It’s the plants, stupid
IWON my first prize for gardening when I was nine years old at prep school. My grandmother was delighted—it was she who had sent me the seeds of godetia, eschscholtzia and Virginia stock that secured my victory. Gardening continued to absorb me through the years of school, university and devilling in London. Yes, I know it—some people are boring right from their earliest youth.
Any young man who is keen on gardening and knowledgeable about plants quickly attracts a fan club of elderly ladies. Such, at least, was my experience in the 1970s. It did not end when I got married. As soon as the announcement of our engagement appeared in The Times nearly 50 years ago, the letters of congratulation in those pre-digital days all had the same question for me—does she like gardening? The answer was ‘Yes’— and, what’s more, she likes roses.
It took me a while to understand why young plant-lovers are so popular with experienced gardeners who have a lifetime of achievement behind them— the oldies want to pass on the torch. Horticulture in all its forms has given them much pleasure and they want to share their best plants, their books and their experience. Their generosity to the young is sometimes overwhelming, but such is their kindness that it is difficult to say ‘No’ to whatever one is offered.
Gardening and gardeners have changed considerably during the past 50 years. There is too much emphasis today upon design and not enough upon plants. Of course, we need sensible layouts, durable landscaping and suitable focal points, but the rest of the garden should be given to plants, grass, trees and all good things that grow in soil. Most of us take pleasure in learning how to group plants for good effect—harmonies and contrasts, of shape and texture, size and colour—an art form that has for generations been England’s greatest gift to gardeners all over the world.
Ask yourself what has really given you more pleasure, more value and more memories—that peony you bought and planted five years ago or the designer garden you saw at the same RHS show that hyped the name of a financial-services company, the name of which you have now forgotten? English gardening is all about plants—the joy of acquiring them, growing them, watching them and learning about them. Then comes the great pleasure of sharing them—of giving a piece to like-minded gardeners who will thank you years later by saying what a good plant it is. All too often my gardening friends enthuse about plants that I have long since lost in my own garden.
There is another side to the elderly gardener’s desire to encourage young learners, which is the pleasure that the master has in receiving a plant from his acolyte. I remember being cock-a-hoop when I gave a good form of Lonicera chaetocarpa to Graham Thomas that he did not know and thrilled when he gave me a bagful of the red form of Lilium pyrenaicum. I still grow them—they smell of cats and I have to keep a watch for lily beetles, but it’s a good plant and I value its pedigree. Such gifts are the outward and visible signs of a lifetime’s happy and purposeful gardening —and the act of giving is a great source of pleasure.
I gained not only plants, but ideas, inspiration and wisdom from my elderly mentors when I was young, but now I have protégés of my own, including two or three young rosarians for whom I have hopes for the future. All my children are keen on gardening, too. My son has indented for my old copies of the RHS Journal— the predecessor of today’s The Garden; my run goes back to 1950, because I inherited some of my grandmother’s journals, although she was, alas, a great chucker-out. Christopher has noticed how much better—more detailed— was much garden writing before cheap colour printing.
Much as I would love to pass the torch directly to my grandchildren, there is little or nothing I can do to enthuse them with my love of plants and gardens. I did, however, have some success when I took the youngest boy, then 12, to walk around the lake at Stourhead in Wiltshire. It was, naturally, the series of Classical follies and the subterranean grotto that most intrigued him, but he was also fascinated by the size and colours of the fallen rhododendrons flowers that lined the path. ‘Awesome,’ he said, but I suspect football is rather more awesome for him than flowers.
Nevertheless, I hope that some of the young whom I have encouraged with plants, books and advice over the years will one day look back and say: ‘Yes, I knew Charles Quest-ritson… would you like a piece of this very rare rose that he gave me?’
Charles Quest-ritson wrote the RHS Encyclopedia of Roses
Next week Chelsea
Like-minded gardeners will thank you years later