I am now running precisely a week behind – which is not bad considering.

Last Thursday I went to the very pretty town of Stamford in Lincolnshire. Honeyed stone and winter sunshine – very pretty. The reason for the visit was to get together with Nigel Colborn to thrash out the meat behind our nascent stage show called Green with Envy.

Think of us as the horticultural Ant and Dec.

The plan is to perform a hybrid lecture/advice session/anecdotal moment show at theatres around the country. There will be stunning photographs, jokes of dubious taste, much rushing around, sound gardening advice and general disobedience.

The audience will be reluctant to go home at the end of the evening.

At least that is the plan…

We already have bookings and the whole thing begins on the 1st March at the Arts Centre in Stamford – hence the need for rehearsal.

It will be fun for both audience and performers – hurry now and book your tickets early to avoid dreadful disappointment.

The dates so far are:

March 1st: Arts Centre, Stamford – www.stamfordartscentre.com

March 20th: Garrick Theatre, Lichfield – www.lichfieldgarrick.com

April 18th: Bacon Theatre, Cheltenham – www.bacontheatre.co.uk

May 2nd: Forum 28, Barrow in Furness – www.barrowbc.gov.uk/Default.aspx?page=120

May 3rd: Lowther Pavilion, Lytham St Anne’s – www.fylde.gov.uk/Category.aspx?cat=1452

June 27th: Ludlow Festival

I am listening to the very smug Nigel Havers reading his autobiography on Radio 4. The picture is of the River Welland looking picturesque in Stamford.

What future for Urban Gardens: Eden or Extinction ? This was the subject of this year’s RHS debate held at the Festival Hall last night.  I believe that the essence of the argument is that gardens in towns are designated as brown-field sites (like disused factories and bus garages) and, therefore, it is easier to obtain planning permission and therefore developers are seeking to build extra houses in larger back gardens. The other problem is that (due to the rise in car ownership) more and more people are paving over their front gardens to provide off street parking. All this against the government’s decree that lots of new houses should be built.

More details from http://www.rhs.org.uk/whatson/events/gardenforum.asp

I have missed previous such events so was determined to get there without fail to listen enraptured to soaring oratory and passionately expressed opinions. So, hair brushed and socks clean I settled myself into my (surprisingly comfortable) seat in the erudite company of the sparkling intelligentsia of the horticultural world (and Ann Marie Powell and Joe Swift representing the tabloid end of things).

The speakers were fluent and convincing (especially Ken Thompson who spoke about wildlife gardening) but in very quickly dawned on me that this was a completely pointless debate.

Every single person in the audience agreed with everything that everyone on the panel said.  There was no debate just a gentle evening of preaching to the converted. Of course all these assembled gardeners agree that we should preserve urban gardens and of course everybody agrees that we should all have room to grow plants and wildlife should be allowed to frolic unfettered throughout suburbia.

On the other hand…………..

the problem was that there was no other hand. There was nobody from the government or any property developers to argue that people are more important than plants and this is really the simplest, least obtrusive way to let as many people as possible enjoy a decent standard of housing.

What is the point of a one sided debate? it was so woolly that by the end it was making me very cross. We ended up with diversions about urban foxes digging holes in people’s gardens which really had even less to do with the price of parsnips than anything else.

Apparently (according to Hayley Monckton from the RHS – upon whom I vented my spleen later and to whom I apologise as it was perhaps a bit much on first acquaintance) the RHS had tried to get property developers and politicans but nobody would consent to appearing. In which case perhaps the subject should have been changed so that there could have been a proper debate and discussion.

At the end Stephen Anderton made the interesting point that the media is partly to blame for the fact that gardening issues are never taken seriously but are just an “and finally” item on news programmes. If we are to have futile debates without opposition or satisfactory conclusion then it is no wonder that gardening is down there with the vulgar vegetables and escaping lemurs.

The whole experience was akin to tootling along to the Circus Maximus in eager anticipation of a few skewered Gladiators and chewed Christians only to discover them all sitting on the sand hugging each other.

The evening got better but I will tackle that in another episode – this one is getting too long.

I am listening to Over and Over Again by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. The picture is of Kirengeshoma palmata.

Maybe it is my age showing but I get extraordinary pleasure from the smallest things.

At the moment it is the lavatory cistern in the bathroom.There was a minor drama the other day when the cistern spontaneously split and water began to gush onto the floor. Fortunately we were around so got to it before any ceilings collapsed. The cistern was replaced and this one is remarkable because it flushes with less vigour when you pull the handle up, as opposed to pushing it down. This little thing continues to amuse me even now, four weeks after the installation. Other small things of interest include….
The presence of a single, very small rabbit in the garden. This is only temporarily amusing. When he becomes a large rabbit with a family then steps will have to be taken.

