A real test for the ‘dedicated gardener’
MAY is going to be nothing short of agony for me, now that I am a dedicated gardener. In a previous column I may have blamed my new obsession with the plant world on the avuncular charm of corduroy-clad Monty Don.
Now I am a man possessed. A Sunday morning at the garden centre is no longer an ordeal to be endured.
Now Mrs H has to be firm but fair when the trolley begins to overflow with brilliant blooms and bright ideas that may or may not pay off.
My garden is a riot of colour. Tulips are just going past their peak after weeks of tremendous display, and the fact the peony is almost flowering means heavy rain can be only a few days away. Every year the brave, deep-red flowers come out about now, and every year a downpour smashes them to pieces within days: but my pride and joy is my lawn, and I do like to keep it cut short. It looks better that way, and you can’t see the big patches of spongy moss quite so easily.
On summer Sunday afternoons you’ll find me out there, trudging up and down, whirling the power cord from side to side to prevent myself from running it over with the spinning blade: but this is No-Mow May, and I am being asked to keep the hovering orange beast under lock and key in the shed for the entire month. The reasons are simple. By allowing the garden to grown unkempt for a month I will help wild plants to grow, which will in turn encourage and nourish insects. Looking out of the window now I can see daisies and dandelions pushing their way through tufts of bold grass, and if I look more closely I can see the dark dots of insects moving from flower to flower.
Who wouldn’t want to be a part of the ever-unfolding cycle of nature?
It’s hard to argue against any of that, but what would my old editor say?
I used to work for a chap who was dedicated to his garden. He was meticulous and methodical in his work and in his gardening. At work he was painstaking, and nobody was immune to his eye for detail. Woe betide the reporter who lazily left a question unanswered or botched his or her grammar. There were very few mistakes in that particular newspaper, because the editor would weed them out before they appeared.
At home, he would spend countless hours bringing things on in his greenhouse, then potting them out and creating a garden that was the envy of his neighbourhood. In summer his packed lunches consisted of things he had grown and picked himself.
We young reporters, who knew everything there was to know about life already, treated his gardening obsession with disdain. With the confidence and arrogance of youth, we mocked it mercilessly. We clutched our sides with mirth when he told us the lady mayoress had remarked on the girth of his cucumbers, and had to hold on to the furniture for support when he went on to tell us his plums were the talk of St Marychurch.
Undaunted, he carried on perfecting his skills in the garden. He won prizes, gave talks and chaired his local gardening society.
People came to visit his garden and went away with cuttings and sound advice. He was at his absolute happiest in his greenhouse and garden.
Little did we realise then that we would be following the same path in later years, finding the solution to stress and bother in the great outdoors. My old editor had it right all along.
We clutched our sides with mirth when he told us the lady mayoress had remarked on the girth of his cucumbers