I am not a Catholic but quite enjoy a good mass. Ideally with a generous puff of incense and a bit of Gregorian chant. I also quite like the bit where the priest thumps his chest and pronounces his fault, his most grevious fault. I am borrowing that to apologise for my most grevious fault in not writing this blog for really quite a long time. Nearly a year which really is a bit much even though I am not vain enough to think that anybody is losing much sleep over this. I would be very worried if anybody’s first act on waking was to check to see if there had been any hot blog action overnight. If there is such a person then this is your lucky day…
What has happened in the last year? quite a lot really, far too much to outline here. I do have two thoroughly nice things that have happened this year that I would like to mention. It is a little immodest but hope you will excuse the indulgence.
Basically I have been given two awards both of which come with shiny badges which, as everyone knows, are the best sort of awards. They both come from the RHS, a charity whose work I admire and with which I have been involved for the past decade or so.
Shiny badge number one is because I am now a Vice President of the RHS. There are about twenty of us and we hover about adding tone and being useful where possible. It is quite small and discreet (seen here with a Maynards Sports Gum in the shape of a tennis racket for scale). Apart from the badge I also get tickets to Chelsea Flower show press day for ever (or for the rest of my life – whichever comes sooner.)
The second is even shinier and comes both as a medal for displaying somewhere (currently on my desk ), a certificate and a badge for wearing at important events (currently I have only worn it while being filmed on a hillside in Wales for the One Show – it rained a lot, mostly carried horizontally by a high wind off a hill and it was a bit like being pebbledashed ). “Why have they given it to you?” I hear you ask. That is a very valid point and by way of explanation I quote verbatim from the RHS website…
”The Veitch Memorial Medal may be awarded annually to persons of any nationality who have made an outstanding contribution to the advancement of the science and practice of horticulture.”
So you can see why I am quite chuffed.
The picture is of reflections in a muddy pond (one that we have just cleared and which was rumoured to contain the remains of an old hearse – this proved to be sadly untrue although there was a large steel tank, the carcass of a van and lots of string).
I am listening to Liza Minelli.
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.
Assorted judges.
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
There were many selfies…
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 gave a talk the other day to assorted nursery people on the loose subject of Social media. One of my points was that if you have a blog on your website then you must update it otherwise it looks as if you do not give a fig. “It is better to have no blog at all than one that seems neglected” I thundered. I then noticed that I had not updated mine since before Christmas so thought I had better do a bit of practising what I preach. In my defence I did write one on my first day back at my desk after Christmas about what total tosh the various New Year guides to garden trends were but then I forgot to post it and the moment has now safely passed.
This blog is over twelve years old now and I have witnessed the bell curve of blogs. When I started we were a small and tight knit band of bloggers: nobody knew we were there – if you remember social media did not really exist in 2006. Facebook was invented in 2004 but Twitter not until after the birth of this blog. People did not spend all train journeys on their telephones as the smart phone did not invade our lives until June 2007. It was a different, possibly more innocent, time. Then there was a surge of interest, blog posts regularly got fifty of sixty comments and more and more people jumped onto the moving train. From that peak blogging has rather faded away as our attention spans get shorter, video became easy and podcasts arrived. Too many things to distract so nobody really reads stuff any longer. I don’t know how many people read this blog as I have never been that interested in statistics, I have nothing to sell and it is mostly a way for me to fritter away time that should be spent more commercially.
Anyway, this particular post is to draw your attention to the RHS Orchid Show and Plantfair which begins on Thursday evening in the Horticultural Halls, Vincent Square: it looked empty yesterday but I am assured that it will fill up with nurseries and gin and stuff. It runs until Saturday evening and is, as the name suggests, stuffed to the gunwales with Orchids of every sort, shape and parentage. In addition there is a slightly less exotic corner where the RHS asked me to do a rehash of the garden I made at Chelsea Flower Show last year. Some of you may remember the garden, it was on the subject of sound and was one of the Radio2 Feelgood Gardens.