Boots. I have been terribly conservative in my choice of footwear for the past twenty odd years relying almost exclusively on the products of R.M.Williams for every occasion. Except formal evening wear or when synchronised swimming. However, I have recently invested in a pair of quite natty Clark’s Desert Boots. In black suede.

Also I have noticed that the quality of Spam comments on blogs has changed. I seem to be getting lots of flattering comments about how very brilliant my blog content is and how helpful they found my golden words. As if this was not warning enough on the bullshit meter, further examination shows that these kind people are representing a whole raft of different interests including tattooists and fanciers of Golden Retrievers. It is pleasingly surreal sometimes, for example: “Now you can carry on, feeling virtuous at having done your duty. As with a car, minibus insurance is required by law. Many a times, what happens is that there are many people who keep visiting Essex more often.” From a mini-cab company. Or “Your post is very informative, I think its getting to be a nice one after a few days.” from a conservatory company in Stoke-on-Trent. I may have covered this before here but what is the point of Spam? Does anybody, anywhere ever fall for such things? Is anybody likely to say “My goodness, a random and barely sensible comment on that blog has ensured that I immediately bought food for my Golden Retriever”.

Mind you……

20130611-121643.jpg

Apart from these little entertainments life has been quite busy. Chelsea has been and gone leaving in its wake a bit of disgruntlement among designers as well as a selection of very nipplish canapĂ©s. Various eminent and very talented designers are unhappy . This could be seen as railing against the injustices of a flawed system or it could be the act of throwing a tantrum. I think that the former argument worked until it degenerated into saying things like “their solar panels were ugly” which then dragged it all down to “and anyway you stink and your mother is pooey” level. It is really a matter of, you know the rules, you know how it works, if you don’t want to play this game, stay away. The judging system is never going to be perfect and, in their defence, the RHS is much better than it used to be at changing things. Albeit still quite slowly. The good thing about all this is that I am pretty sure that the process will be looked at again. And again. And again.

I always thought that the Australians would win Best in Show because their garden is warm and appealing. The Best in Show award is a much more visceral reaction rather than something based purely on mathematics. And so it should be. The choice is usually made (always at Chelsea) between gardens that have won unanimous Gold medals which means that every judge has voted Gold with no hesitations or waverings. There is then a straightforward vote. It could all be done on crunched numbers and assessors’ calculations but that would be a bit inhuman and cold in my opinion and although design can be serious,should be serious, there should also be room for human emotion and a bit of subjectivity. The other truth is that the vast majority of the world really does not give a fig: they look at gardens and decide for themselves whether they like them or not, the medals are really just for the sponsors and those of us who are directly, or indirectly, affected either as contributors, judges, commentators or friends.

I had a jolly time fundraising for the RHS, which involved very early mornings in the unseasonal cold. On Wednesday I took some people round the show at about 6AM and we were so frozen that we were reduced to taking warmed plates from the breakfast queue and putting them inside our jackets. I also did a small bit of television tarting about, notably chasing the Queen across the showground.I have done this for the past few years and it seems to have become my niche, it is probably because I am the only one with a half-decent suit. Had I not been doing the BBC thing then I had been assigned the Countess of Wessex. Each Council member gets a Royal to look after during the Royal walkabout, unsurprisingly the less reliable Council members (ie JA-S) are not trusted with much more than the younger sons and various cousins. Julian Fellowes’ (him of the Downton Abbey fame) wife is some sort of Lady-of-the-Bedchamber to Princess Michael of Kent and arrived wearing a rather alarming white turban – alarming because it had a hole in the top through with her hair protruded. It looked a bit like a puffed up Polo mint.

What else? I gave a speech at the Harcourt Arboretum to celebrate the 50th Anniversary of their being taken over by the Oxford Botanic Gardens. It all took place in a tent in the actual arboretum where we were surrounded by very noisy Peacocks and some fabulous Rhododendrons. And the weather was sunny and delightful. There was an auction which raised about ÂŁ14,500 for the arboretum so generally a jolly satisfactory evening.

That is probably enough for one day, I am off to the NEC today week to jolly around in a shed at Gardeners World Live and then straight off to Moscow on Monday morning for the Moscow Flower Show, about which more anon.

I am listening to Redondo Beach by Patti Smith and the picture is of Rosa moyesii Geranium.

