old sheep-wall into the new clearing, to bounce and splash down the black rocks, below five majestic grass-green hemlocks aligned like a guard of honour. Fifty yards on it dives under the track to emerge again furiously into a much wider arena where we have felled an acre of dark conifers. The three other streams meet it here, converging to form acute angles of rushing water in the mossy forest floor.

At the moment it is a picture of stumps and snags and the debris of logging. In my mind’s eye it is something else: a mossy, ferny hollow under the beeches I will plant this year, where bluebells will rejoice in spring and in summer we will picnic in their dappled shade.

Don’t delay

February 6, 2018

The first week of February is the time to catch two of the loveliest sights of winter in the Alpine House at Kew. The Chilean Blue Crocus, Techophillea cyanocrocus, is not a crocus (it has its own genus), and struggles to survive in the Andes at about the 1000 metre mark, on dry sheltered slopes. It is not easy in cultivation, but amply justifies a visit to Kew. The first pale pool of Tommie crocuses is opening under the trees at the same time.

Even lovelier, to my eye, and certainly rarer, is the Madeiran Squill, Scilla maderensis. Its red-purple bulb, sitting half out of the compost in a substantial pot, produces a tossing swirl of lush green leaves, crowned with several spikes of amethyst-blue flowers in an open bottle-brush formation that holds and freezes the light. It is the brilliant opening of the new floral year.

Worth travelling to see

Stuart Swagger

January 30, 2018

I am a sucker for those time-line charts that bring unrelated events together. What were the Chinese, or the Mughuls, up to when Queen Elizabeth I was on the throne? Were the Aztecs building pyramids at the same time as the Egyptians? (No).

The current brilliant exhibition of King Charles I’s collection at the Royal Academy made me realize how my own patrons, John Tradescant père et fils, witnessed, and were part of, the most thrilling moment in the history of English taste, when the Renaissance arrived in England.

There was nothing colourless about the Tudors; they revelled in bright colours. In gardens painted figures, posts and fences must have produced a sort of fairground feel, where today even in winter we scrabble around for any plant in flower or with coloured leaves; paint would somehow be an admission of failure.

But the Stuarts, when they came to the throne, brought richer, more saturated colours, style, lustre, elegance, brilliance, confidence and swagger to the court. Shakespeare wrote his greatest plays. Inigo Jones, designer of Royal masques, went to Florence to see how the Medicis did it. I find it hard to believe Shakespeare didn’t go to Italy too. Charles I invited Rubens to London. Van Dyck came and went and finally stayed. We have the landmarks of the Queen’s House at Greenwich and the Banqueting House. What do we have in the way of gardens?

Hatfield House is the obvious place to look, and Mollie, the late marchioness, managed to invoke their great gardener in her marvellous knots and parterres. I always think of Ham House in Richmond for the feel of the Stuart court, although in reality it was given its present rich patina after the Restoration – and by the National Trust. The truth is we don’t have a Tradescant garden design, but Trad père would surely have been more Tudor than Stuart, and Trad Junior more in the renaissance spirit.

Many thanks

January 24, 2018

Hartwell House, near Aylesbury, in January

Historic House Hotels is a group of three distinguished country houses converted into hotels and given to the National Trust by a philantrophist who deserves our applause, Richard Broyd. It was his idea to buy them, restore and  adapt them, his skill that made then both convincing and authentic as both country houses and hotels, and his generosity that paid the bills.  Hotel profits all go to the Trust; it is a remarkable gift.

We had stayed before at Middlethorpe Hall in York, a handsome Queen Anne house with a lovely garden, once the home of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, beside York racecourse. We know Bodysgallen Hall, in ‘our’ part of North Wales, very well, particularly its seemingly original 17th century garden. Hartwell House, the nearest to home, we had never visited, despite its intriguing story (see Trad’s Diary, July 7, 2015) as the residence for five napoleonic years of the exiled King of France, Louis XVIII, the fattest of his line, who made maximum use of the kitchen garden.

None of the three hotels is huge; no Chatsworth or Woburn; rather the big manor, manageable today at a long stretch, and with dedication, by a family. Not intimidating, therefore, as a place to celebrate and stay. Richard Broyd and the National Trust have perfect pitch for the appropriate tone,  standard of decoration and furniture, pictures and upkeep that feel true to life in a country house on this scale.

Hartwell sits on the edge of the Vale of Aylesbury, in a park that shows signs of being enjoyed, and added to, in each of the past three centuries. The house, long, low and perhaps just sub-stately, is Jacobean at the front and Georgian at the back, entirely harmonised by the medium of buff-grey stone. If you want to see high horticulture Hartwell is not the place. Cross the Vale of Aylesbury to Waddesdon or Ascott to see garden perfection Rothschild-style; every bud predestined, every twig told what to do.

Hartwell is about prospects and produce – and perambulation. The walled garden is for supplying the excellent restaurant (as it once supplied the French king) and the park for amiable strolling after lunch. It belongs to the time when an arch here, a bridge there, a temple on that mound, a statue in that alley, an ice-house by the lake, broad prospects and teasing glimpses were the owner’s orders and the designer’s delight. The owners, in this case, the Lee family; the designer Richard Woods. The fact that today there seems to have been harmonious continuity, and that we can enjoy it, we owe to exceptional altruism.

On your marks

January 19, 2018

The feral jasmine cascading over the wall from next door, blending indistinguishably with the thick hydrangea and ivy, is starting to flower as though it were at home in its Burmese forest. Does it have no thermometer?Hellebore buds are pregnant; a shy primrose has just opened one eye; the grassy spikes of tommies have appeared and the king of snowdrops, Galanthus elwesii has reached its commanding seven-inch height. It’s all quite late, it seems to me, even the winter cherry, even our December-flowering camellia – except the uninvited jasmine. Though yesterday minuscule points of incipient buds (I need a lens to see them) appeared on Clematis alpina – than which nothing looks deader. We are fifteen minutes to the good of the shortest day. Plenty of action soon.

News from Kensington Palace, though (which makes me sound like a Royal Correspondent). Work has started on a new garden in front of Queen Anne’s fabulous Orangery, Hawksmoor’s most elegant London building. The central alley of boring and massively overgrown evergreens; yew, holly and laurel, which was its only feature, is being abolished. Todd Longstaffe-Gowan has designed a formal layout, again around two parallel lawns, with flowerbeds and trim little topiary. Rather in the style, I imagine, of the parterre at Hampton Court. Diggers have arrived: daily excitement to come.

Tree TV

January 7, 2018

It was a joy to watch Dame Judi Dench on television telling us how much she loves trees. Walking round her garden – others might call it a young wood – with some well-informed guests, Tony Kirkham in particular, to tell her (and all of us) things she undoubtedly already knew, as well as some she didn’t. In either case her reactions were impeccable: surprise and delight registered as if it were a Shakespearean Act V.

She even had Shakespeare for company, weaving in his sonnets, from ‘Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May’ to the inevitable elegiac

‘That time of year than may’st in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang

Upon those boughs that shake against the cold.

Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.’

It had not dawned on me before that Shakespeare in his youth probably witnessed great abbey buildings being demolished and used as quarries. The Acts for dissolving the monasteries were passed only twenty five years before he was born. It took many years to complete this looting, so he must have seen and wandered in ‘bare ruin’d choirs’, while their choristers, brutally dismissed, looked for work where they could find it. What television that would have made.

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,…

Flower of the Week

Rosa ‘Chapeau de Napoléon’

Friends of Trad

The International Dendrology Society (IDS)