Muddy seeds for healing

When life turns you over and your direction changes, sometimes, good things come out of the chaos. Sometime in late 2015, I started writing a post that I couldn’t publish about how it had not turned out to be the year I thought it would be. Serious illness had stopped me in my tracks in February. I wrote,

This new, rugged terrain is difficult to navigate but I am beginning to get a feel for the landscape I’ll be hobbling through and how long it’s going to take to get back to the path I left in February. Will I end up back where I peeled off though? Time will tell.


I can see now that I was trying to put a positive gloss on what was an incredibly painful time, with worse to come. Below is an extract from that post that tells of the enforced slowness and what it eventually brought me. However, my private diaries talk of “crawling into the garden” and “made ten steps today and planted calendula, cried” and “the pain is so awful I want to crawl out of my skin, even for a minute”. How different our public and private lives are. How hard it is to share physical and emotional pain. Instead I wrote,

One bonus of enforced slowness is that I’m too weak to garden in the way I normally do. Instead, I have embraced again the great pleasure of making a garden from packets of seed. This winter in my own garden we had laid paths between patio and house, dug tons of compost into the grey, clay soil and barrowed in 9 tons of top soil to bring the borders up to planting height. And there they sat. My husband and our boys rolled up their sleeves and planted the few shrubs and precious perennials that have been surviving in pots for five years and have taken off like cattle loosed from their pens in May. Nearly everything has survived my neglect and I’m so happy to see them flourishing.

Since then, I have been adding little sprinkles of seed to make the garden. It’s a glorious way to garden. Cup of tea in hand, I take a packet of seed, run my hands through the soft tilth, pour out the tiny grains and rub them through the soil. Then I sit back and sip my tea, watching the birds come and go. If the soil isn’t already damp from a rain shower (oh bliss) I fill up a child’s watering can and water in my new seeds. The days go by, the sun shines, the rain mists and the seeds grow. That’s it. No struggle, no effort. Just plants doing what plants do best. It is the antithesis of instant gratification and everything about trusting nature.

I adore the impact of a Helianthus salicifolius that goes from a pinch-seed that could be mistaken for specks of dust to a towering 6ft of willowy green which will be topped of by a firework of yellow flowers in late summer. Or Tithonia rotundifolia ‘Torch’, a staggeringly impressive sunflower that in a few short months can provide scale and impact unmatched by many of our stalwart garden shrubs.

Then there are the small delights – ranunculus emerging under the daphne, a tiny hellebore in amongst the rocambole. And this week I’ll be direct sowing dark stemmed dahlias, purple sprouting broccoli for its pillowy form and cheery cosmos. Each day I add a little more. Each day I get a little better. From little things big things grow.

Now in April 2019, I’m once again sowing seeds into cleared earth in the garden. The twiggy shrubs I wrote about have matured and stand waist high, the trees are making their presence felt. This summer I will watch the garden rise up around me and celebrate being alive.


Clearing and replanting a flower bed

img_8617There are certain garden jobs that nag at us every time we pass by but which we keep putting off because they seem too big to tackle. My front garden is a case in point. I know what I want to do, it’s just that making the time for it never seems possible. Yesterday, I made a start! I spent a joyful hour clearing a small overgrown patch and although the whole bed is overdue digging out and replanting, the small patch is a definite start. While the sun shines, it’s easy work.

When we moved here, the front garden was the only place I could clear quickly of ground-elder and brambles to create a place to store some precious plants I’d brought with me that I would move eventually to the back garden. Four years later and the back garden was ready for planting. Two years after that, I’m finally ready to transfer those precious plants from the front to the back. Here’s the patch that needs attention.



There’s a pleasant method to clearing and preparing soil for planting. In this case, there were a couple of overgrown thugs in the patch I decided to tackle that I wanted to dig out. The bulky geranium has smothered a peony I’d like to keep and the tall grass is a weed that blows in from next door on a  regular basis. Although I enjoy it’s architecture, it is a brute of the garden and certainly ‘wrong plant, wrong place’ when it comes to my tiny front garden. So out they come.




With the sun on my back it is a pleasant task to then find the edge of the bed again and start sifting through the soil, removing debris and putting bulbs to one side for replanting later.