Many months ago Joe, Cleve and I went to Wisley at the behest of the RHS to chunter on about vegetables. The result has finally been released as part of the RHS Grow Your Own campaign. Quite how many people will be inspired to start scattering courgette seeds by seeing this film I am not at all sure. Probably millions: it may even result in golf courses being ploughed up and turned over to strawberries and the verges of the country’s motorways strewn with healthy berries. It can be seen on the RHS website or right here (right now (i)). As a special Blog readers only offer this version is very slightly different (ii), it is, as it were, the directors cut so you will be able to brag to your less privileged friends about how very special and different you are. It is accessible only to you lucky readers by using this super secret link.

The animation and rather superior filming and editing is thanks to my elder son Archie and Robin Reeder.

In other places:

Speeding is a bad thing: I have learnt this in great detail having spent four hours in a sparse conference room at a golf centre just outside Milton Keynes. It is a bit like being put in detention but more interesting. I learnt about various Highway Code things which I had forgotten and other fascinating facts. For example: in an accident the box of tissues sitting on your parcel shelf acquires the density, speed and velocity of a flying house brick. The same would, presumably, be the case for a nodding dog. We did not cover furry dice on this occasion: an omission I hope that we will not come to regret. 

It has been pretty much the last week for many Tulips. At least I think so as the sunshine is doing them absolutely no favours at all. I have been beetling around the place checking on the little loves before it is too late. One client has just gone away for three weeks and is likely to miss every single one so I thought that the only decent thing I could do was to go and appreciate them on his behalf. I love the overconfidence of tulips.

I have also been massively appreciating the Bluebells. We live next door to a deciduous wood which produces the most exceptional Bluebells through which we walk every morning. There is also some rotter who, in previous years, has driven a Quad Bike through the wood squishing flowers like grapes beneath a steam hammer. This is not generally considered a good thing to do.

Oh, and while I am on bulbs I might as well show you some Anemones from a couple of weeks ago.: these are under a huge beech tree in my mother-in-law’s garden and are always amazing.

The coming weekend marks not just the wedding of Young William and his thin fiancee it is also the beginning of Grand Designs Live in London. If you would like a ticket then please ask soon or else it will be too late and then you will be sorry. The show runs from 30th April right through to the 8th May culminating in a live performance by Three Men Went To Mow. There will be free garden consultations and many people demonstrating kitchen equipment. I am present on the 2nd, 3rd,6th,7th and 8th if you wanted to bring me freshly baked cake.

This short life is bejewelled with small diversions: in particular accidental website visiting. The first time this happened was way back in 1995 when many fewer people had access to the internet. My brother was one of those: I remember sitting looking at this new phenomenon accompanied by my small children. The film Babe (cute pig, grumpy farmer, evil baddies etc etc) had just come out so we decided to try a babe related website.

For your future reference, this is a big mistake if one is trying to protect the innocent minds of small children. Good idea if your life is short of silicone enhanced naked humping.

These little incidents keep happening: one of my favourites is when I am ordering oil. The supplier is called yobco and their website is co.uk. Every time I put in yobco.com and every time I am pleasantly surprised. Go and look for yourselves and marvel at the attractiveness of the photograph and supreme dullness of the layout. Also had no idea that there was a place called Holidaysburg and now wish to visit especially after seeing the picture of the skyline on Wikipedia

The main picture is of Quince blossom.

I am listening to My City of Ruins by Bruce Springsteen.

(i) If I may borrow the words of Mr Fatboy Slim.

(ii) It is only slightly different, but it is definitely shorter which has to be a good thing in anybody’s book.

I promised you new and possibly momentous news and I do not wish to disappoint the two blokes and a dog who hang around here waiting for something to happen.

It is very exciting. Although I have been fearfully disorganised/busy and should have published this on launch day a week or so ago. I feel a bit like the chef expounding about the flavour of the cake just after everybody had been distracted by the girl emerging from the top.

But I am going ahead anyway so please clap politely…

The news is a brand new, shiny and pretty innovative thing called intoGardens. It is a mixture of many things – sort of like sphinx or a manticore or the telekines, but much prettier. And with fewer bolt on animal parts.

It is a mixture of App and magazine,website and game. It is something completely new and ridiculously gorgeous – and, although I must admit I am occasionally prone to exaggeration and the odd flight of fancy I do not think that in this case I exaggerate unduly. However, I will admit to a certain pride and parental bias.