Rather than redo the same thing I decided to do a little twist so we are making a leaf strewn woodland floor which will shiver as if the leaves were being kissed by a gentle breeze or disturbed by a restless Dryad stirring just beneath the surface. It is quite odd to build a garden on a table in a hall – although there are many advantages, not least that we are safely tucked away out of the rain.
The leaf moving is under the care of the always smiling Pär, Seb and Rossana who leap around in that annoyingly energetic way young people do tweaking sound waves, tapping on laptops and scooting under the table with screwdrivers and wires as if they were grease monkeys under Cadillacs.
I suggest that you come and see us and the orchids. There will be talks – one by me probably, food, shelter from the weather and, I believe, gin. Entrance costs a fiver for all – this has caused certain RHS members to grumble but it costs quite a lot to put these shows on, money that should be better spent on more useful charitable interests. To ask five pounds is not exactly unreasonable. It is the same as have just paid for a cup of coffee and a pain au raisin in Bicester Village railway station.
I am listening to Glen Miller’s “Falling Leaves” which seemed appropriate. The small picture is of some mud – in which the outside world is covered.
Well that was a jolly jape….. Chelsea Flower Show, I mean. It was fun, interesting and only slightly stressful. At least the garden designing bit was relatively straight forward – the judging bit was considerably more eventful!
Eighteen years ago I did a Chelsea show garden for the Daily Express. This was before it became a complete rag but after its glory days as the voice of middle class post war respectability. The circumstances were strangely coincidental and unplanned – the short version of the story is that we used to rent a room to people wanting somewhere to stay for the Silverstone Grand Prix.
As a result in 1998 I found myself lolling on the lawn chatting to a chap who, it transpired, was the editor of the aforementioned rag.
“You do a garden at Chelsea don’t you?”
“We do” he admitted- they had done one for many years at that point.
“Can I do next year’s?” I enquired
“Okay” he said
And that was pretty much that…
So I did a garden in 1999 which I liked (although the judges did not) and was the last time that the Express ever sponsored anything at Chelsea
Whether this is a coincidence or not is for others to decide although, to be honest, I have a bit of a track record when it comes to prematurely ending things. No television series I have contributed to has ever been recommissioned and there is an argument that I may have killed off makeover television programmes. An act which some would see as a blessing …..
Anyway, fast forward eighteen years and the telephone rings at the end of March(ish).
“Hullo” ring out the youthful tones of Tom Harfleet, Chelsea Show Manager, Head of Shows Development at the RHS and general good oeuf
“Hullo Thomas, what’s up?”
“Would you like to design a Show garden for Chelsea?”
“This year?”
“Yes. Unjudged and sponsored by the RHS and Radio2 “
“Let me think about it”.
“Okay. Bye”
Click.
Picture: Fiona Silk
Time passes as I consider the situation, weigh up the pros and cons, examine my diary, consult my office and family, evaluate the time required, make lists and generally consider my options. I am playing hard to get…
Twenty minutes later I ring back and say yes. As a result I have found myself designing and sorting a show garden in double quick time. Actually a lack of lead time concentrates the mind admirably and means that there is less time for worry and everything is more spontaneous. The initial plant list consists of me wandering around Hortus Loci seeing what looks good, the hard landscaping is minimal and I found some admirable trees in the back lot at Crocus. The garden’s official title is the Zoe Ball Listening Garden I think it turned out okay.
Actually I am being uncharacteristically modest- it was fabulous: it was a garden about sound where you could see and feel the music but not hear it. There were speakers underwater that made phenomenally beautiful patterns and speakers under the ground that made the earth shake. The visitor put a foot on the gravel and felt a vibration shudder up their leg in a way that was not entirely relaxing. The planting was green and lush – the general idea was to create a mildly sinister woodland glade… Of course no Show garden is a solo effort so my thanks to Rossana, Seb and Pår for sound, to Fiona Silk for drawings and project management and to Humaira, Steph and Frank for planting. Also to all the lovely people who stood on the garden during Show week giving out leaflets and getting hot.