I’m on the lookout for ground elder. It’s tell-tale, brittle white roots thread only a few centimeters under the surface where they’re unimpeded and are easy to find. This bed was a mass of ground elder, snap-dragon, toadflax, arum lily and bramble when I first dug it over six or seven years ago. This little patch is pleasingly clear.



The soil is also delightfully friable and very workable. What a difference from the grey, rubbly clay of those first plantings. Adding organic matter to begin with and top dressing with leaf-mold in some subsequent years has really paid off. So has planting an initial range of thugs – japanese anemone, day-lillies, hardy border geranium, houtyanna, lily of the valley to name but a few. These strong, root travelling beauties have helped break up the soil and they colonised the space quickly, suppressing the growth of unwanted weeds. It has worked. The soil is now ready for more delicate planting and so am I. The brutes can be rehoused and a new type of garden can emerge. I’m looking forward to planting it this winter.







Bluebell bulbs dug in and covered. Next step tulips, iris and poppies!


Playing wild



Memories of Newnham Croft Primary School, the Wild Garden. Created summer 2014.


Watching me, watching you. This little boy made a camera out of blocks and followed me round the garden as I worked, taking ‘photos’ of what I was doing with the other children for his space ship records. He was an alien visiting earth and gathering data.



Here the teepee corner is both meeting place and building area. This little girl spent a long time carefully building up a stable network of branches so that she could climb up to the top of her tower. In the meeting place this group of boys were discussing rules for pirates on the ship they’d made out of the logs and stumps further up the garden. Below you can see them running through the garden, over obstacles to reach their ship.






All the children helped plant the garden. They sorted plants into groups according to the conditions they like to grow in – sunny, warm, open areas in the ‘riverside’ part of the garden and shady, enclosed areas in the ‘woodland’ part of the garden. I taught them how to transfer a plant that has been grown in a container into the ground and by the end of the week, they were all telling me how to do it!


Good news travels fast

Our local paper, The Cambridge Evening News, have picked up on the play garden I designed and made at Newnham Croft Primary School, Chedworth Street. “These pupils are all smiles now they can lay claim to having one of the best outdoor play areas in Cambridge.”

My design solution to a previously unplayable space at the back of the buildings was to take away all the degraded, slimy, artificial surfaces and approach the space under mature sycamore trees as a wild, woodland garden. In our early monitoring the space was used by 15% of the children 25% of the time available for free-flow play, where children play in the outdoor space at will. Now it is used by 85% of children 85% of the time plus compulsory playtimes and outdoor lessons.

Sharon Williams, the headteacher who has championed this brave change from tarmac to wild garden says, “They’re developing their speech and language, problem solving and leadership skills. They have to work things out together. It’s all very open-ended so they can create whatever they want, rather than being restricted to fixed use equipment.”

For my part, it is a delight to see children teaming up, sharing resources and creating imaginative worlds because the space encourages exploration and fun. The staff have fully embraced wild play and would like to see Fresh Air Learning extend into the Juniors too.


Cambridge Evening News, Feb 10, 2015

Cambridge Evening News, Feb 10, 2015






Dixter Calling

You must know that teachers are seriously important people to seven year olds. “My teacher is called Fergus Garrett,” I told my son. There was a long pause before he decided to correct me, “No, I think his name should be Mister Carrot.” And so, the most generous and enabling teacher, a ‘wise old man’ of gardening is rebranded to fit his profession. This kind of side-swipe clarity that a young child can offer does not feel out of place in the gardens at Great Dixter where cutting through convention and pomp are natural bedfellows to inventive planting. Much has already been written about the drama of the gardens and about the making of them. It is the making that has been my pleasure this week as a student here.



In late November, the weather is damp and still. Early morning in the Peacock Garden.


The gardens close to the public at the end of October, so November is a month for taking apart the borders, wrapping up exotics and replanting areas in the frost-free window before winter proper sets in. Fergus produces extensive mind maps to animate the arc of work for the year, season by overlapping season. In this way he teaches his staff, students and volunteers about the long view and the detail of planning the gardens. Tasks can easily be shuffled around depending on the weather. When I arrive on a Monday morning in late November, a hard frost has been forecast so work in the exotic garden has been brought forward. I find myself plunged into wrapping up a tree fern, Dicksonia antarctica, in tightly packed layers of straw until it resembles a stout barrel. I learn how to fold the fronds over the crown, packing each layer with straw not only for insulation but so that the leaves naturally channel rain away from the crown.