We have fabulous pictures, writing (from good people such as his excellency, Nigel Colborn and her magnificence Jean-Ann van Krevelen), gardens (one underwater, a couple in England and another in Elba), some fruits (including Mr Diacono), practical help (of both vegetable and ornamental varieties), soap operas, video content and audio book extracts. And you can buy stuff directly from within the App just by hitting a button. Whoosh.
Or Whoooooooooooooosh if you have a slow Internet speed.

It moves and talks and sighs romantically at you over lowered lashes.

This is, of course, not a solo effort as I have inveigled various gullible types to contribute and help out. Most notably Tiffany Daneff who is the editor, Ubinow (the developers) and Archie (my elder son) who is in charge of making sure all the assembled stuff is assembled in the right order. My thanks to everybody and, in particular, to the rest of my extremely tolerant family.

If you happen to have an iPad you should download it (for a mere ÂŁ2.99) and if you don’t then there is a film of what you are missing here. You are missing a lot.
It will be published quarterly for the moment. We also have impeccably groomed Facebook and Twitter feeds

I am sitting on a bus travelling between Seattle and Vancouver while watching a film called Too Many Crooks which stars Terry-Thomas, Sid James, George Cole and Bernard Bresslaw. Terry Scott (as in Terry and June) has a short role as a plump policeman and Nicholas Parsons is a Tax Inspector.

(i) The backyard musical was a popular genre in the 1940s. Most of them starred Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland. Tupically a bunch of kids need to raise money for some good cause. They are let down by some impresario at which point one of them says “Hey, I got an idea. Let’s do the show right here!”

There is then much rushing around transforming the horse barn/old shed/school hall/whichever into a theatre and then they put on a show which is received with tumultuous appreciation and it all works out just fine. In Strike up the Band , for example, which culminates in a Busby Berkeley Conga.

There may be some chaste kissing as well.

At intoGardens we hope for all these things.

I was going to tell you all about a very lovely weekend I have just spent in the South of France including being lightly stung by a jellyfish, sniggering at ridiculous super yachts, fullsome details of meals eaten and transport travails endured (i) but apparently it is quite important, every so often, to put a bit of gardening into this blog rather than just me trundling on about cake or random episodes from life.

I am told this by no lesser figure than the extravagantly bowtied Mr Chris Young who, as you all know, is not only the Deputy Editor of The Garden but also an horticultural God (ii). “Every so often, young man” he said to me while sitting in his battered leather Deputy Editor’s chair caressing his pipe, “you should be sensible and put in a bit of an issue”. At first I thought he said ‘tissue’ which I thought that a bit unsavoury but the misunderstanding was sorted out quickly and hygenically.

So, instead of talking about the above rather idyllic scene and parading my orange bathing shorts, I have been thinking about show gardens.

I have visited every available flower show this year ranging from the stately Chelsea to the little Westminster Spring Show. From the divine Malvern Spring to Bloom in Dublin and a very hot Hampton Court. In the process I have seen a lot of show gardens and, I am sad to report, that the majority have disappointed.

In short, not that many show gardens are very good.

Apart from the big gardens at Chelsea (which, at that price and those designers should be good) the best collection of gardens was in the Conceptual Gardens class at Hampton Court. There we had designers who were actually thinking and chose to build gardens with ideas rather than trying to satisfy some corporate message or some cod-sustainable evangelism. Apart from that I am not going to be specific here and name names as I don’t think that really helps anybody – and I am more likely to get dragged behind a Pittosporum tobira and delivered of a right good kicking. This is a more general complaint.

I have thought about this and fear that, just for a change, the blame cannot be exclusively heaped upon the collective heads of the RHS but is the fault of designers and their sponsors. The job of the RHS is to put the show together but they can only do that using the ingredients supplied. They can and do give sage advice but they have to stop short of redesigning a garden. I have sat on a couple of selection boards and have often seen gardens where you say “Blimey, this could be really good if only they did such and such” but you cannot start redesigning gardens for people as then it is no longer their idea and objectivity is lost.

Sponsors should have a light touch: as soon as a garden becomes a very obvious advertising hoarding then they are ruined. Sponsors expect something back from their investment and that is as it should be but they should not interfere with the actual design of the garden. The same with worthy messages: these should be subtle and should not dominate. We have all seen gardens which have been devoured by the message: too much clumsy symbolism does not a good garden make. My heart sinks sometimes when I read the programme blurb and find out that the bench represents blah, blah, blah and the sculpture is a representation of tum-ti-tum-ti-tum.

