Titanarum

Here’s for all you arty types.

Imagine this: A square lawn of neatly cut grass enclosed on two sides by a curved hedge of purple blood beech no higher than the average adult chest. To the back the front of a contemporary house built from white painted brick. To the left a wooden trellis supporting a sweetly scented honeysuckle and a rambling pink rose (also scented). A young mimosa rises from a cut out circle in the lawn. Lime green columnar cypresses on either side of the dark wood door. I want that. And some other person has it. Just down the road some fancy garden architect has built this garden and a very lucky woman who lives in the house tends it. My jealousy is acid green. There’s something about the pink roses and the blood beech which is totally irresistible. And when those bluish tones are placed near lime green, the beauty of the combination arrests the eye. Meanwhile I’m growing mould on the window sill. I’m also trying to grow freesia bulbs in the propagator but my house is badly insulated and the radiator beneath is emitting heat so fierce my hair frazzles if I sit anywhere near it. The freesias don’t have a chance and still I try. I never give up, me.

Aching after mega walk in Richmond Park with friend P, a plant lover. Got her into the Isabella plantation to check out how far gone everything was. Being a sheltered enclosure the answer is ‘quite far’. We saw tiny open flowers on a man size honeysuckle. Frilly, heavily scented and pale yellow. And an azalea bush with two papery lilac coloured flowers. Several camellias were in flower. They come in so many sizes, shapes and colours in there but those were saw were smallish and pastelly. A theme is beginning to emerge, innit? Suits me fine. I like. Also blooming: heathers. White and dusky pink. Having seen the sap risen we ventured outside the enclosure. I wasn’t wearing sensible clothing. The chilly wind was fierce and soon I was moaning non stop. Good job we found a scarf. A recent Christmas present judging from the newness of the fabric and lack of body odour. Obviously the loser of the scarf will be upset. But if only he or she knew (was a bit unisex, the scarf, army patterned and without label) how happy finding that scarf made my friend, all would be forgiven. No longer pestered by my whining she could get on with telling me about her latest plant purchases and designs. I heard little, what with the wind raging and the sound muffled by a tightly wound scarf. Bliss for both.

Can’t help it. The propagator is now on the window sill. Against all advice. Well, nearly. Been searching the net for info on what I can start growing this time of year and the results, dire as they are, do reveal that ageratums are up for it in December/January in a temperate climate. Ageratums, dontchahatem?! Little poodles of lilac fluff with nothing to say for themselves. Low growing, ugly things smelling of nothing. Who’d want to grow something like that? Judging from the number of cultivars available, quite a few people. The kinds who put them in beds with busy lizzies, pansies and French marigolds, no doubt. Or place them in hanging baskets, where they sit rigid as rigor mortis, among trailing lobelias and fuchsias. I despair. Fortunately ageratums are slow to germinate and tend to suffer from powdery mildew. But that doesn’t stop some people from fussing over them and keeping what should be dead, alive. There are alternatives, apparently: exhibition onions and leeks. Yeah, right. Hmmm. The only plant I feel like planting right now is, surprise surprise, freesia. My packet of bulbs will go in this morning, ready or not. The instructions tell me March. Under cover. How do they know? I’ll show ‘em.

Might go to the Isabella Plantation soon. It’s the woodland garden in Richmond Park, oohed and aahed about for its collection of more than 50 Japanese azaleas. They were introduced to the West around 1920 by plant collector, and very famous at that, Ernest Wilson. A few years ago the garden turned 50 and with plants age and beauty go together. The azaleas, famous though they are, wouldn’t be much to write home about on their own, though. But the gardeners have mixed and matched, and being Royal gardeners, to some standard. Yes, that’s right. We have Royal gardeners just round the corner in our parts of the world. Her majesty owns the park and all that it contains: deer, oaks, squirrels, bracken and whatever else grows and lives on the premises. But back to the Isabella. Why go this time of year when Azeleas are not even beginning to think of spring? Because the clever gardeners have created an all year round attraction, that’s why. Camellias flank the broad, low growing belts and islands of azalea. And their flower buds are getting fatter by the minute. Already we have a preview of the colours, ranging from letterbox red to white, pink and variegated. Within a week or so the first buds will have opened and not long after that the stunningly dramatic sight of fallen flowers around its trunk. There is no scent to speak of in camellia flowers but the beautiful tragedy of dropping bloom more than makes up for that.

