Titchmarsh

There may be quicker ways to water plants, but there’s none more satisfying than with the humble watering can, says Alan

What is it about the joy of holding a watering can, as opposed to a hosepipe? Well, for a start, watering cans don’t tangle themselves into a knot when you’re not looking, after the fashion of the Christmas fairy lights in the loft. Yes, I know they cannot offer an unending supply of the stuff of life in the same way as a garden hose can, but there is something about a good, wellbalanced watering can that can lift my spirits. I know; I must be a man of simple pleasures, but there we are.

This aquatic love affair has persisted since my childhood days. Who could not be entranced by that delightful watercolour by Beatrix Potter which shows Peter Rabbit’s ears peeping out over the top of that classic galvanised can? It is identical to the one my granddad had on his allotment and which was always parked next to the sunken water tank by the lopsided shed into which he would dip it when ministering to his sweet peas. My grandfather was far more friendly than Mr McGregor, too.

Ah yes! It is the Romance of the Can which endears it to me – all those happy memories of childhood, and also of an apprenticeship in the early 1960s when, looking after three large Victorian greenhouses in the parks department’s nursery, the watering can was regarded as the only responsible way of ministering to my charges.

It seems like a bygone age now, as indeed it is, but for at least a year (until the parks department foreman gave in and finally allowed us to use hosepipes) all of our watering was done with a can. And all the flowerpots full of pelargoniums, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums and begonias – cultivated with the express intention of beautifying the town hall and the public library – were terracotta, not plastic.

My early morning routine – day in, day out – would be to walk along the greenhouse paths checking to see which potted plants needed a drink. In one hand would be my watering can – a two-gallon Haws model with a long spout – and in the other a ‘pot hammer’. This long, slender mallet – often crafted at home from a length of dowel with a wooden cotton reel on the end, would be used to tap each pot to see if the compost it contained was dry. If the pot emitted a dull thud it indicated that the compost within was sufficiently damp. If the pot gave a bright ring it showed the compost was dry. Tap, tap, clunk. Tap, tap, clunk. Tap, tap, ding! Up went the can and out came the water. As mentioned, after a year or so we were finally allowed to use a hosepipe, no doubt in the interest of saving time, but by then plastic flowerpots had become widespread and the pot tapping was made redundant. The 1960s saw huge changes in gardening techniques that had remained constant for the previous century: along came container-grown stock that could be planted at any time of year, not just between November and March; peat-based compost that would replace our beloved John Innes that we mixed ourselves, and plastic pots that needed no crocking.

Today I grow all my ornamental greenhouse plants in clay pots. I love them more than I can say, especially the old Victorian ones that I cherish. But in 1964, when a lot of winter days were spent crouching over a tank of cold water, scrubbing clean hundreds of clay pots in all shapes and sizes, I would happily have thrown in the towel.

You’d think that by now watering cans would send a shiver down my spine, but no. I have a weather vane atop our barn that shows a watering can on which leans a hoe, pointing in the direction of today’s breeze. I designed it myself over 30 years ago and it still makes me smile.

I have a row of old galvanised cans arranged in descending order of size alongside a knapped flint wall in the garden. Many of them leak, but I love their disparate shapes and enjoy the knowledge that down the years they have provided sustenance for plants in Victorian kitchen gardens. I even have a French copper can – one of those delightfully plump ones with a big, fat rose – sitting on a low shelf in our sitting room. Some folk collect stamps. I’ll settle for watering cans: useful and beautiful.

Until the parks department foreman gave in and finally allowed us to use hosepipes, all of our watering was done with a can