Designing show gardens is not the be all and end all of life: quite the contrary it is a side issue to real life. The temptation is to think that making a show garden will change your life instantly and make fabulously wealthy clients rattle their chequebooks at you: this will not happen. Making a show garden is an exciting experience and something that is immense fun to do but please do not be tempted to pay for your own or do it for nothing. You will get much more work by making good gardens that people live in, enjoy and tell their friends about.

All the best show gardens are very simple  – I go further, all the best gardens are pretty simple. This is particularly vital in show gardens where people are walking past them and need to be able to get the point very quickly. I have spent many happy hours wandering round flower shows with The Enduring Gardener working out what we would take out of show gardens to make them better. It is never a matter of putting extra things into the garden.

So, not much of an issue but something I suppose to stop Mr Young being all strict and looky-down-his-nose at all this trivia. I may now be able to get away with writing airy-fairy nonsense for a few more weeks.

Apart from that I had my photograph taken twice which is always a rather excruciating experience. Firstly for Gardens Illustrated where I posed self consciously in various positions for the very charming and clever Charlie Hopkinson. Secondly, for the House and Garden Twenty Best Garden Designers In The World – Ever!! (iii). I was rather thrilled to be included: last time they did it there were fifty of us and the time before a hundred. Falling like ninepins.

We all met up at the Chelsea Physic Garden for lunch and photographs. It was a very jolly occasion. A chocolate finger to anybody who can guess all twenty. Answers in the January and February issues of House and Garden. Sadly when you get to my age, no matter how skilled the photographer I still end up looking a bit baggy around the edges.

That is probably enough for one day. The picture is of an incarcerated pumpkin.

I am listening to Loretta Lynn singing The Van Lear Rose.

  1. Ryanair on the way which, as those of you who read this blog regularly will know was blighted and hellish and the TGV on the way back which was an absolute pleasure as it enabled us to sit comfortably, eat cheese and read our books while France slipped by the window.
  2. Maybe not a major God like Cleve West or Matthew Appleby (who are the equivalent of Apollo and Hephaestus: the former because he is shiny and handsome. The latter because he is a bit grumpy and feels put down much of the time), perhaps something minor but promising like one of the three Graces (although with not quite such a nice bum).
  3. That may not be the absolute official title.

Firstly, thank you for the cavalcade of comments on my last Blog post. In spite of what my friends Chris Young (Dep.Ed) and  Cleve West say, I wasn’t really begging for comments just musing on my reactions and the essence of why people Blog. However, I am grateful for the nice things, thank you.

I played cricket on Saturday: it is much more exhausting that you might expect and I had thighs that ached until Wednesday. It is not something I do very often (once a year) and again escaped without completely disgracing myself (one fine catch on the boundary and ten runs: although I did succeed in running out the renowned actor Hugh Bonneville which has probably knocked me off the Oscars guest list.) Mark Diacono and Joe Swift were also cricketing this week in the Gardeners World v. River Cottage Test. They had better cakes but their outfits were a bit ropey as you can see here (picture shamelessly stolen from Louise Jolley). I know that the person on the right is probably Toby Buckland and not Mark but, as we all know, they are identical twins.

This week has been a week of trains and much travelling. My trusty iPad and I have travelled to Dorset (to see a new client), to Tatton Park (to be royally entertained by the RHS) and to Sussex to show drawings to another client. As a result I can give a report on the state of the railways.

Monday

It began badly when I had to stand all the way from Milton Keynes to Waterloo:I rather hoped that some OAP or pregnant woman might give up their seat for me ( I have been on the Telly, you know!) but the modern world is a slough of bad manners nowadays.

The train to Sherborne was comfortable and not too crowded and got a high score. I know this train very well as my parents used to live in Dorset so I would get on this train in order to go and visit them. I remember one visit in about 1977 when I got off the train wearing a red leather dog collar,bronze eyeshadow, PVC trousers, a torn T Shirt printed with some unsavoury slogan and a plastic frog pinned to my lapel. This was not an outfit considered 100% suitable for a weekend in the countryside: I know this firstly, because I narrowly escaped being beaten up in the loos between Tisbury and Gillingham and secondly because the expression on my mother’s face was very telling. This time I was more soberly dressed.

Wednesday

“The train has been cancelled due to vandalism.”

Apparently somebody from the Coventry area had stolen a chunk of cable presumably without electrocuting themselves too badly. Not really a very good start to the day but possibly not as bad as actually being on the train while it was being vandalised .