My favourite review of the garden is from the Shanghai Daily who said
“At a garden nearby, cabbages and salads are arranged in neat rows to “recreate the feeling when you stand too close to a speaker stack at a concert — the sensation of music reverberating through your whole body,” said designer James Alexander Sinclair.” Now that would be something….
But all things must pass and now it has disappeared into memory. Who knows how long it will be until I do another show garden?
In 18 years I will be seventy-five so it might be sensible not to wait that long.
I am listening to the rooks in the garden.
This may well be the shortest blog I have ever written.
It is not about President Trump. Nor is about the John Lewis advertisement, Christmas, Autumn leaves or kittens. I have not spared a thought for stewed fruit, the drawbacks of triple cooked chips or small kittens let loose in a wool shop.
Instead it is to draw your attention to the fact that I am giving a seminar in Moscow on 29th November. It will, I presume, be a bit chilly but with luck it will also be stuffed with happy Russian designers, nurseries, horticulturists and students. I also hope for a smattering of potential sponsors because it is all about preparing for next year’s Moscow Flower Show.
The show, which I have judged since its inauguration five years ago, is generally marvellous but needs a bit of a shove to get it to the next level. So two things will happen – I will do quite a lot of talking and looking at show gardens old and new to give inspiration and encouragement to the assembled masses.
Secondly we will talk about a very interesting new exchange programme where one design from a Russian designer will be chosen to be built at the RHS Malvern Spring Festival. The delightful folk in Malvern will give the lucky person a grant and will help in every way they can. The finished garden will take its place centre stage amongst the other gardens in early May.
As a reciprocal arrangement one of the gardens from Malvern will be chosen to be built at the Moscow Flower Show (29th June – 9th July 2017). The equally delightful people in Moscow will also give a grant and turn somersaults to help a British designer exhibit at their show.
It will be an adventure for both parties.
So that is my intention. Why am I telling you this? because I want the word spread near and far so that we can have a seminar buzzing with ideas and excitement and you might just know a Russian designer who might like to attend.
Likewise, one of you out there might fancy a bit of a jaunt to Moscow – a city which is indefatigably energetic. So if you fancy taking a garden there then the first thing you should do is apply for space at the RHS Malvern Spring Festival (11th-14th May 2017).
I am listening to Temenuschka Vesselinova playing a Mozart sonata.
The picture is of some cedar cones.
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.
Hugo Bugg for Royal Bank of Canada
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.
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.
Kevock Garden Plants
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.
Hooray. It is only a month since I last posted here.
I really do not understand spam.
This blog has always had some of the stuff but recently much more has slipped past the electronic equivalent of the Group Four security guards. It used to be very simple – a clamour of sites usually trying to sell me, ahem, ‘augmentation’ pills. Now it seems much more complicated and involves a number of different approaches…
Flattery – this blog is amazing. It has given me an insight into the world that I have not found elsewhere.
Caring: It is important to be under direct medical supervision when dieting. Tea is safer than several small incisions.
Helpful: Your website may be having browser problems: in Internet Explorer they may be some overlapping.
Grateful: This is a cool and useful bit of information.
Critical: This blog is good but it has a lot of spelling mistakes.
Busy; Great information. I have saved it for later
Technical: Your Google rankings are rubbish.
Business like: Would you be interested in doing a guest post on my blog (which was about dumpster rental in Philadelphia).
More criticism: Your content is great but have you thought of changing the layout on your blog to allow more content?
Cheeky: Can you help me stop my blog being bombarded with spam? any tips
Weird: Religion may also be a reason for divorce rates increasing, Today the Hygienitech Mattress Cleaning System is the worldwide leader inn providing environmentally friendly mattress cleaning equipment.
Confusing: I do know what I will be stitching and wearing this spring and summer!
Supportive but confusing: Wonderful issues altogether, you just received a brand new reader. What may you suggest about your post that you made some days in the past? Any positive?
