Gardens Archives | James Alexander-Sinclair

Those who have read this blog before will be fully aware that I love a jaunt. An unnecessary number of past blog entries have involved me wittering on about mooching through Moscow, charging around China or even just sauntering to Scotland or waffling about Wales.

Today I am off again but with not much horticulture involved. Previously I have gone to give talks in Canada or lectures in the US but this time I have an important mission to accomplish.

Saturday.11:50 – It begins, as many of these things do, at Heathrow airport and an aeroplane. I booked a BA flight in January and it has now been shifted to American Airlines who appear to have a cabin crew of little charm but I guess it is just an overblown taxi and that sort of thing doesn’t really matter. The days of cocktail shakers, armchairs and stewardesses dressed like debutantes are long gone. I am sitting on it for a long time – about eleven hours – as I am going to Los Angeles, a city which I have never visited before.

18:40: Just as an aside, is the Mile High Club actually a thing? I ask purely from idle curiosity and a grudging admiration for anybody capable of such contortions in such a tiny and inhospitable cupboard.

21:00 I am quite bored. I have got to that time in a journey when one has had enough of films, your ears hurt from headphones and you crave fresh air. The plane has been in the dark for the whole journey which is quite disorientating. We are presented with a strange concoction for lunch. It looks like a collection of rejects from a toddlers arts and crafts workshop.

My neighbour understandably asks the cabin crew for some sort of elucidation.
“Excuse me” he says “what is this?”
The stewardess looks at him disdainfully and says
“You know, I really don’t know “.

And that is it: we chow on down regardless and discover that it is noodles with cashew nuts and other stuff.

18:00 WST: Dinner on roof of hotel- my sister, my brother and his affianced. I am here for the wedding. I am very tired and looking forward to my bed.

Sunday. 07:00: Enough sleeping we are off on a wander around West Hollywood. First impression is that Los Angeles is very big and sprawly – I understand that this thought is neither original nor particularly illuminating. There are some cool buildings up in the hills.

We did the thing where you go and read the stars on the walk of fame: what struck me in particular was the number of Stars for people I had never heard of- shows how easily one can be out of sight and out of mind. Even the ones with remarkable names…Wink Martindale? Irish McCalla? King Baggott? Morris Chestnut? Xavier Cugat? Bronco Billy Anderson? Spanky McFarland?

14:30: Off to Griffith Park. It is hot and crowded but there is a breeze up there with great views to the city below and of the Hollywood sign on the hills – it would have been a bit silly to come all the way here and not see it. It may not be terribly obvious in this photograph but it is there. I am standing by the observatory where they filmed bits of La-La Land: nice place, pretty dreadful film.

Dinner in a loud diner called Bernie’s Beanery where we eat hamburger served by attentively tattooed waitresses.

Monday 10:00: We are going to Huntington, a big old Botanic Garden in Pasadena. It has all the things that you would expect from a botanic garden – roses, herbs etc but, as this is California, it has an amazing Desert Garden. I have always been partial to a cactus (as you can see from this impassioned appeal I did at Chelsea Flower Show a few years ago) but this was something else. Spiky buggers In glorious abundance. All laid out thoughtfully and en masse, some flowering but all architectural and exciting. I really loved all of it and it has completely changed my perception of Cacti.

There is also a Japanese garden and the biggest Chinese garden outside Beijing.

14:00 Los Angeles County Modern Art Museum. Great building, ace views, good selection of art including this fabulous model city with trains and cars by Chris Burden (Metropolis 2)

19:00: Tomorrow we go to the desert and the purpose of this little jaunt becomes clear…..

There will be at least one more part to this story – bear with me.

I am listening to Mistakes by Sharon von Etten. The picture is of more Cacti.

At Heathrow Terminal Five the entire Vienna Boys’ Choir is crammed onto an escalator. They all wear sailor suits and talk loudly and excitedly in German. I went to see them perform twice when I too was an angelic choirboy. I think they were pretty impressive but,to be honest, the interval ice cream was more exciting to the eleven year old me.

I am one of these: contrary to appearances, however, butter would be in serious trouble if it touched my mouth.

I think this might be a miniseries of blogs if I am to stand the faintest chance of holding your attention so here we go…

Day 1: I am going to America to give talks. First stop is Newark New Jersey and an Uber into Manhattan. I have only been to New York a couple of times and in both occasions managed to get lost which is, a pretty impressive feat in a city laid out on a simple grid. I like a map, it makes me feel comfortable and I enjoy finding out where I am. This is sometimes annoying for my nearest and dearest who instinctively knows exactly where she is and where she is going so gets mildly irritated by my stopping to fumble with unfolding maps every so often.

Have realised my first schoolboy error- I did not bring a waterproof and it is pissing down. This is not a good start. My cab driver,however, brings a little sunshine by talking with enthusiasm about cricket (with particular attention to Ben Stokes) all the way into Manhattan.

Day 2: I get up early, because that is the way the jet lag tumbles, and walk around the neighbourhood.New York is as I remember it, bustling, lots of construction work and a bit worn out and shabby. I find an orange sourdough doughnut and my life is temporarily complete.

I get myself to Penn Station by subway, this is not completely straightforward but I am here on time for the train. Wilmington (where I get off the train) is not a nice place – it is like something from the Wire with boarded up houses and people up to no good yet within 20 minutes we are drifting through wide streets with large houses. This is DuPont (as in gunpowder, nylon, Teflon and loads of other chemicals) country and not short of a spare quid. I am going to the marvellous Longwood Gardens where I am chatting with the horticultural staff and then wandering around the garden causing trouble. My ever smiling escort and official photographer is Matthew Ross who is energetic and generally a delight.

It is very windy but an interesting garden – most famously there is a phalanx of dancing fountains that have recently been restored (for 90 million dollars).

These perform three times a day and once after dark – sadly we could not hang around for the light show as my presence was required at Swarthmore College.

Swarthmore College and the Scott Arboretum

This is also a pretty swanky joint with some fab trees (it is the home to the 90 year old Scott Arboretum) and a whole grass amphitheatre and is where I will be required to strut my stuff at the 35th Perennial Plant Conference tomorrow and nothing here is left to chance. We must all be on parade for technical run throughs and sound checks.

Day 3: Conference day: I am here (along with some pretty sensational other speakers) to address 630 eager plant enthusiasts who flock to the carvernous performing arts centre where our pictures are projected 20 feet high on the back wall. It is fascinating – Jacqueline van de Kloet talking bulbs and things Netherlandish, Irvin Etienne telling stories about the botanic garden in Indianapolis (although he is also well known for his collection of rabbits and chickens of which there was no sign; an opportunity missed as everybody loves a fluffy bottomed bantam.