Eventually a train arrived and very slinky it was: one of Mr Branson’s finest Pendolinos. They are very fast although they do tend to make me feel a little nauseous especially if one is facing the wrong way. I got off at Stockport ( pronounced, according to Helen Yem ‘Stopport’.) And got a cheery taxi to Tatton Park for the RHS Show where we were royally entertained by the RHS. Luncheon was provided and we mooched about the show – the we in this case being my daughter, Stroma, and I: she is very good at working out exactly what does and does not work in a garden.

Parts of it were quite lovely although most of the show gardens were, if you don’t mind my saying, a bit ghastly. Not enough sponsorship and overambitious designs lead to dogs breakfasts. If I had my way then all show garden designers should be forced (at gunpoint if necessary) to simplify their schemes as all decent gardens are based on simple ideas. Of course it is also possible to cock up with some truly dreadful planting: I can’t remember who planted this but it was a very bad idea all round.

Among the highlights was the Euroflowers marquee where there was a sort of floral equivalent of the Eurovision Song Contest. Young Florists (many of them quite camp) from all over Europe were competing. The hot favourite apparently is the Hungarian whose name is Attilla Kiss. We were also keen on the chubby Italian. The arrangements were pleasingly over the top and beautifully assembled.

Matthew Wilson was present. He wore white linen and sleek sunglasses. My heart could not help but skip a beat. Others went a step further: those of you not on Twitter may be interested to see these. This from Mr Mark Diacono and this (more satirical version) from Madame La Sock.

There were a couple of good gardens: the Visionary category included an offering by the always entertaining Tony Smith who found yet another way to create something interesting out of salad: this time involving a stranded alien nestling amongst the Lollo Rosso.

Thursday

Another train: this is becoming a habit.This time I go through London and out the other side to get myself down to Sussex. It is comfortable but generally uninteresting although any journey that involves stations called Wivelsfield and Plumpton cannot be an altogether bad thing. The latter, which was my eventual destination, is the one of the most charming stations I have ever visited. The window boxes are colourful and healthy, the view of the racecourse and Downs delightful and the waiting room has squashy sofas.

People talk in loud voices on stopping trains. But, rather selfishly, often not loudly enough to satisfy the curiosity. For example the people behind me….there was a conversation containing the words Russian aristocrat, colours, birthday, reincarnation,shipping forecast and a big pink suitcase. Fascinating but I am unsure how they are all connected.

On Inter City trains people are generally silent unless they are on their telephones when they talk loudly about busy and important things. I talk very quietly on the telephone in case somebody hears that I am only talking about topsoil and girly flowers rather than international sales targets. If they realise that I am not negotiating a major takeover then I worry that they might take me to the spacious lavatory and duff me up.

Among other news…. my WordPress incarnation of this Blog has been polished further: indeed it is now so shiny that I do not actually know how to make it work. This situation will soon be amended: bear with me please.

I am going on holiday for a week on Friday – which is also, incidentally, my birthday. I will be a boyish fifty-one years old. I will be back amongst you soon. please behave in my absence.

I am listening to Killing Machine by Let’s Go.

The picture is of a Sussex Down – they are called Downs in spite of the fact that they are very obviously Ups. And quite steep Ups in places. Aah, the intricacies of the English Language (i)

This time last year I was writing about Future Gardens and the filming of the first ever Three Men Went To Mow – the latest version of which, incidentally, was filmed yesterday at The Gibberd Garden in Essex.

August seems to be bringing out the listlessness in me. It is something to do with the weather and the fact that loads of people seem to be on holiday. I know that I should be using this month to be organised and useful in preparation for the Autumn. But I am not.

I should be ordering bulbs and getting ahead with plant lists. Writing things and dealing with a number of other ‘portant things.

But instead I am pootling around , looking out of the window and eating biscuits interspersed with brief bursts of extreme activity. It is much easier when the sun doesn’t shine.

I made a very vague commitment to write about gardens last time we met so I will endeavour to stick roughly to the point. In this garden I am cross with most of my Dahlias. Usually they would be beefy, strapping fellows by now with ripe thighs and deltoids like pig iron. They are not: they are not dying or sick just a bit feeble. I have cast about for some sort of plant food in the shed and am now dosing them with some Phostrogen I found (i). They better perk up or there will be words.

On the wildlife front: the poppies are being eaten by Blue Tits which is very charming, the swallows are flicking through brochures and lining up on electricity wires chatting about migration, Chiff Chaffs are all over the place chuffing and chaffing and young jackdaws are sunbathing on the barn roof. This last is a very odd sight as they stretch out their wings and look as if they have been spatchcocked .