As an example I quote directly from a spam blog comment that appears to want me to buy a jacket – “Insert the yardstick, leaving about 8 inches for the handle. Tape around the sword and handle in moncler paris a figure eight pattern to hold the stick in place. Decorate moncler jackets the handle.”
Or: We spend about $40 on gas for personal use per week, putting $20 per week in our vehicles. His car gets better miles per gallon than my jeep, but I drive less than 5 miles to and from work everyday. If I would run low on gas, I would plan to either borrow his vehicle or ride my bike to work, however, that hasn’t happened yet..”
Another: – “But traditionally, those children borne by legal wives and concubines and those who were adopted are all designated and ranked differently, indicating their order of significance and influence.”
Attached to the various comments are links trying to sell me everything from ice cream makers, cartoons, Instagram followers, travel bags, vibration platforms,pressure washers, YouTube channels, ceiling fans, nudie jeans and, of course, ways to enlarge those areas that need enlarging.
How does this sort of thing benefit anybody? I am sure that somebody, somewhere is making money and I understand that if you sent a million people an email (net cost pretty much zero) and two buy something then you are quids in but how does bombarding a blog such as mine with a modest readership work? Especially as most of it gets caught in a filter – at the time of writing there are 3,632 such messages wriggling in my spam folder gasping their last.
I am bamboozled.
On the same subject when was the last time you actually ate some Spam? as in the proper stuff named as an acronym of ‘Spiced Ham’ or ‘Shoulders of pork and ham’. (Although it might not stand for either of those things – nobody in the know has ever said). When a hungry child at boarding school I would eat pretty much anything and one of the luncheons provided was a slice of spam with some lettuce, half a tomato and ready access to a bottle of salad cream.
A few years ago, an older, less hungry and (perhaps) wiser person, I decided to try spam again. It was horrible: those intervening years of restaurants, excellent home cooking and occasional puddings had ruined my tastebuds. No longer would I be excited by the flabby rubberiness of a slice of processed pork.
Life is full of such disappointments.
I have not, you will be relieved to know, spent all of my time worrying about spam. I have also been doing busy things the most exciting of which was flying off to Glasgow to look at the site for the new Horatio’s Garden at the spinal unit in Southern General Hospital. I have written lots about it on my Crocus Blog here so will not repeat myself.
What else? Oh. I bought a house, a rather nice house that will hopefully be both nicer and more habitable by the summer which is when we hope to move in. I have also helped finalise the show gardens for both Chelsea and Malvern Spring Festival and planted two and a half gardens. And some other stuff which I will not go into as most people will probably not have got this far anyway as they would have been put off by all the drivel about spam.
I know I would have left by now.
I am listening to You Can’t Outrun ‘Em by Jenny Lewis. The pictures is are of some very handsome Gloucester Old Spot pigs – a little tasteless perhaps when talking about spam but there you go.
I have been to Devon which is usually a pleasure but this visit was particularly delightful.
At least it became delightful once I got there after much panicky rushing about missing the train due to a bit of a snarl up on the A34. I am really bad at getting to places on time: I always leave it too late and often end up a puffing, sweaty, breathless heap having run across pedestrian bridges and through underpasses in order to fling myself into trains at the very last moment. At least I only missed one train. I have, in the past, missed a train, waited an hour for the next one and then missed that one as well because I was too involved in a slightly sub-human chocolate Brownie.
Anyway, the purpose was to visit the RHS garden at Rosemoor in the company of the divine Hayley Monckton, the delicious Juliet Roberts (editor of Gardens Illustrated), the delectable Laura Tibbs and some lanky gingery bloke who smelt faintly of cider and Szechuan peppers. The chap who won best in show at Chesea last year was also invited but declined so he is now persona non grata until he comes up with generous presents for all. It was the logical extension of a visit I wrote about a while ago about the Wisley Six. This was the Rosemoor Five, six if you include the curator, Jon Webster, who showed us round. Here is a photograph of us drinking tea – and, in my case, looking uncharacteristically camp.