Next up was Midori Shantani giving only her second presentation in English explaining the extraordinary Tokachi Forest (the Milennium Forest) in Hokkaido. This was wonderful with amazing photographs and very Japanese in its detail and meticulousness – they even melt the snow so they can work in early spring by scattering charcoal dust on the surface to absorb more of the sun’s heat. So clever.

I get the after lunch snoozy slot but endeavour to move fast enough and make sufficient noise to keep the punters awake. Following me are Lee Buttala Who talks thoughtfully about seeds (and beagles) and finally the gloriously named Panyoti Keliadis who runs the Denver Botanic Garden and shows us mouthwatering plants few of which will ever grow in our grey country.

From there we are whisked off to a drinks thing where people say nice things and from there to dinner at the hotel. American food is good but a little odd as they seem to have difficulty knowing where to stop Banana, Caramel and choc chip bread and butter pudding for example.i think the heart of it is a desire to make savoury things sweeter. Syrupy bacon, caramelised walnuts etc

Day 4: Early start back at Longwood for a quick whizz round the 86 acre meadow via ponds, treehouses and vegetable gardens before meeting up with a group of delightful students. I talked a lot, they listened politely before we trotted off to look at four remarkably good show gardens that they have designed and built.

Quick lunch and then back into a classroom for four hours of teaching culminating in our inconoclastically trashing and redesigning the Longwood rose and topiary gardens – which is something that needs doing.
Sadly I did not have time to see everything – it is an amazing place with lots of things going on.

I reckon that is probably enough for one sitting: there is more that I will sort out when I am supposed to be doing something more sensible. The other picture is massive Ikebana and a vast chrysanthemum in the conservatory at Longwood.

I know that many of you have sat through various indulgent travelogues that I have written in this blog over the years – most of them concerning slightly eccentric jaunts to Russia. I am afraid that this is another story but this time I am on my way to China to judge a show and to give a talk to various assembled eminent horticulturists. I have never been to China before and my garden at home is full of the joys of spring so it is with mixed emotions that I pack too many shirts, a selection of striped ties and lots of charging cables and truck off to Heathrow.

Wednesday 25th: I am going to Shanghai about which I know next to nothing – there was a Bay City Rollers song called Shanghai’d in love but I don’t think that counts as a genuine cultural reference. From there I am going to a place called Haining about which I know even less except that it is the site of a flower show.

It is the grandly named World Garden Show and I am here to judge stuff and give a talk to quite a lot of Chinese horticulturists.

Thursday 9:30: I am met at the gate by a stern looking Chinese lady who escorts me through passport control and baggage claim before depositing me with three more people who put me in a car. It is like being a cross between a visiting dignitary and a prisoner under escort.
The sun is bright and my car zips along wide motorways populated by interesting trucks carrying interesting things like copper wire, watermelons, the contents of septic tanks and lots of building supplies. Shanghai seems to have cornered the market on cranes. They are everywhere. My driver says nothing but does a lot of horn honking.

Eventually we pull up at a massive resort hotel and I am ushered into a very cushty fifth floor suite. They know how to look after a chap: charming interpreters and delightful guides. I am quite knackered but push on with lunch – apparently the Chinese have lunch at 11:30 so we are unfashionably late by expecting to be fed at 1:00. We eat shrimps, broccoli, a bearded fish and very good soup with translucent phallic mushrooms floating in it.

14:00: There is a vast river at the rear of the hotel – vast to me, modest to the Chinese – which apparently has a spectacular 10m high tidal bore every so often. I cannot get at it though as there is a large fence between us so am writing this while sitting on a stone bench under a loquat tree. There are outdoor speakers unconvincingly disguised as rocks so I am listening to Simon and Garfunkel singing Scarborough Fair which seems a bit odd.

Dinner is not suitable for vegans. A couple of us opt to walk back too the hotel through the town. There is a dance class on the street every evening which is a lovely thing to watch – only women, mostly of a certain age participate. It is perfectly coordinated and very elegant. A lot of China is regimented – even the security detail at the airport and the road sweepers march onto shift in close order – but nobody seems to mind as much as we would. There is plenty of room for entrepreneurs and businesses but the government reigns supreme. All infrastructure is financed by them, all development is supervised by them and, although people are happy to outline the flaws and mistakes, they population seems mostly content with their lot.

Friday 7:00: The mystery of the breakfast buffet. I have always been confused by hotel buffets, I am never sure where to go or what to eat especially on the first day. By day three I am swaggering around juggling muffins and custom made omelettes. Chinese breakfast buffets are even more confusing as they add even more layers to the yoghurt and fruit or full cooked shebang choice. There is also pork porridge, noodles, potatoes, rice, assorted cakes in many colours, peanuts, gummy bears, weird bread, croissants, ice cream, shellfish and baked beans. Eating a fried egg with chopsticks is a challenge.

7:51: Missed the bus but caught up eventually and arrived at the show in time for judging duties. I am judging 26 plants, 16 gardens and 36 tradestands. It is fearfully hot so I am issued with a red Donald Trump style baseball cap to protect my tender imperialist bonce. There are five of us, three distinguished Chinese, a delightful Anglo-American nurseryman and me. Our deliberations are independent so no discussions or debate. This involves a great deal more mathematics than makes me comfortable.

16:30: Judging complete we stagger back to the hotel for an eccentrically mixed dinner. It includes pasta, pizza, sushi, a chocolate fountain, chicken feet, suspicious looking chops, pumpkin soup, lettuce, boiled eggs, tripe, cucumber slices and sundry other things. Chinese cuisine is always interesting.

Saturday 8:00: Bus to the convention centre which is quite large. There are various other Europeans and Americans in attendance but they all know each other well and many have been selling their wares in China for years. We all sit down in this anteroom where we are brought coffee and interpretation kit by very young, well educated people of whom there seem to be an abundance.
By this stage I am getting a tiny bit nervous as I am first up and I have absolutely no idea what to expect. The auditorium is in an enormous university and holds a thousand people, there are lots of speeches to get the whole thing launched including a bit when the assembled dignitaries (all men) lined up on stage and pushed buttons which released a lot of fanfares and flashing light action.

