Get it in the can
Nick Hammond discovers why the Haws watering can is a classic
WHEN John Haws poured precious rainwater on his tropical garden in the Maldives, he was dissatisfied with the performance of his Frenchmade watering can. It looked the part, all right, but when he leant over to irrigate his beloved orchids, the strain tweaked his back. Haws was a military man and where there was a problem, he looked for a solution.
He set about designing a better can— first in his mind’s eye, then on paper and, eventually, with painstakingly created examples. Years later, when he made it back to Britain, Haws patented his new design and it proved to be something of a hit.
Some 132 years later, that design is still being made. Haws watering cans are considered the crème de la crème of the gardener’s toolbox. ‘Exactly the same as John’s design,’ notes Rich Pennock proudly. He’s the firm’s marketing manager and part of the family that now owns the company. Together with his brother, Andy, a design engineer, and the existing Haws team—some of whom have worked at the Smethwick factory for more than 35 years—he’s taking the famous Haws patent into the 21st century.
‘It’s designed to tip and pour beautifully, maintaining an easy balance,’ agrees Steve Riley, who has himself been with the company for 36 years. ‘Designed to have a long reach, be easy to carry and avoid straining the back, the original is still our signature style and we think it’s the best watering can in the world.’
Many agree. The Haws can is an essential part of the discerning gardener’s armoury; eagle-eyed watchers may have seen an old and much-loved model pressed into use by TV gardener Monty Don. Alan Titchmarsh
Haws was a military man and where there was a problem, he looked for a solution
wields one. The gardeners at Highgrove are known to use them, as are those at many National Trust estates. Today, more than 46 countries across the globe clamour for these lovely and practical items that combine flair, ease of use and no little fun in the simple task of pouring water onto seeds, flowers and vegetable patches. I pull up in the forecourt of Haws’s anonymous Midlands warehouse in sweltering sunshine and could do with watering myself. However, it’s deep inside the factory that the real alchemy occurs. High-tech CAD machines are busy designing the tools needed to manufacture high-end cans; ladies solder with infinite care; under dusty old beams, mighty Victorian industrial machines are tweaked and cajoled into action for the millionth time. When all is said and done today and the team locks up and goes home, another 100 pristine galvanised-steel watering cans will be ready for packaging —and an eventual slow boat around the world. The Haws can of today comes in a variety of guises. There are chic, long-necked copper ones; fat little misting cans for delicate indoor plants; burgundy, sage, claret and duck-eggblue plastic cans, made to just the right size to fit a grandchild’s pudgy fist. Of course, there’s also the archetypal Haws classic: fine pouring rose (444 holes are carefully punched into each one for delicate, dawn downpour re-creation), a bracing top handle and a long neck like a ballerina for the back row of your pea plants. ‘These things are handed down like family heirlooms,’ points out Andy Pennock. ‘We’ve seen examples that are 70 or 80 years old. They’re dented and scratched, but they’re still watering beautifully. They’re style icons.’ There’s something priceless about grandad’s favourite old watering can being treasured by a new generation, but that new generation might just want something a little sleeker than his functional workhorse. This is why Mike Davies is feverishly busy in his ‘mad scientist lab’ at the top of the factory.
Mike is a former physics teacher with an infectious enthusiasm for pretty much everything, but the manufacture of watering cans in particular. In his lab, experiments and weird contraptions abound. If James Bond needed a poison-dart-throwing watering can for his next mission, he’d do well to ignore Q and visit Mike instead.
‘We’re working on something with zinc and the way it oxidises, I can’t say too much— trade secret,’ he confides in his cheerful Midland brogue, ‘but we reckon it’ll increase the longevity of the metal even more.’
Surely that means people will buy fewer Haws cans, perhaps only one in their lifetime? ‘Well, yes,’ admits Steve, ‘but quality will out and it’s about making our cans better. People realise that they’re getting something special. Our galvanised cans come with a 10-year guarantee anyway.’
Carefully crimped and soldered, then bent and shaped as they make their way around the factory, the cans are powder-painted (literally coated in powder and ‘cooked’ at about 200˚C) for that delightful gloss finish. Proud discs bearing the Haws name are glued in place and brass ferrules are made to the millimetre, so the all-important rose fits snugly and without a leaky drop.
Every can is water tested before it leaves the factory gates. ‘We do get one or two back occasionally, but it’s rare,’ says Mike. ‘More often than not, they come back for repair after decades of use.’
This quality—quiet perseverance in every season—has grown Haws fan clubs far across the seas. Korea, Taiwan, the Middle East, America, Europe and beyond have all cottoned on to what discerning country estates the length and breadth of old England have known for generations—haws cans not only work great, they look great, too. Generations of gardeners gaze at them with fondness; they’re almost part of the family.
‘They’re simply a pleasure to use,’ says Steve. ‘I’ve got one, lord knows how old it is, but it’s a beauty to me and I love it every time I use it. That’s a rare thing to find these days.’
Isn’t that the secret of anything worth having? Being more than the sum of its parts? I’ve watched those parts being put together in Smethwick, but when a Haws can goes out of the warehouse, it’s somehow a different beast altogether. It has, by then, become another official Haws offspring, with siblings inhabiting a vast array of gardens from the exotic to the commonplace. All of them bring a little moment of joy when they’re picked up—and they all water the good earth of our planet.