Next I move on to give the Japanese bananas, Musa basjoo, the same treatment but this time leaving the leaves protruding from the top of the cone-shaped edifices so they can continue to photosynthesise and feed the plant. For a young banana plant this extra energy could mean the difference between surviving a harsh winter or perishing. Knowing what each plant needs and providing the right circumstances is a fundamental building block of any garden and at Dixter it is paramount. There was some debate amongst the gardeners about whether to make a string net before stuffing straw in around the trunks or to pack the straw in and secure the structure with twine afterwards. The old twine from the straw bales makes good lashing whichever method you prefer.



Banana tree (Musa basjoo) wrapped up in straw for the winter in the Exotic Garden.


Learning at Great Dixter is a rich, immersive experience and it comes in many forms. Direct, detailed instructions from Fergus enable me to carry out tasks without error. Not once during my stay do I see anyone having to redo work which is a testament to how patiently Fergus explains a task in the first place. His ethos of mentoring is carried into generous exchanges between gardeners working side by side. Then there’s ear-wigging conversations from the next bit of the border, much as in any open plan office where the only way to keep abreast of it all is to look and listen on all fronts. Personally, being surrounded by hort-geeks who are as interested in plants as me and talk freely about the gardens they love, their influences and experiences or discuss the ins and outs of a particular way of planting is utter bliss! Then there’s the garden itself which reveals so much about itself by osmosis.

During my week in November, there is no daylight outside of working hours so my quiet, pottering times in the garden are by moonlight or in dewy dawn fog. With no artificial lights near the garden, the dark here on a cloudy night is very, very deep indeed. My nose guides me round the garden. Brush past a pungent bush of the Mexican marigold Tagetes lemmonii or push aside a pine or eucalyptus branch along the paths. Or out in the meadow the combination of clay soil and wet foliage squelching underfoot smells comforting. My ears help too. A slurping hurricane of hedgehog works its way through the Long Border and I marvel that hedgehogs are still out and about in November. Rodents squeak and scuffle in the compost heaps. The overwhelming presence though is the lack of sound. The soothing silence of the gardens especially at night is so restful that I wander about happily. My eyes are not entirely useless but what I see are shades of black on black like the sharp, silhouetted scenes of the topiary hedges with the Milky Way above so bright it feels like part of the garden itself.



Cardoon flower heads in the Long Border.

In my early morning forays by contrast, what’s visible of the structure of the garden is only an outline of cardoon skeletons (Cynara cardunculus) and Miscanthus plumes jostling in the pale sliver of sky between mist, topiary and cloud. The flower heads look for all the world like Hogarth’s gossips with the wispy speech bubbles hovering above them saying, “I heard him! It’s off to the compost heap with you m’dear!”

Indeed the Cynara are in for thinning. Johnny, one of the scholarship students, wrestles two of them out. First he digs a trench carefully around the roots, several spits deep in order to get purchase under the large root ball. He eases them out just as Fergus pops up, as he does, and talks to Johnny about slips (a method of propagating from the base of a plant). In my area of the border I am working to reduce a Monarda ‘Squaw’ patch, carefully lifting the excess into trays to go down to the nursery for potting up. I enjoy the way that everything in this garden is reused from the bailing twine, to sacks, to plant material, to grit. And I can tell you, it’s all about the grit! If I am to take away only one thing from my week working in the gardens it would be the meticulous boarding of the soil.

The garden is on heavy clay which has over many years been transformed into a rich loam. This hard-won victory represents lifetimes of man hours and is protected zealously by Fergus and his team. So we learn how to work our way into a border, clearing first at the edge then laying a tapestry of boards (the bigger the better) over the areas already dug. In this way, you protect the soil from compaction and as you work the spaces between planting pockets re-emerge.