10:45 ‘tis done. I pranced and pontificated as is my wont and it seemed to go down okay if judged by my usual criteria which is that if nobody sleeps, interrupts or throws things then it is a resounding success. It is nice to get it over with so I can now spend the rest of the day listening to other speakers. It is always good to see how other people speak.

11:50 Lunch. I am oddly starving especially as this is becoming quite an intense day as there are a lot of talks in very quick succession. The Chinese are only half listening as they are completely obsessed with their telephones- people answer them (quietly) during talks and are endlessly checking We Chat which is the Chinese WhatsApp. WhatsApp, incidentally, is not available in China – nor is YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram or Google so if you wish to avoid having your data harvested you could always contemplate moving to China

18:30 A banquet. It is quite a grand affair but not terribly relaxing as every five minutes I have to stand up and drink a toast with an important local dignitary. This happens at least fifteen times during dinner – they are drinking wine and I am on the cucumber juice so at least I unfuddled. I have, however, run out of business cards so the ceremonial exchange is somewhat one sided.

The banquet has also managed to give me food poisoning. I suppose that if you to be forced to spend the greater part of the night in close communion with a lavatory then better it is caused by a banquet than a casual sarnie.

Michael, Gary and some of the many other guides and interpreters

Sunday 8:00: I wake up feeling a little wan as I bustle off to a ‘fan meeting ‘ which, disappointingly has nothing to do with the fan dance and more to do with me being asked questions by fifty assembled putative garden designers. From there we zip off to the city of Hangzhou along rose lined motorways that are quite crowded due to the fact that we have picked a public holiday for this jaunt. We wander round various sites of historical interest and inspect a tea garden all of which is interesting but would have been more interesting if I was feeling less like a flounder who had recently had a contretemps with a mangle.

Final call of the day is the office of a large landscape architecture practice where they are doing extraordinary things. Huge developments in distant cities, a revival of the rural economy through building and tourism, mansions on islands and the conversion of a power station into a complex of shops, offices, flats and parks.
Nothing in China is little or unambitious.

I thought I was just having a look around but actually was taking part in a small seminar about rural development. Until you have sat through a picture free PowerPoint presentation in Chinese for over an hour you really haven’t lived. After that I talked about I am not sure what for half an hour and answered questions about gardens, the RHS and Britain.

In the end it was great but I was quite pleased to get back for a lie down.

7:00 Monday: I am back in a cab speeding towards Shanghai airport. It has been a brief but fascinating visit: I should have stayed for a couple more days and seen more places but that is life.

This is a country of such energy, variety, vastness (there are 110 million people living in the city and suburbs of Shanghai – there are 65 million people in the whole of the UK) and potential that it is easy to see how screwed we are in the west. Makes you realise that democracy is possibly not all it is cracked up to be.

16:30 (UK time or 23:30 Shanghai time): Land at Heathrow having watched five films, eaten two indifferent meals, read half a book and written this blog).

I am listening to Rumours by Fleetwood Mac through the inflight system. I have no idea why.

I have not written a blog for ages but will makes no apologies as life is like that sometimes and I cannot always think of anything interesting about which I want to write. It would be very dull if I felt an obligation to write stuff and churned out an equivalent of my childhood diary. I think it was called the Letts Schoolboy diary and was full of interesting facts about the countries of the world and their various exports. Some of it sank in – Sierra Leone * exports diamonds, and bauxite for use in the manufacture of aluminium. The Canadian prairie provinces are Alberta, Manitoba and Saskatchewan. Anyway my point is that you would get quite bored by a string of blogs that said variations on “Irish stew for lunch (yuk) then mucked around” or “nothing much happened” or “played Heatherdown: we won 2-1”.

Instead I am saving things up until the urge takes me which is usually when I am trying to distract myself from something important (but dull) or I am on a train (as I am now). I thought it would be faintly diverting to write about mud as that is a major constituent in my life at the moment. I have a number of jobs under construction and as a result a lot of this year has been spent up to my shins in various grades of mud. This means that I have become a bit of an expert in the subject and my conclusions are that no matter where the mud is situated – be it in Wiltshire, Northamptonshire or Buckinghamshire (which are the locations of my largest mud piles) – is is always annoyingly muddy.

This may lack the edge of pioneering science that some of you might expect from me but it does back up a number of historic theories. In the Middle Ages everything was muddy from people and animals to bedding and cookware. It was unavoidable due to the lack of tarmac roads and the fact that nobody had yet invented the coir doormat. Nowadays we are spoilt in that we can walk from our houses onto dry, mud free pavements and not have to worry about getting topsoil out of our underwear.

Other conclusions that I have drawn include:

Building site mud is very unlike the sort of mud one is likely to find in facial mud packs. That mud is the colour of chocolate and the texture of peanut butter: it does not smell of mould or diesel like site mud does.

The Hippopotami who sang “follow me follow, down to the hollow and there let us wallow in glooooorious mud” were also thinking of a completely different calibre of mud.

No matter how careful you may be you will always get mud on your trousers – often a loose splattering that looks as if it has been flicked at you.

So that is what I have learned. Underneath the mud, however, interesting things are happening and some fine and handsome gardens are likely to eventually emerge. I look forward to sharing them with you over the next couple of years as they gradually come into their own. In the meantime I will continue to slosh about in the goo, happy as Larry**

I am listening to The Ballad of Ira Hayes by Johnny Cash. The picture is of a daffodil field in Cornwall – lest we forget that spring is coming.

* Sierra Leone, incidentally was the answer to a question that marks one of my greatest achievements (and greatest disappointments). Years ago I was on Celebrity Eggheads and beat CJ (the one who may have murdered somebody by pushing them into a canal) with a question whose answer was Sierra Leone.

** Larry, for those of you who ever wondered is the Australian boxer Larry Foley who, 1879, retired undefeated at 32 having banked a decent wedge. Thus he was deemed to be pretty content with his lot.

Sunday:
I am off on a trip…
Firstly, it involves a train from Banbury to Heathrow via Hayes and Harlington. Very simple in theory but, as is the way sometimes with the oft laid plans of mice and men, likely to gang aft agley. It is like dominos- one train is ten minutes late so you miss the next train by nine seconds (after a frantic rush across a bridge and a shove through an oncoming crowd ). This means being stranded on an empty platform at Hayes and Harlington for an hour before finally arriving at the airport.

I am going to Moscow to give a seminar nominally entitled Gardening across Continents with the aim to jazz up the world of Russian horticulture. More specifically to talk to them about show gardens, design and planting and also to talk about an exchange we have instigated at Malvern and about which I wrote in my last blog.

