Growing up in a soot blackened terrace means I’d rather spend money on roses than Louboutins
ON WARM summer evenings you’ll find me in the garden with the bees. I always plant with their tastes in mind. They love the blue and purple flowers that are rich in the sweet nectar they harvest.
So at this time of year, I adore watching them dart about before settling on the tiny stars of the alliums.
While the rest of the world may be choosing their favourite frock, or putting the finishing touches to an elegant dinner party, I am tying in the climbers and glorying in my work.
You may think I’m a batty eccentric but I even use a special horticultural string which comes in different shades of green to blend in with the foliage.
Pinned to their pergola, the wisteria blossoms drip down like exotic eastern lamps, their subtle perfume floating on the breeze.
A deep satisfaction enters my heart knowing that their carefully crafted fixings are nowhere to be seen.
So I was delighted to hear that the Queen has found her green fingers. And not before time. Believe me, Ma’am, you’ll never regret it. There is no better place than the garden for getting rid of the stresses of the day.
A pesky family member giving you grief? Take a sharp hoe to that patch of weeds. Can’t tolerate another sentence of small talk? Swap the mindless chatter for a backdrop of birdsong.
The Queen’s sudden interest in gardening, at the age of 91, was revealed last week at the Chelsea Flower Show where she impressed organisers with her knowledge of plants. The depth of her expertise was much more apparent than in previous years, it was noted.
It’s believed the Queen has found her green fingers through overseeing the restoration of Frogmore, a Georgian house set in 35 acres inside the home Park of Windsor Castle.
Its grounds are bursting with tulip trees, redwoods and wisteria and were designed as an escape for Queen Charlotte, the wife of George III.
My background could hardly have been more different and yet the intense beauty of flowers is among my earliest memories.
I was born in Liverpool in a terraced house near the docks. everything was soot-blackened back then, but I recall the vivid splendour of the marigolds that people crammed into window boxes and their pungent, musky scent. Back then, as now, my favourites were the roses — not subtle, old varieties but garish, hybrid teas, scarlet, acid yellow and shocking pink. They were splashes of delight in a grey world.
My mother couldn’t wait to swap our small yard for a proper garden which she did when the terraces were demolished in slum clearance and we moved to a council house.
Mum planted beds of roses and covered the fences with honeysuckle. She had a little greenhouse where she grew tomatoes and strawberries, introducing us to that other great gardening reward — the intense flavour of home-grown food.
Although I’d often be alongside Mum as she worked, I really wasn’t inspired to make a garden of my own until I was 29 and bought my first house.
It had a neglected stretch at the back which the previous owners had used as a tip. My Dad, who was a dock labourer, cleared it, heaving great chunks of concrete, and even a supermarket trolley, into a skip.
There have been several gardens since, as I’ve moved, always following the work. My best achievement to date was at our last house, a thatched cottage of yellow Cotswold stone with a third of an acre around it.
I put all of my disposable income — and then some — into that plot, planting lollipop holly and bay trees. I discovered the joys of planting roses that have been in english gardens since medieval times.
No one should be without Great Maiden’s Blush, a flesh pink, semi double with a fragrance so magnificent that once inhaled it will never be forgotten.
Topiary is my downfall, and a hedge of pleached hornbeam was my greatest extravagance — it must have cost me thousands over the years — but it was worth it.
You can keep your Louboutins. Who needs to look down at their shoes when you can look up and out of your window to glory in a hedge that seems to be floating above your borders like magic?
We opened that garden for charity as part of the National Garden Scheme, raising money for Macmillan Cancer Support in a tribute to my Mum, a nonsmoker who died of lung cancer.
I’m creating a new garden now. We left our village near Banbury three years ago to head North when You And Yours, the consumer programme I present on Radio 4, shifted from London to Salford. Our new home is a red brick, late-Victorian semi. When we took it on, it had subsidence and the small, north-facing garden was very overgrown. I shouldn’t boast but you wouldn’t recognise it now. I’m relishing the chance to grow the acidloving camellias that would never have thrived at our last house. Creating a garden is terrific for relationships too. My husband Roger is my assistant, always on hand for the boring tasks, watering pots, sweeping the paths. Our son Tony, 17, is a great help with heavy lifting. The garden draws us away from the electronic screens that drive the relentless pace of modern living. We find time to talk out there.
No one loves my gardening more than our Labrador William. Sometimes when the ball bounces into the beds and he dives after it there are casualties among the plants but I don’t mind — gardens belong to all the family, even the dog.
I’ve found new friends through the garden, neighbours who walked past and gave us wonderful gifts of cuttings.
Gardening connects you to the past. When I take on a new project, I cherish the remnants of gardens that have gone before.
In our garden now there is a giant wisteria that must be as old as the house. It was growing right over and through the tiled roof of the original brick garden shed and so we had to cut it back.
The builder warned us that it probably wouldn’t survive because he couldn’t lay the new drains we needed without hacking at its roots.
I watched it anxiously that first cold spring and breathed a sigh at the first signs of new life. We’Ve needed two more summers of watering, feeding and training its new branches to coax that wisteria back into bloom but boy is it worth it.
I sometimes catch at the edges of my vision the happy spirit of the original Victorian gardener who planted it, urging me on.
I’ll feel a new solidarity with the Queen as I work in my garden. And I’d like to offer my top tips, your Majesty, if I may be so bold.
Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. You will learn, as I have, from the plants you loved and lost because the ground was too dry or wet or shady or hot.
You’ll put them where they’re happy next time.
When you’ve done your best and it still looks all wrong, remember you can always move things but you should probably wait until the autumn when they won’t sulk nearly so much.
Keep on picking the brains of the experts, as you’ve done at Chelsea. They will be thrilled to welcome you into the wonderful camaraderie of people who like nothing better than to get some soil under their fingernails.
happy planting!