I am working my way towards a clump of Silphium perfoliatum which need to be lifted. We leave as much soil in situ as possible, removing any weeds like the fragile white filaments of the nightshade Ciracaea lutetiana, carefully collecting annuals and self-seeders used regularly in the gardens here like honesty (Lunaria) and forget-me-nots (Myosotis). Bulbs too are saved, graded and replanted where appropriate. In my patch, there are emerging clumps of Galanthus that in places I have to board over knowing the foliage will recover. Another week and we’d be too late because these snowdrops would be well and truly above ground. No wonder Fergus runs a tight schedule of work. The windows of opportunity for reworking the borders are slim.



Reducing a patch of Monarda ‘Squaw’ in the Long Border.


Once I’ve dug the Silphium out and replanted the disturbed snowdrops under the nearby hydrangea, roses and clematis, I add spent mushroom compost until the soil colour matches the surrounding earth. It takes a little grit too to achieve the same loamy crumb as elsewhere. The last job is to mark off the now vacant area with canes and start working my way out of the border backwards, turning over the soil that has been compressed under my boards. I go past the prepared areas where I’ve already dug out Rudbeckia subtomentosa, removed a geranium to make way for another euphorbia and the patch where this morning Canna ‘Erebus’ stood with two dahlias before I lifted them and took them down to the nursery, labelling and dating them.

Fergus appears periodically to chide us about not using enough grit on the boards or not enough of the right kind of boards or to praise us on our boarding. Like eager teachers pets, we are all hoping we’re getting it right. It’s all about the boards! And you know what, it’s a great system. Hauling the huge boards and long planks around the garden is hard work physically but the pay-off is enormous. You can work tidily in the borders, paths and boots are kept mud free and the grit prevents slipping whatever the weather. The grit is brushed into the beds as we finish each section where it improves the soil structure. It is a pleasure to work in such an environment and once you’ve got the hang of it, it makes so much sense.

When it comes to bulb planting however, we take the opposite approach, walking directly on the soil. In hushed whispers, students marvel at how Fergus manages to march through the borders barely leaving an imprint under his outsize boots. We all agree that under his generous boiler suit he must actually be a Skinny Minnie and the deception achieved with at least twenty layers of clothing! Laying out tulip bulbs is one of my favourite activities and I’m already picturing how the bare earth is going to look swirling with colour in the spring. Fergus shows us how to vary the pace of the planting and make the sweeps of bulbs lend just the right balance of blanket coverage to gapping. No Keukenhof bedding schemes here, more the effect of meandering water pooling and moving forward along a border. Johnny and I are planting Tulipa ‘National Velvet’ throughout our area in the Long Border. We’ve already dotted forget-me-not throughout which will provide a perfect foil for the tulips at flowering time. T. National Velvet is a rich, wine-red bloom at 40cm high which will zing among the plastic-blue of the forget-me-not. Fergus makes final adjustments to our area, talking us through the changes as he goes.


Fergus Garrett marches through the border leaving barely a trace as he lays out tulip bulbs in the Peacock Garden.

Fergus Garrett marches through the border leaving barely a trace as he lays out tulip bulbs in the Peacock Garden.


As a garden-maker, I am thrilled by these thinking out-loud conversations with Fergus about what is going where in the boarders and why. I am, however, still star-struck and my brain fizzes with all the ‘new’ I’m taking in. I struggle to kick myself into creative action but kick I must because there are precious few opportunities like this in life and I would like to give back as much as I am taking from this week. Fergus left us last night thinking about Helenium ‘Riverton Beauty’ between the cardoons and the Hydrangea ‘Anabelle’, flowing through to a pool of dahlias, maybe, with the monarda and grasses flanking before euphorbia and geranium pick up the dance at the front. He is thinking of a Eucalyptus gunnii centre right and a something, maybe a salvia, at the very front.

After a nights sleep, I wake with a clearer picture in my mind of what my little section needs. I hurry out to the border and take in the whole, which last night in the 4.30pm dusk was impossible. I sit and look and consolidate my thoughts about what I would like to see in the space. Will I be brave enough to say that what I see is a little different from what he described? I see a yellow-leaved shrub at the rear and a spikey clump forefront, maybe a Watsonia pillansii? Will my suggestions be useful? Should I just stay quiet and nod? What is the done thing here? As it turns out, Fergus returns with a crystallised vision for the space. He strides up through the orchard calling out, “I’ve got it. Cercis canadensis ‘Melon Beauty’ for the back. It’s new to us. Yellow leaf, will work well at the back.” I’m quietly pleased that my instinct for Sambucus racemosa ‘Sutherland Gold’ was not so far off the mark after all. Fergus explains that it is too easily scorched to work in this part of the border but that S. canadensis aurea could have been a runner, were it not for the cercis. I pluck up the courage to share my other suggestions.