Monday:
It is an overnight flight- not long, only about 3.5 hours – in that it leaves at 10:30 (london time) and lands at 5.00 in the morning (Moscow time). I, however, am far to old and set in my ways for this sort of interruption to my routine. I go to the hotel and go straight to bed.

It is cold out there: about minus 10. This raises a few sartorial dilemmas: I emerged into the street all wrapped up like a bear in a duvet. Coats, hats, Horatio’s Garden Alpaca Socks (available here and a perfect Christmas Gift), gloves etc. I walk five steps and get into a car so hot that you could probably roast a duck in the glovebox. I then go to an equally hot office followed by a sweltering restaurant, another car and back to a hotel room where, in my absence, a diligent cleaner had cranked up the radiator. I flung open the window and welcomed as much icy air as possible. Tomorrow I will not be so thermally aware. The restaurant, by the way, was next to the Bolshoi Theatre and involved crab from Kamchatka (a species of red king crab that has a leg span of nearly six feet) and six different sorts of caviar.

Tuesday:

The reason why I am here: I tootle along to the auditorium of the Moscow Museum where there is a milling multitude of assorted interested parties. I am quite happy giving talks of an hour or so but today I am doing four talks of about one and a half hours each plus a two hour Q&A. It is quite tiring – there is a relay of simultaneous interpreters who do a sterling job trying to keep up with me: they change over every twenty minutes to prevent exhaustion. It is interesting as the audience each have a headset into which the interpreter drips a translation of what I am saying but, like an old fashioned transatlantic telephone call, five seconds after I have spoken which means that timing of jokes and frivolities can be a little tricky. You deliver a punchline, pause for reaction and then, just as you are about to give up, a small section of the audience – those who get the joke – laugh politely.

The main purpose of the day was to drum up some entries for the Malvern/Moscow exchange so many participants brought sketches and ideas which continue to flood in – it will be a good thing and you should all come to the RHS Malvern Spring Festival to see what happens.

I have no idea why there is a chicken on the lollipop stall

We retire to a Chinese restaurant where all the waitresses are dressed up as members of the Red Guard which seems like an odd thing to celebrate. They jazz up their khaki uniforms with very red lipstick. The food is delicious and we then troop off to Red Square where there is a bustling Christmas Market and a skating rink – which was sadly barred to us as it had been booked for some spiffy private party for Prada (I think). We posed for many photographs – for that is one of Russia’s favourite national activities and Valenkis (felt snow boots as worn, if I remember rightly, by Solzhenitsyn in “A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch”) were bought for me. The snow is light but the air is a strange dry cold which seems innocuous at first but then gives you a headache and seeps into the bones.
It is fun and I dance with a group of people dressed as Christmassy Cossacks.

Wednesday
And home again – first breakfast in the hotel, an early cab through the appalling Moscow traffic, second breakfast in the Aeroflot Executuve lounge (hmmm.) Third breakfast (strictly speaking an early lunch*) on the aeroplane as we fly through clear skies over miles and miles of snow dusted birch forest. Then an equally fabulous approach to Heathrow all along the river from the Thames barrier. Every landmark is clear and glinting in the sunshine – I can even pick out my mother’s flat.
Then four trains and home again.
The time difference may only be three hours but I feel as if I have been pushed slowly but steadily through a mangle .

I am listening to Slow Movin’ Outlaw by Waylon Jennings.

The picture is of the Bolshoi theatre.

*Russians have a very charming way of saying lunch. ‘Then we will have a lunch…” pronounced larrrnch. Sometimes it is a “friendly larrrnch”.

My goodness, two blogposts in under a month: it is quite like the good old days when people used to read blogs and the world was not completely swamped with words.

Anyway it is that time of year again when I skip off to Moscow to judge the Moscow Flower Show. This will be the fifth year and it is always interesting – the gardens are usually a bit of a mixed bag but never dull. This is my week

Sunday:
Hampton Court for a recce, watch Iceland lose to France then return to the Teddington Travelodge. This is worth a brief mention as it is basically a multi storey car park with rooms and if possible should be avoided. There was a postcard on the bed which said (and I précis this rather than quote verbatim) ‘Welcome to the British summertime. For your convenience we have drawn your curtains to keep out the heat of the day, we have also removed your duvet and left you with a single sheet. We suggest that you open your window at night when the temperatures cool”. This is, we assume, in lieu of air conditioning

Monday is judging which was all very jolly. Then lunch, then feedback then drive home and try not to sleep on the M40.

Tuesday :
Fly to Moscow. Aeroflot this time which has it air crew in very jaunty orange uniform: like a group of Slavic satsumas. I am eating mushroom risotto and fried almonds followed by a perfectly passable tiramisu
Clouds are funny things’ all soft and fluffy to look at but as soon as you go into one in an aeroplane they get all uppity and shake you about in a most alarming way. I had my knee firmly grasped by the very large man next to whom I was sitting on a flight from Glasgow the other day as we lurched through a crowd. I think he was very embarrassed.

Wednesday :
Began with Russian pancakes, boiled sausages and Brussels sprouts but, more importantly, it was judgment day.

Eccentrically the rest of the panel had already judged in my absence so I was mostly on my own and then added my marks to theirs. This resulted in some slightly odd decisions which I had to moderate. There are some okay gardens and a couple of shockers but this is a very young show which needs time to find its place. It would be even better if everybody thought about things a little earlier – some garden applications did not arrive until June – which is not something that we would tolerate at the RHS!

Obviously, as this is Russia, we have to have dignitaries and speeches and a full blown awards ceremony with fanfares and clapping. I signed all the medal certificates and then, after a moment for a swift change of suiting, I showed the deputy British ambassador round the show. He was rather captivated by the idea of gardens uniting countries etc etc and it gave him a rest from talking about the Chilcott report to inquisitive Russian journalists.
We also had the minister of culture who made a longish speech* about something. Then various other people popped onto the stage and talked about how amazing everything was and how grateful we all are etc etc. Russians love a speech even more so if it is made by a government apparatchik. Then I made a speech and dished out medals: this involved two girls – one dressed in a Russian flag and one in a Union Jack – who darted forward and gave each winner a bunch of roses, a bag contains a book and some tea, another bag containing more tea and an MFS pen tidy. My job was to give out a certificate and kiss people when appropriate ** then there were more speeches and more certificates to everybody involved. This included the show’s pet Orthodox priest who has an amazing beard and comes every year to bless us all. He made a speech and was rewarded not only with the tea and roses but a Bosch cordless screwdriver.
Dinner followed in a former chocolate factory with a great view of the river.