There are ladybirds everywhere: they can be a little bit creepy en masse. As if they are just watching and biding their time. Like the birds in The Birds, but with fewer feathers. Enough wildlife, I think.

I do have a couple of gardens that are looking (if I might be so bold) extremely alluring right now. This one I have written about before (I cannot exactly remember when) and it appeared in Gardens Illustrated when it was younger. The strutting hunk of beefiness that is M.Wilson wrote the piece. It has now grown into itself rather well and gets me quite flushed.

The second one is much younger as I only planted it this year but the idea is to form a giant sized meadow with, I think, about 1500 Calmagrostis and all sorts of other things flitting about amongst the grasses. It is still young but bits of it look very promising. It needs time and for the builders to go away.

What else? Oh, I had my first semi-official RHS duty to perform yesterday. I went and sat in a comfortable meeting room surrounded by portraits of bearded dignitaries (ii) and talked to a very nice chap about the RHS web presence. I think it may need a bit of attention.

So that’s it really. Some gardens, bit of lethargy, odd bursts of enthusiasm, sunshine, tennis. August in a nutshell.

I am listening to the Test Match.

In 2006 I had just got back from holiday.

This time in 2007 I was writing about other Garden Blogs (including my first encounter with his Highness The Garden Monkey).

In 2008 it was raining and I was watching the Olympics and going to Watford.

The photograph is of Sanguisorba CDC282 and some Verbena bonariensis.

(i) Interestingly I was once arrested for being in possession of a jar of Phostrogen. The police thought it was altogether something more exotic and were rather disappointed to discover that I was a gardener and not Pablo Escobar in disguise.

(ii) If you are on Twitter I mentioned this before but one notable sported the enviable handsome name of The Rev H.Honywood D’ombrain. He was the Founder and First Secretary of The Horticultural Club and a fine figure of a fellow. His father was in charge of the Irish Coastguard and young Henry was brought up in Dublin where, apparently, “a bed of Persian Ranunculus made a deep impression on him”. He went on to found the Rose Society, be awarded one of the first VMHs and grew a spectacular beard. So now you know.

I know that I have, again, been horribly neglectful of this blog. Nearly two months since my last confession. Apologies to those that noticed. In the intervening time I have been doing various things that have now lost their immediacy and probably do not deserve your full attention. I have also, because it is August been pondering stuff – not in a terribly deep and world changing way, just because I have to fill my brain with something while staring out of windows or waiting at traffic lights.

Here is a short list in no particular order-

The most important is that there is a new episode on intoGardens out for your amusement and delectation. You have never heard of intoGardens? my you are so out of the loop. Go, now and get an iPad and download it immediately.  You will find wildflowers, bees, food, weeds, ponds as well as Monty Don reading from his book and sundry other things to make you oscillate with pleasure. There are also new magic parcels on the iPhone App. What? surely you have not missed that as well? My goodness you are about as hip as the Venerable Bede. It is now also available for Android phones as well. For all the details go here, now.

Why do I often end up sitting next to very large men on trains who take up more than their allocated space? They somehow overflow the seat with wavelets of excess which make me feel squeezed and small. Is it acceptable to get up and sit in another seat or is that a terrible faux-pas likely to unleash deep anxiety ?

Matching ties and hankies (or ‘Pocket Squares’ as I believe they are called in the trade). I think this is probably okay if the tie pattern is relatively understated. Polka dots perhaps. It is not acceptable if the tie is a kaleidoscope of mauve and green. Many years ago I had a blue and white Paisley pattern shirt with matching tie (for formal occasions) and cravat (for casual engagements). The cravat was fastened with a gold ring. I think my mother bought the combination in Guildford. I looked like a miniature member of Manfred Mann.

Transparent white gauzy trousers which allow people following you up the escalator to know not just the colour of your underwear but the exact seams on your gusset.

Bricks – this may seem like a dreary subject to many of you but I have long been interested in bricks. The names, for a start, are interesting Stafford Blue, Common Flettons, London Mixed Stocks, London Yellow Stocks, Waterstruck bricks, wirecut extruded, cherries etc. Some people take this much farther than a random thought and there are places on the internet populated by people obsessed with bricks. Interestingly somebody once told me that there are two products in particular that are uneconomic to transport very long distances. One was bricks – as they are so heavy that you cannot get enough on a lorry – and the other was lavatory paper because it is so bulky.

I wonder who discovered cheese. Obviously it was due to some sort of accident when the milk was left unattended. Like Alfred and the cakes.