It’s hard to overstate how much fun these conversations are. My own work can be solitary and chewing over planting possibilities with the Mister Carrot is just about as great as it gets. He has such an intimate knowledge of this garden and an encyclopaedic horticultural mind. Inspiring is too insipid a word to describe the affirming embrace that working here has given me. Several times during my short and intense stay I hear myself say with delight, “I’m not crazy to make gardens the way I do!” Being self-taught, the gardens I make are possibly unusual in the garden design world. I place a lot of emphasis on teaching my clients about their plants and how to fall in love with the gardens I’m making for them. I don’t use a regular palette of plants that I roll out across my gardens, nor a set style. You couldn’t walk into one of my gardens and say, ah yes, this is a Willow  & Wren garden. However, they are all quirky and highly individual pieces and all plant-led, with layered, sometimes complicated sequences that require the full engagement of the owners. This is not to say that they are high maintenance. Dixter is the definition of high maintenance! What I aim to leave my clients with is a garden that they possess, that encourages them to move forward with enough knowledge to confidently try new combinations, to actively think about what they do and don’t like or be bold enough to just to ring the changes for the hell of it. Structure, form, function and balance, yes, but there’s so much fun to be had in gardening. People are not static and their gardens shouldn’t be either.




Janet’s Blacks

Last year, I was given a precious punnet of black tomatoes grown by a dear gardener, Janet. They tasted fantastic, not something one can often say about black tomatoes. And did you EVER see any as black as these patent leather beauties. Did I eat them all? Did I heck!! I lovingly collected seed and to my delight have raised a good batch of seedlings this year. Originally from America I wonder how they will fare out in our variable English summer? I am going to trial some in the greenhouse and some out in my arid allotment. Here’s to tomatoes as shiny as new shoes!


Going over old ground

I’ve been looking back at some of the gardens I made in 2013.

In this city front garden what had seemed to the owners to be a small, awkward space lent itself well to an open, shingle garden.


 I chose humble materials that sat comfortably with the house and budget. We concentrated on aromatic plants that welcome visitors with their scented foliage all year round. An apple tree and crab-apple add height and depth to the planting, providing a much needed screen from the road.


By placing the bin store between the car and the doorway I was able to effectively screen the car from the living room view and provide a pleasant, private courtyard at the door. This increased sense of privacy is balanced by the general openness of the front garden, in keeping with other properties up and down the street.


A specially designed log store under the window allowed us to make a sun-absorbing succulents bed at eye level as seen from the living room window.


This bed is the domain of the children who are adding new treasures to it regularly.


We had a very small budget and were delighted with the final transformation. Our simple, effective approach allows for seating to be added in time and is already a popular playground for the children. The front garden has gone from a dreary, cat litter tray to a fragrant, practical, welcoming space.


I’m looking forward to seeing the trees and plants mature and our creatively pruned hedge take on a pleasing form. It was very neglected and bare to a third of the way up – I’ll be back with my shears this year!



Basket case

Joining other beginners at a basket weaving course at Wicken Fen on Saturday, I was surprised and delighted to leave at the end of the day with a basket that resembled a basket. I set out to make a produce basket as a way to learn about what happens to willow after it’s cut and how and why it makes such a good weaving material. It turns out that the process is laborious from cutting the willow at the right time of year, stripping off the bark and leaves then grading it into bundles, drying and re-soaking before it is ready to use for weaving. 
As soon as you start working with the damp lengths though you immediately understand why it is so useful – pliable and fibrous it bends or folds easily and can be pulled into shape even by unskilled hands. 
We all started with the same criss-cross of base struts and worked our way round thinking about shape and form at every turn. It’s important to keep the convex form so that when you add the sides later, the base remains a little inverted rather than popping out and turning your basket into a Weeble!
By the end of the day we had all produced remarkably different baskets. I sewed long handles onto mine for ease of carrying at the allotment and the next day filled it to the brim with the day’s pickings. As my children would say, “Awesome!” 

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