Rosemoor was given to the RHS in 1988 by Lady Anne Palmer. The existing gardens were extended to a plan by the current RHS President Elizabeth Banks and are now visited by 100,000 people every year. It is in a very lovely spot, all snuggled up in a long valley surrounded by mature trees and overlooked by the village of Great Torrington . The gardens have been divided into sections by a collection of beautifully clipped hedges- some Holly, some box, some yew and some privet. There are rose gardens, late summer flower gardens, a cracking winter garden, foliage gardens, arboreta, vegetable gardens, a cottage garden (with wedding venue arbour), woodlands, allotments, a nascent Forest garden etc etc etc. All the things that one would expect and more: and things one would not necessarily expect like Action Man in a rowing boat.
The thing about RHS gardens – and this is a bad thing if one is looking a them from the narrow viewpoint of pure design – is that their destiny is to be a little bit of everything. This is their purpose and raison d’être: to ensure that anybody visiting not only enjoys the gardens but learns something. The garden is intended to be something for everyone and as such it loses some cohesion: that is not to say that parts of it are not very well designed it is just that it is in the nature of such things to be a little disjointed. However, it does fulfil its intention and, as such, can be considered a huge success. It is well cared for, extremely beautiful in parts and feels much less starchy than Wisley (that may be partly because of the rather stern brickwork of the latter) and is a very laid back place to be. Particularly impressive were the fruit gardens (although we would, naturally, never have dreamt of picking any) and the light which was staggeringly lovely. And the ice cream.
We then dined in a pub where we seemed to be the only punters: according to the cidery chap people in Devon start a bit later and the pub was likely to be buzzing by 10:30. Either that or nobody liked to be seen anywhere near us. We ate enormous steaks and quite a lot of pudding before returning to the Best Western in Tiverton. A fine day out although without clotted cream.
Still on the RHS thing I have also sat on the selection panel for next year’s Chelsea Flower Show. We spent a very interesting day trawling through the Show Gardens submissions. With this I have to operate the same principle as the Council meetings: i.e. I cannot really tell you what was discussed so will concentrate on the food, we had an interesting lunch out of lacquered Bento boxes. But without chopsticks. Suffice to say, there will be some very good gardens next year: designed and built by some fine folk. There, that is possibly the most non-committal and anodyne thing I have written in a while.
I have also been to Lancashire. Three hours there, three hours back and an hour talking about the garden. I don’t really mind that provided that I don’t have to drive. I try to get a fair bit of stuff done on the train- writing, emailing, reading all that stuff but also think it very important that the last half hour is spent watching a film.On this occasion I indulged myself with Ice Cold In Alex. I had forgotten how closely Anthony Quayle’s shorts teeter on the obscene: any slackness in his underwear and the entire veldt would have been on safari. As you can perhaps appreciate from this screen grab….
What else have I to report? an avalanche of plant lists has just descended upon me. Not suddenly, but I have been ignoring them and can do so no longer with impunity. In fact I must now take my finger from the dyke (i) and do them right now without delay or further hindrance.
While I do them I will listen to Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings singing Mama Don’t Like My Man.
The picture is of backlit Phlomis russeliana at Rosemoor.
(i) Honi Soit Qui May Y Pense.
Today I attended my first RHS Council Meeting. In diligent preparation, I read whole wedges of paper about importantly important things. Some of them are stamped Confidential in large red letters. Being in the Cabinet must be a little like this, except without the sexy red leather boxes and the official Jaguars. I was rather looking forward to the experience in a slightly scared, top diving board sort of a way and it did not disappoint. There were biscuits (of good quality although mostly plain and without chocolate) and superior sandwiches/fruit for lunch. I will add the provision of proper chocolate biscuits to my list of campaigns:along with my selfless drive to improve the fudge selection at Wisley.
Apart from that: it is September, my clients have returned from holiday and the incipient panic that I foresaw in my previous post (which is here for those of with short memories or who are new arrivals at this blog) is erupting into life. Joy all round.