Thursday:
I woke up this morning to a bit of a bit of a judging rumpus which always adds a bit of a frisson to proceedings. Facebook was jumping with a certain amount of disgruntlement so I had to pour a lot of oil on a lot of waters – if there had been a cormorant in the vicinity it would have been in trouble. I think all was fine in the end – the problem was that we gave one Best in Show rather than rewarding a best in each category of which there are many – Show, Russian, Balcony, Urban, Art, Chic,Trade etc etc. For some a Gold Medal is not enough…

Having done this I tootled off to give a seminar to the assembled designers and interested parties about judging and show gardens and garden design in general. It was a long seminar with many questions.
I am now also the (apparently) only foreign member of Russia’s largest ecological society. Founded 90 odd years ago by Lenin’s wife they are responsible for planting about 5 billion trees and do work to improve the street planting in towns and cities all over Russia. I have a very smart badge.

Lunch was bortsch and dumplings followed by more feedback. Then a couple of interviews and time for a very swift change and off to a Ukrainian restaurant for dinner. This involved a particular national speciality called, I think, sala. Paper thin slices of pig fat wrapped around a sliver of raw garlic – it melts in the mouth but I am not sure that I am in a hurry to eat it again. This was not all there were, I hasten to add, many delicious things that were less piggy in particular little savoury pastries called Pirojock which I could eat all day if called upon so to do.

More interestingly the restaurant was on the second floor and, on the other side of a glass partition was a large cow – chewing the cud and regarding the assembled diners with a look of abject scorn – a goat, a vast rabbit, some peacocks, a couple of golden pheasants and a very sturdy woman in national costume. It was very weird.

Friday
Home again, home again jiggetty jig via a certain amount of turbulence near Visby.

I am listening to Louise sin the Blue Moon by Alison Moorer.

*I have a very patient and diligent interpreter called Evgeny. He is a great pleasure to be with and is very good at his job. He also has an interesting mixture of pastimes. He looks very bland – which is his job as he is there to blend into the background – with a suit and tie but in his time off he has three cats, he reads an enormous amount, he goes to the gym and is a devotee of House dancing. He is a diamond.

** Russian social kissing involves three points of contact (right cheek, left cheek, right cheek again) so when you have thirty odd medals to give out and most of the awardees are women this takes quite a while and involves a lot of friction.

This is my Chelsea…

Saturday afternoon. Mooch around kissing people, chatting and looking at gardens. This takes some time but is generally very satisfactory. Out to eat noodles and then back to hotel.

Sunday morning. See above – there is an ulterior purpose to all this. I am not just there to hug people, you know. Apart from that being slightly unseemly in a man of my age I am there to prepare myself and get my eye in for garden judging tomorrow.
At midday we wander into a tent for sandwiches and the Presidential briefing. This is where members of council are told roughly what is expected of them over the next week – no public drunkenness, key messages and that sort of thing. We are also told which members of the Royal family are coming and to which one you have been assigned. Then there is more wandering and hugging before descending on the BBC enclosure for extra lunch and more chat.
Next I go off with Joe Swift and Sophie Raworth to do a short piece about garden selection. This happens on Jo Thompson’s garden and is frequently interrupted by helicopters, trolleys and random announcements. “We are looking for Mr Moby” must be code for something important as they really cannot be looking for the noted vegan 1990s dance music DJ.
I then go and get a haircut, change into a suit and return to give a tour to some potential major donors to the RHS.

Andy Sturgeon’s garden for The Daily Telegraph

Monday
Big day.
6.00 breakfast in the judging office before striding out for a jolly morning. Breakfast is a proper fry up.
Then we judge. It is warm (but not hot), there are disagreements, laughs, volte faces and compromises. There are fruit pastilles, conversations and the opportunity to learn things. It was a very good morning and I think we got the right results.
Then there is the President’s lunch. This is quite spiffy with good food and a speech (by no less than Lord Montagu of Don). I am sitting next to Mary Berry which is always a plus.
Then I take the grands fromages from M&G on a tour of the show gardens before being snaffled by the BBC for another little snippet with Sophie Raworth.
I then go and find cake: this is a tea thing put on for committee members and is one of the best things about Chelsea. Little cakes and a cup of tea away from the hurly burly while the celebrities and journalists are given the heave ho out of the showground.
Then it is time for the Royal visit. I am in command of Prince Andrew (who is a bit tedious) and his daughters (who were delightful). They are whisked around the show flitting in and out of gardens and exhibits before being deposited in a tent with all the other Royals where there are canapés served in terrariums. I have a conversation with the Queen – who is very small- and another with the Dof E about barbecues and the meaning behind my tie – see below- which was stripey and, apparently, the sure sign of an architect. Quite surreal.
I leave and go to bed: the Royals are still going strong.

Tuesday
I have not really been looking forward to this day as this is the day when we have to go round and give feedback to the designers, AKA Punch James in the head day. However, with power comes responsibility etc etc. This is pretty straightforward if they got a Gold medal (or if they are Diarmuid who does not really care what we say) but requires a good deal of both tact and accuracy if anything other than Gold is involved. This is a pity and one of the imbalances I am determined to right before I get chucked off the judging panel.
Silver Gilt is not a failure: Gold should be the reward for flawlessness
Lunch is a cup of coffee and a small biscuit.
Feedback takes most of the day although I finally escape to go and have tea with Lord Alan of Titchmarsh in the Dorchester tea tent. This is an odd experience as we are entertaining a couple of competition winners and the tea is magnificent. Finger sandwiches and then some amazing cakes all served by a host of young men in full soup and fish (as PG Wodehouse used to say) In other words, white tie and evening tailcoats.
I then peeled off to be given the third degree by Monty and Joe in their eyrie high above main avenue. I have no problem with this but 2.5minutes is not nearly long enough to get things answered and explained.