Phonecards – I was casually gazing at a telephone box the other day while waiting for a tractor to cross the junction and remembered the Phonecard. A green plastic card that supplanted the search for 10p bits that preceded making a telephone call. You could buy them in newsagents for a pound and I believe that they became valuable currency in prisons (up there with tobacco, stained copies of Razzle and Ketamine). They probably don’t exist any more.

The summer has been rather lovely: warm and peaceful. My parents-in-law have a venerable swimming pool that was installed during the long hot summer of 1976 (a summer I spent not revising for my A Levels as it was too nice and I preferred to lie under trees snogging and being pretentious). We are fortunate that we live very close so I have swum almost every day this summer. I am not a very good swimmer and get exhausted quite quickly – I would be rubbish at rescuing struggling damsels and floundering pets – but made the effort and it has to be the most boring form of exercise ever invented. There is nothing to look at and nothing to divert the mind. Dull, dull, dull. At least if you are bicycling or running you can watch the world go by or listen to the radio. I do about five lengths before I give up. I also try and swim naked as often as is decent, no idea why but it adds a frisson.
Maybe I am a closet naturist: I will have to discuss it with my friend Cleve West who often goes on naturist awayaday weekends.

“Miss Stevens , I must say you’re a girl in a million”
“That’s a routine compliment but I’ll accept it.”
Cary Grant to Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief. And her reply. I worry sometimes that I spend too much of my life thinking about Grace Kelly.

The RHS more or less closes down during August and there are no committee meetings or anything. Oddly, I have rather missed it and was pleased to be going to Vincent Square to select the show gardens for next year’s Chelsea.

I have a new Olloclip. This is a fiendishly clever little lens that goes on an iPhone and means that you can take macro pictures of whatsoever you might wish. Like the rather vulgar picture above of a pouting dahlia and the other one a bit further up of an Eschscholzia californica (which, incidentally, has to about the most difficult plant name on the planet to spell).

I have had some quite good lunches.

So the Duchess of Cambridge has given birth, how marvellous for all concerned. My only worry is the naming of said baby: personally I have been advocating Prawn as the perfect choice because, and I am sure this does not really require explanation but people have been giving me slightly blank looks when I hazard this opinion, he will then become King Prawn. Alternatives include Crimson. Kong, Burger and Speech.

So that is probably enough random drivellings for one day. I am listening to Gillian Welch singing By The Mark. The picture is a bee sitting on a Succisella.

Today is quite a momentous day.

It is the beginning of the end of Blackpitts as we exchanged contracts today are due to move out on the 13th August.

It is the right thing to do as the time has come to move on: our children are grown up, the house is too big and it would be exciting to make a new garden somewhere else but at the same time it is hugely emotional.

We first saw this place on a rainy saturday in 1991. It is right next door to my parents-in-law’s house but, in the twenty odd years in which Celestria had lived there at that time she had never been through the little wooden gate into the neighbouring farmyard. This was mostly because the farmer was quite scary – he was given to nailing dead foxes to various barns and shouting at people.

We wandered in to find a courtyard of ramshackle barns surrounded by broken concrete and junk. The decision was almost immediate: we would build a house, a garden and a life in this unappealing farmyard. We were young and enthusiastic so, after various hiccups and minor crises, we built Blackpitts. Our younger son was born in the house soon after it was completed in 1994.

The garden came after the house: there was no real design. We decided that we had to do something as the place was just mud and concrete, the children could not really go outside without tetanus shots and there was a plank leading across an old sheep dip to the front door. I designed the garden while driving a dumper truck full of topsoil around the place. “Let’s put a bed here” ( lots of topsoil), “some grass here” (less topsoil) “and a terrace about here” (no topsoil). Unorthodox but it seemed to work in the end as this garden is delicious. I can look up as I write this and see the buds bursting and the bees buzzing: sometimes it is so heartbreakingly gorgeous that I want to weep.

And now we are leaving and that makes me want to weep as well.

It is not just the house and garden which we built from a very unpromising start but a whole lifestyle. Apart from all the obvious family stuff (the lawns upon which the children played, the beech columns that became goalposts, the dogs and cats buried around the place etc, etc). It is the plants that we brought back from such-and-such a nursery, the core of many lectures which I have given over the years and even the name of my website and this blog.

Blogging from Blackpitts was born here in 2006. Do I rename it? What will it become next? What is our next incarnation? Where will we live? In what?

All these and many other questions (like”Do I move all those bricks? Or leave them here?” or “What will happen to Lovey and Dovey?”) hover over our heads.

All of them will require answers. At some point.