Anyone for freesias? I love ‘em. Sweet scented, delicate, elegant flowers, freesias. Was lucky enough to find a pale lilac bunch reduced to £1 yesterday. Cut flowers have become a new passion of mine lately. Can’t seem to stop looking for them and bringing them home. They’ve probably been grown in Kenya. Is it bad to buy flowers that are flown in from other countries? Is it ethical to feed a demand for an industry that requires irrigation in places where drought occurs? I should have asked myself all those questions when stood in the shop. The reality is that I didn’t even look at the labels. All that mattered was the scent and the colours and the price. It could have been grown in a greenhouse on Greenland and I wouldn’t have known or cared. Until now, when the packaging is at the bottom of the bin. Me, me me, I guess. Or just not knowing whether the people who plant, grow, harvest and package the freesia bulbs, have a better quality of life as a result of that industry and the wages it affords. Mind you, I never buy flowers unless there’s something wrong with them. That’s not feeding a demand. That’s caring.

Now is the time to put some seeds in the soil. Hello!? Spring hasn’t come early but nevertheless time has come to get gardening. And I thought I was having a well earned break. It’s all because Gordon, Raymond and Angela are fans of the produce we gardeners can produce on our windowsills or heated green houses right now. The crop is called ‘micro leaves’ and refers to six to twenty one day old vegetable seedlings of species such as celery, broccoli, coriander, fennel, radish, Swiss chard, mustard, beetroot, sunflowers and snow peas. Don’t be sparing when planting the little seeds in containers filled with compost or vermiculite as you are not trying to save yourself from having to thin them. And make sure seeds are watered from the bottom rather than top, i.e. fill saucer or trays with water and let the containers stand in it until thoroughly moistened, then discard excess water. Harvest, when time is, with scissors and serve up as a salad (if you have enough) or garnish if you just want little vitamin boost. I wonder what seeds I’ve got down in the shed at the allotment. I think I’ve got a few satches of salady seeds. But before I make the effort let me just check if there’s anything else I need to make sure of. Hmm. ‘Avoid putting next to a draughty window or above a radiator’. That rules me out. Phew.

Counting down to 22 December 1.08am. The winter solstice. The turning point in my calendar. From then on a minute of light is gained every day. Very important, that. For plants. As a child my father drummed into me the importance of not planting seeds too early in the season. Why? Because the ratio of heat of light has to be just so for the plants to develop optimally. In practise this means that seeds grown on the window sill this time of year have little chance of becoming anything other than long legged youths. And we don’t want that. We want stocky and solid, stems that can hold their own weight and then some. And it’s all because there isn’t enough light to go around until February, March time. Of course, I won’t have the patience to wait until then. I know you’ve heard nothing but lazy excuses for my inactivity on the gardening front for weeks now but believe me, once I’m started I can’t stop. So what if my tomato seedlings are long and stroppy, so what if their fruits don’t get a prize at the annual horticultural show? What counts is making the seeds grow. No?

Been fretting about xmas cards and pressies. I don’t seem able to buy a box of cards and spend an hour signing and sealing envelopes. No, I have to make my own cards. Similarly with flowers and plants. There’s not a single seasonal flower I can bear this time of year. So I buy rescue flowers in supermarkets and spend hours trimming and cutting and arranging into bouquets. The rescue element is that I pay a nominal amount for them whilst saving them from becoming supermarket landfill. A save save situation. That’s why you are looking at a bunch of pastel carnations with a bit of gypsophilia thrown in. I made four decent bouquets out of 6 bunches for less than £2, each complete with life prolonging satchet of flower food. The trick, if you agree that my bunch is not bad, is to cut off any buds that are either wizened or too small to ever open. The usual reason why the flowers end up reduced for quick sale is that some unthinking punter has pulled them out of their black bucket and, upon rejecting them, failed to push them back into the water. Or the staff failed to refill the buckets. Either way, having been trimmed and tended to, my rescue flowers are now in fine fettle. Happy spring. And merry summer.

What is with garden centres at the end of the year? Where have all the plants gone? One plant (see pic) did catch my eye but for all the wrong reasons: who’d bring back home an organism growing replacement testes? I’m not protesting on the grounds of prudery. Mine is an aesthetical objection. But enough of that abomination and back to the marketing ploy that exploits the average Christian’s westerner’s urge to splurge at xmas. Garden centres around the country could be mistaken for giant gift shops complete with cosy cafeteria, designer clothes, inside and outside lighting, toys for children and pets, scented candles, crockery etc etc. And a santa’s grotto covered with polystyrence fluff and plastic elves and gnomes and whatnots. A sign outside announces opening times so that parents and children can both experience the ultimate in pointless naffness. I’m no bah humbug. I’m a fuck humbug, me. Light a candle or a small fire, bring your loved ones round, cook a feast and make an effort to love one another at the darkest time of the year. Or be spiritual and think of death and resurrection or decomposition and new life. But please save me from santas and xmas cards containing nothing but a signature.