Wednesday
Breakfast at 6.00. This involves (obviously) getting up very early and going to the RHS bit – which consists of a series f tents by the Royal Hospital Road. It is from here that judging and organising is coordinated. We (the RHS Garden curators*, sundry bleary eyed council members and perky fundraisers) hang around waiting for sufficient numbers and then take groups around the show for an hour. It is virtually empty except for the cleaning staff, the odd designer watering things and some photographers waiting for the right light.
We all then return for a decent breakfast – including one of those buffets which contain cheese and which nobody really eats. No sooner have they all started tucking in and enjoying themselves that I stand up and ask them for money to support the invaluable work of the RHS. Seems to work quite well: even if it makes some of them choke on their sausages.
I then went back to bed and then went shopping where I bought two pairs of jeans, a jacket and a raincoat. And we got a free pair of socks partly because I wore a tie from T. Burrows on television (I have about a dozen of their ties – see above) but mostly because my darling wife is a red hot bargain striker.
We return for Hayley’s Secret Garden Party which is always jolly. This time my children came which was lovely. The best bit is ending up in the floral marquee with absolutely nobody else there apart from a couple of security guards. It is peaceful and a great privilege to wander amongst plants as the light fades away.

Joe Swift’s birthday – there is a cake made by my very talented daughter – Stromabakes for all your baking needs…

Thursday
See above for the beginning of the day. I was supposed to go on television again but was bounced off by Johnny Ball (bounced: geddit?) talking about maths. My grade one CSE was not considered sufficient qualification for disentangling the Fibonacci sequence.
I also went to an exhibitors’ lunch – which is put on as a thank you to designers, nursery folk and tradestanders – and hosted a mini seminar for potential show garden sponsors.
Finally Joe and I did a turn at a sponsorship event for Horatio’s garden.
I do a lot of talking during Chelsea week.

Friday
Last day. No breakfast. Instead we launch the BBC Local Radio competition. There are four winners (well, three and a team of four) each of whom are designing a garden at Hampton Court guided by Ann Marie and I. God help them. We make a noise on Ann-Marie’s garden and the BBC record proceedings: it is an interesting idea which will be fun to see evolve.

Then we go home. There is nothing better than falling into one’s own bed after a week away: and being woken by birds and not buses.

I am listening to Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat from Guys and Dolls.

* The RHS Garden Curators are there all week and work unbelievably hard with ridiculously little sleep. And with the added encumbrance of alcohol. It is almost a tribal rite of passage.

August is always a slightly flat month.

Most gardens are having a breather, people tend to swan off on holidays in exotic places where they dabble their toes in the ocean and drink things whose alcohol content is cunning disguised in a purée of papaya (I am looking at you Ann- Marie Powell). I tend to stay at home especially this year when this place is still a work in progress.

I have, however, decided that I am in danger of becoming slightly stale and as a result have decided that I need to go and visit some gardens. It is important to see stuff, otherwise there is the possibility of being so inverted in one’s view that you find yourself repeating the same combinations and making the same gardens. And that would be fearfully dull.

So, yesterday I tootled off to the Oxford Botanic Gardens where I was lucky enough to get a bit of a guided tour. It was my first visit – which just goes to show what a rubbish garden visitor I am – even though I have been to Oxford countless times in the last forty years. The first time was to visit a friend who lived in a bedsit on the high street (I think he was retaking an A level) where we used to boil eggs in the electric kettle – the secret is to suspend them above the element in a handkerchief: a trick I have never forgotten- but never used.

Anyway, let us return to the point. The Oxford Botanic Gardens has been there since the seventeenth century (i) and is basically a learning garden. There are family beds where the plants are all laid out according to botanical leanings. I am not sure whether this is the place for a lecture in basic botany ( nor am I sure that I am the person best qualified to deliver such a lecture bearing in mind that I got an E in ‘O’ level biology) but plants are classified by kingdom, phylum,class, series, family, genus & species. You have the internet, look it up… There are other beds that edge towards the physic garden where the plants are laid out according to the diseases they are used to treat – oncology, haematology etc etc. All this is all very well but there is no indication anywhere of this – I only know because I have seen such things before and I was told by the director.

This is an interesting point – none of us really want to have our garden visiting interrupted by ginormous signs and interpretation boards but in some cases a bit of guidance would be helpful. Otherwise there is a danger that people wander past and think that such and such a bed is really just a badly planted, mismatched border rather than an aid to scholarship. I think the problem is that the intellectual heft of all concerned is such that they naturally assume that everybody is as clever as they are and of course they will understand: in reality most of the paying visitors are after a nice walk, some flowers and somewhere to eat their sandwiches.

That may all sound a bit tart but it is not intended to be – the plants are healthy and to the point, the beds are crisply edged with good quality steel and the surrounding walls and architecture is, of course, amazing. Sometimes gardens and parks in cities are intended to be a refuge from the surrounding buildings – not so here where the glimpses of towers and spires are an important part of the garden. Mind you, Oxford is not Hull.(ii)

Further on is a fine vegetable garden – whose produce is taken to the homeless shelter – a good stacked herbaceous border and some slightly tired glasshouses containing some really good plants. I liked the wet house in particular with its crowd of Amazon lilies, papyrus and other things that I did not recognise but were satisfyingly damp and steamy. The cactus greenhouse, however, was a bit shabby. I think the plan is to replace all of them soon but before that can happen then some serious funds must be raised. Oxford, like every garden/museum/monument/church/public institution is short of cash for things that are not considered, by some, essential.

At this time of year, however, the main event are the Merton borders which are fizzing with prairie goodness. Echinacea, Solidagos, Eryngiums, Grasses, Silphiums (iii) and the rest. It is the work of the good Prof, James Hitchmough. He has done some amazing work in many places – most notably in the Olympic park in East London – his work is always spectacular and looks much easier than it actually is- to establish such a thing from seed involves a lot of sterilisation, weeding, sand beds, jute nets and small bags of very expensive seed. The question is that for a proportion of the year this sort of planting looks, if I may be frank, a bit shit. The dilemma is whether you water down the joyful spectacularness of the summer months in order to give the visitors something to look at in the off months. One problem I have always had with gardens is the urge to have ‘year round interest’ which invariably means giving over some of your precious space to hefty evergreens which look unutterably dreary during the summer months.

This style of gardening tends to have a different problem – amazing in summer but a bit rubbish in winter and spring. I know that there will be seedbeds to shimmer in the frost (I have written lots of pieces like that) but have you ever counted the number of days when the frost is sufficiently dry and cold to enable said shimmering? Last winter there were none and most years there are maybe three or four. Unless of course you live somewhere properly cold. I also understand that it needs to be a bit barren in early spring in order to make maintenance simpler – they run over the borders with a blowtorch to burn off pesky weeds. The other problem is that if you introduce trees or shrubs then you get higher shade and the mixtures have to be tweaked which may interfere with the geographical purity of the scheme.

Tricky: but finding an answer will be interesting.

