Like many people in these times, I have been spending a lot of time outside, in the garden. I have always loved it, but now more so. And the weather has been glorious.
When I came here, I knew little about gardening. I’m not saying I know a lot now but have had fun teaching myself the ropes; getting myself immersed and inspired by other gardens, learning gardening techniques, about the soil and suitable plants. I’ve got it wrong of course, but learning to take risks is a big part of becoming a good gardener. A friend, herself a particularly good gardener, said when I moved here, “There are guidelines, yes, but there really are no rules. Find out what works for you.”
The little patch of earth I tend in East Anglia, is dry clay soil with a belt of sand running through it. East Anglia is the driest part of England, in terms of rainfall. I was determined to try and use as little water as possible, inspired by the writings and gardens of Beth Chatto, and I also have taken a ‘no-dig’ approach. I am keen that native species are used, and I let things self-seed. The birds have probably brought me a rowan and some beech.
So, I simply cleared an overgrown garden, cutting down and learning how to prune the existing shrubs, seeded a lawn and have watched it evolve ever since, re-shaping and planting as I go.
When lockdown was sprung on us, everything seemed to stop, including garden waste collection and garden centres, as well re-cycling centres. For a time, I had to sit on my hands. It gave me time to look.
Although the back garden is very much as I want it, with the mixture of shrubs and perennials that duly present themselves in time with the seasons, the front is another story. It is baking hot and dry in the summer, in full sun in the afternoon and evening, and I have never really found a workable solution to it. When it does rain the ground goes claggy, and when it’s dry it is like concrete.
I remember taking out a huge pampas grass when I came, followed by the brooms. I planted a Cistus rose which lasted only a few seasons. I planted a tiny rosemary, which seems to have flourished, though slow to establish.
I neglected it for a long time, due to illness, and thorns and brambles crept in. An officer from my housing association knocked on my door, to discuss the matter. So, clearing began again last year, with a strimming down.
Another garden which almost haunts me, is the one at Prospect Cottage in Dungeness, made by Derek Jarman, the late English film director, diarist, artist, gardener, and author, who died from AIDS in 1994. I went there, on a kind of pilgrimage to see it. The plants in it, are mainly from the Kent coast, therefore totally adapted to the environment. He used the things that were around, driftwood and even containers washed up on the beach. He also took some risks, persuading old rose and figs to grow in the shingle, shielded from the blasting weather by some contrivance or other.
I have long-intended burying a watertight container for aquatic plants, but also to offer water to the wildlife. The container was ready and waiting in the greenhouse, as was the grit I needed to settle it and the pebbles I used to part-fill it. I borrowed a spirit level, dug a hole, levelled it in and filled it up, finishing with rainwater.
When the nearby garden centre opened in late May, I was able to buy and put in a Mare’s tail, which is meant to like full sun. Around it I have planted some thymes and lavenders and a sage. I’ve also put in a russet Berberis I rescued last year, and a neighbour helped me drag a pot of Agapanthus lilies that was hidden behind a hedge.
Hopefully, when I’ve worked on the grass and brambles, and put down some bark chips, it will evolve into a sort of Mediterranean garden, with an English twist.
New Directions 