Currently I am searching for a tulip: the never ending and ultimately fruitless search for the perfect tulip. Every year I buff up my shining armour, buckle on my trusty cuirass and venture off into the various catalogues and low dives frequented by bulbs. I like to find something new otherwise one becomes complacent and dull by falling into the same tried and trusted combinations. There are always a few without which I cannot live happily (most notably the incomparable White Triumphator and the knee trembling Ballerina: both lily flowered and divine). Apart from them I try and discover a new one that gets drizzled into the general mix of things. In recent years I have gone through (among others) Jan Reuss (which, interestingly, fades to the colour of an emerging Queen of the Night), Negrita, Orange Princess, West Point (very briefly in a fit of madness as a yellow tulip is a pointless thing), Tennessee, Flaming Spring Green and Dolls Minuet.
There are certain rules that should be observed, I think, when considering tulips (forgive me is this is getting a bit horticultural but I am certain that I will return to general nonsense about biscuits or prehensile strippers at some point very soon). Firstly, I think the simpler shapes are the most effective (although I am quite drawn to Antraceit and Black Hero which are slightly ruffled like mildly flustered turkeys). Secondly, they should , in most cases, be brightly coloured. Thirdly, that there should be lots of them: they do not enjoy moderation. And, finally, that most parrot tulips (in particular the ones which look as if they have advanced skin diseases) should be confined to pots. Ideally pots situated quite a long way away from me. Like Afghanistan.
Another part of me likes to choose things purely because they have interesting names which is not, I know, a very scientific way of going about things. Sometimes it is tempting to get them and then make the situation fit the bulb rather than the other way around. I am being courted by Cardinal Mindszenty who I imagine is a children’s entertainer with spotted trousers and an ecclesiastical bent. Chanson d’Amour because I have unexplainable soft spot for Manhattan Transfer (i). The species tulips have the very best names, however, who could resist batalinii Honky Tonk, vvedenskyi Latvian Gold (its got a double ‘v’ for goodness sake: how marvellous is that?) or platystigma,sogdiana and kolpakowskiana.
I am currently keen on Tulip Malaika, not purely for the similarity in name to Balalaika and Troika and Malfeasance.
That has been agitating me for a day or so among other things. The whimsical end of plant Taxonomy. That is about it really, my wife and daughter are in Cyprus so I am rattling around slightly going to bed too late and working for too long. I am also being plagued by telephone sales people. Now, I have a lot of sympathy for such people having done the job myself for quite a while when young, feckless and not yet a pillar of the community. I sold advertising space by cold calling the yellow pages off and on for a couple of years (until I got chucked out for grabbing the boss by his tie and trying to swing him round the room): amongst the publications who benefitted from my silver tongue were the Diary of the Association of Monumental Masons and the St John’s Ambulance (Bedfordshire) Yearbook. My point however, is that I rather resent being greeted warmly and asked how I am by telephone salesmen. They don’t care one jot how I am and should not pretend otherwise, I don’t particularly want to tell them:. On the principle that attack is sometimes the best form of defence I have just told a solar panel seller that I was not at all well with major problems with both my liver and bowels. I also informed him that I had a nasty rash on one leg and that a fox ate both my hamsters. Seemed to stop him in his tracks for a bit.
The picture is of Tulip Abu Hassan. I am listening to Cold Irons Bound by Tom Verlaine and the Million Dollar Bashers.
On the off chance that any of you were a bit bored, here are some old posts.
In September 2010 I was at Highgrove with various eminences.
In September 2009 the second episode of Three Men Went To Mow appeared and I upset part of the Dutch Nation.
In September 2008 I took a cherry tomato to London where a sad story followed.
In September 2007 I was recently returned from St Tropez and troubled by Geography
In September 2006 I was getting wet and tussling with ballcocks
(i) I am not going to try and explain the unexplainable but, in mitigation, any group that can sing the lines “Ooo wah, ooo wah, cool, cool kitty. Tell us ’bout the boy from New York City” without giggling has to be worth our respect.