So (iv), in summary a very interesting and exciting garden to visit, you should all go if you get the chance. The parking is non-existent but the gardens are only short hop from everywhere. Reminder to self – get out more. Also try to pick a less grey day – borders like this need blue skies. Website here.

I am listening to Pick up the Tempo by Waylon Jennings.

(i) Oddly there is a yew there which bears a sign saying it was planted in, I think, 1645 which makes it three hundred and something years old. I was very struck by how slim it was for its age. I rather expected it to be at least thickening around the midriff as it sloped into middle age. Not at all, it remained slim and toned.

(ii) you see, unlike other blogs, if you come here you get deeply insightful geographically based philosophy.

(iii) which the spellcheck on my iPad reads as ‘dolphins’. Not the same thing at all.

(iv) I know. I also was told that was bad form to start a sentence with “So”. Tough. My sentence, my choice.

“In one minute I bring you cake.”

This is a phrase to lighten the heart of a chap. In this case it is uttered by a very slinky blonde air stewardess 30,000 feet above Poland en route to Moscow. It says a lot about my stage of life that the idea of cake is marginally more alluring than the stewardess.

I am travelling once again to the Moscow Flower Show this time with Transaero Airlines. This is not a company of which I had previously heard but they boast on their website of winning an award for Most Improved Airline so I must be grateful that I did not fly with them the first time I came to Russia. That was three years ago when I flew BA and had a full length bed in which to cavort. The next time was Aeroflot and not quite so luxurious. This time it is Transaero. My stock is obviously diminishing. However, as the flight is only 3.5 hours I reckon I can cope.

The in flight entertainment system is interesting. A screen flips down from the ceiling but it only has one channel showing a cartoon in Russian. The cartoon seems to involve handsome princes with improbably barrel chests; the ending will, not doubt, be happy but I am not sure that I have the patience to stick with it to the end. Instead I am going to read Raymond Chandler and watch Cat Ballou.

I have had lunch. Duck confit with something which is described on the menu as “coffee mustard jam” and a strange chicken thing with red potatoes which were very difficult to spear with the fork provided – I suppose that there must be a rule about blunt tines to avoid stabbings. Oddly the coffee-mustard jam was quite good – perhaps the fact that there appeared to be not a trace of coffee helped matters.

Arriving in Moscow is much the same as arriving in any airport anywhere except that the passport control people seem to look much harder at you than in other airports.

Day Two: Judging day at the Moscow Flower Show.
At Chelsea the judges usually assemble at about 6:30 to look over the notes and eat bacon sandwiches, we then sally forth and judge 17 gardens in time for lunch. In Russia things are a little different.
My schedule for today reads:
10:00 Judging commences
12:30 Official opening and press briefing.
13:30 Interviews
15:15 Break. return to hotel.
18:30 Gala evening (Cocktail dresses)
Which sounds perfectly manageable.
The reality is much more interesting.

10:00 A wander around getting my bearings and finding out a bit about the gardens. There are 31 of them so if we were to judge them all by 12:30 then we would get 4minutes on each garden which seems quite tight!
11:00 We are still waiting for one of the judges to turn up.
11:30 We start judging. There are lively discussions and lots of sparkiness. All good.
12:30 Official opening to the press. Judging is halted: we have managed five gardens, it is very hot. There are a number of speeches in Russian ( I have a delightful interpreter called Evgeny who whispers a translation in my ear) and then I suddenly hear my name being called so hurriedly rush onto the stage and add my speech to the growing heap of welcoming words.
13:30 I give interviews to various television stations, newspapers, websites and a magazine called Snob. My co-judges are similarly occupied.
14:15 One of my judges has to go to work so leaves. We carry on judging. Another judge has to go and give another interview so we are down to four.
15:15 Lunch is announced so we all trek off to the other end of the park for a very welcome break. It is still very hot. You may recall that this was the time designated for return to hotel, quick snooze, change and back for the gala.
16:00 Back to work. The missing judge has returned but we have now lost another one due to heatstroke.
19:00 Finally we finish judging. Medals are listed and allocated.
19:30 Gala (I am unchanged and not very cocktaily) in which various Muscovite glitterati wander around and we eat cold meats on skewers. Clive Boursnell (the photographer) and I have a cup of tea.
20:30 I may have made a speech but I cannot quite remember.
22:00 Taxi.

Day Three: Today I have done various things.
I have been rained upon.
I have helped to open the Flower Show to the public by sharing a podium with the Culture minister and the deputy mayor of Moscow.I made a speech.
I have given an interview to a journalist who was convinced that I was Prince Harry’s gardener. It seemed a shame to disabuse her.
I then went to Moscow’s 24 hour television channel where I gave an interview about urban greening to a shiny suited journalist called Ivan. We sat on opposite sofas in a huge studio. The conversation was very stilted as I would say something and wait for it to be translated for him, then he would say something and wait for it to be translated for me. It does not make for snappy repartee.
I had fish soup for lunch.
I made another speech and announced the winners of the medals – they were given out along with goody bags and huge bunches of Ecuadorian roses.
I then listened to more speeches.
I then made another, very short, speech.
I sat on a comfortable sofa and talked about museums and the restoration of imperial palaces.
I wandered around the show giving feedback.
I then danced with the show director to Mr Sandman.
I ate some rather delicious stuffed Russian buns. This is always a highlight – buns with spinach, buns with egg, buns with something obscure and buns with apple.
I drank some filthy pumpkin juice.
I went back to the hotel.

Day three
No speeches from me today which came as a bit of a relief to all concerned.
Gave out more feedback before being whisked off to the largest children’s hospital in Moscow to look at potential sites for gardens. It consists of a grid of early 20th century buildings surrounded by dour patches of grass and trees. I was photographed with the director who is delightful even though he looks a little intimidating.

Launch of a new variety of rose. More speeches.
It is French day at the show so the French trade attaché is being feted.
More time on the comfortable sofa this time with a very insistent client.
Off to Red Square and the Kremlin for a bit of touristing. Trundle around the metro a bit.

Day 4
It is raining. Hard. Lots of it.Proper old fashioned superpower rain.
I am going to the airport in the care of a taxi driver who is treating these monsoon conditions with disdain. As a result there is quite a lot of aquaplaning and nervous gripping of the upholstery.
We get there unscathed and return home. Quite knackered but in time for Hampton Court and to see my friend Ann-Marie Powell win a Gold Medal. Hurrah.

I am listening to Melancholy Polly by Alison Moorer. The picture is of a fountain in the Alexander Park by the Kremlin. You have to walk under these jets of water behind these enormously muscular horses bottoms. There has to be a metaphor in there somewhere.

When we first bought Blackpitts – way back in 1992 – it was a bit bleak. Architecturally it had nothing to trouble Norman Foster, horticulturally there was nothing much except nettles and there was no wildlife. Except rats and starlings.

Since we have been here more and more creatures have moved in – although the starlings left pretty quickly (we mended the bargeboards and in the process inadvertently evicted them: haven’t seen one since). The first year there was a massive influx of ladybirds and everything else has followed. We have hedgehogs, toads, frogs, newts, butterflies, moths, aphids (of every colour), rabbits, squirrels and muntjac etc etc (1).

We also have birds in abundance: I was always a bit bored by birds but I am beginning to see the point. My grandfather used to feed the birds every afternoon at about 4.00: he sat on a bench with his pipe and a tin of peanuts while various tits and robins would come and feed from his hand.(2)

The presence of all this thriving wildlife rather backs up my principle (about which I drivel on occasionally in lectures) that it doesn’t matter much what you plant provided to plant something. It doesn’t necessarily have to be native, it just has to be alive.

If you plant things, wildlife will come.

Anyway, swallows…. they are the most divine of birds much more interesting than, say a common Dunnock,(3). They moved in a few years ago and now nest in almost all of the various barns and sheds that surround us We spend an inordinate amount of time watching them swoop and chat and swerve (occasionally they dive in through my office door but and generally pretty unimpressed and leave soon afterwards). In the evening light they are particularly enchanting as the setting sun catches the reddish bits under their chins. The Creator must have been in a very good mood the day he (or she) invented Swallows. I can’t think of many other birds that are quite as enchanting.(4)

I went to a sensational garden on Thursday: Waltham Place in Berkshire. If you have not been then you should clear a space in your diary as soon as you can. It is open to the public on Fridays.Unless you are a group. It is owned by the Oppenheimers (the diamond people) and the garden was planted by Henk Gerritson starting in 1999. The structure of the garden is, I think, mostly Edwardian with stone edged ponds and brick pergolas draped with magnificent climbing roses. The planting that Mr Gerritson has inserted amongst these bones is light and airy and naturalistic (in a very good way). There is one garden full of Persicaria polymorpha (an excellent plant if you have space) and Telekias (that I thought were Inulas until I was put right by Toby and Chris Marchant from Orchard Dene). Another with fennel and Delphiniums and Sorrel etc etc etc. Go and see for yourselves, I can’t be expected to tell you everything!

It was organised by the estimable Tim Richardson and Dr.Noel Kingsbury (5) as a jaunt and a chance to hear some very earnest German designers talk about their work. We also had a very good dinner although, having arrived late (from seeing charming pug owning potential client) I also had to leave early.

Before pudding which was a slight blow.

I took some pictures but was told by the ever law abiding moral sentinel Ann-Marie Powell that I was not supposed to: I must have missed the sign. Do you think it is okay to put them on this Blog? Probably not, so I won’t except for this one of a Wisteria that could be absolutely anywhere.

I am very grateful to Susan Cohan who very kindly chose this Blog for her “From My Reader..” series. Susan is a thoughtful and experienced designer who works in New Jersey. She is also very sound on biscuits: Mallomars, in particular.

Interesting thing Blogging: I like to think that I write this stuff mostly because I rather enjoy writing and like a gentle chunter along my own synapses. Nobody pays me and nobody chases deadlines. I am, however, flattered that anybody reads it and – like most bloggers – get a slight spinal frisson every time somebody leaves a comment. It took a long time before anybody left one: I have sadly lost all the comments on my earliest posts so I cannot remember my actual deflowering.

In a perfect life I would like to see ten comments per post: that makes me happy. More than that is lovely . Less than that, and I begin to worry that I am being uncommentworthy and dull: which is a bit sad really. I shouldn’t really be bothered if the odd post gets two or three comments, after all most people have a long list of better things to do with their time (vi). I suppose that deep down (or not very deep down actually) I am really only writing to satisfy my own ego and blogging is really a big showy off thing. “Look at this, I wrote it. Say nice things please”.

I am about to migrate this Blog to a shiny WordPress site (the embryonic version is here) so I will probably have to tell you all lots of times. Sorry.

Four years ago I wrote really short posts, like this one.

Three years ago I was playing cricket: I am doing so again on Saturday although sadly not in the Gardeners world v River Cottage grudge match in Devon. Mine will be more civilised but I will miss the chance of seeing Mark Diacono struck in the box by one of Carol Klein’s nastier off-breaks. They will also almost certainly have more pork products available. You can go if you wish, details here.

The picture is of Echinops ritro flowers: I thought they looked a little other worldly.(7)

I am just listening to Bjork which is punishment enough for anyone. A track called Earth Intruders which starts off like the jungle book then there is some discordant wailing mixed with cowbells and it ends with a number of ships’ foghorns. I am unsure why I have not yet deleted this track from my library. Thank goodness it has just changed to Al Green singing Let’s Stay together.

These last three are not welcome in flower beds and run the risk of elimination should they transgress. Wildlife is all very well up to a point and a rabbit is definitely it.
My other experience with birds was via a friend of mine who is an obsessive bird watcher (he even runs birdwatching holidays from his hotel in Portugal). This always struck me as odd as at one point in our lives he was a particularly unsavoury motorcycle messenger. He had a disgusting sleeveless denim jacket that he wore over his leathers: enormous pride and prestige was wrapped up in how much oil and filth the garment retained. My mother washed and ironed it when he was staying with us: he never really recovered.
This does not mean that I have anything against Dunnocks, per se. I am convinced that they are useful members of society and loved by their mothers.
Although various tits (in particular blue,coal and long tailed), green woodpeckers, partridges, wrens, robins, ducklings and blackbirds are also charming. Actually, before I get into an argument, they are all charming except maybe Vultures (although they are quite useful if you have any carrion lying around).
I should add that Dr Kingsbury holds a horticultural doctorate and is absolutely the wrong fellow to question about any ailments from which you may suffer.
Toenail varnishing, for example, or exfoliation. Cleaning out livestock, washing up and lying in the sun drinking gin are also high up on the list of alternative activities.
You will have noticed an excess of footnotes here. This is because the excellent Cornflowerbooks said on Twitter that she liked footnotes (viii) and I try to keep everybody happy. Any requests?
I think she is a she but am not absolutely certain not having had the pleasure of being introduced