A little knowledge is a dangerous thing

Beware the Enthusiastic Garden Owner with no expertise!
Mr E has time on his hands and the restraining wife is gone. People used to admire his garden and he would tell them about me. Now I would rather not be associated with it, thank you very much.
He has dug up the bamboos he planted - four of them - which is a Very Good Thing and I am only glad I was not involved in the removal. He plans for more roses and I have no problem with that. But he has hacked and hacked and mutilated trees and shrubs indiscriminately. A very big and splendid Camellia now has a sort of trunk around a metre high with all the green growth at the top in a drooping and unbalanced shape. The bay has been squared off so that it does not overhang the lawn and presents a flat face on one side - most unnatural. The corkscrew hazel has lost all its rangy growth, all the mad twists that make it attractive. The elder, a golden leaved one, has been cut back hard but only about half of it. The rest sticks up in awkward spikes.
There is probably worse to come.
Some years ago, when I was still quite new to working as a gardener, I turned up at Old Mr G's with new loppers, specially bought to attempt restorative pruning of his two apple trees. They were congested and misshapen, but with knowledge and optimism I had hopes. I stepped into the garden and stopped dead, aghast. The helpful neighbour had pruned them for him. The closest description might be pollarded. Basically everything that had grown removed, apart from the trunk. It was my first encounter with the Useless But Helpful neighbour, another species to beware of.
At another garden the owners remarked that their apple trees did not fruit. In full leaf these were perfect lollipops and most attractive if they had not been apple trees. The husband evidently chopped them constantly into this playschool shape of tree. Their plan was to remove them and buy more. What for? To carry out the same destruction?
Apple trees seem to be frequent victims. Mrs B's daughter pruned hers. She left all the diseased, dead and damaged wood with unerring accuracy. If it crossed or rubbed on another branch it stayed. Mutilation was reserved for the healthy stuff.
A neighbour decided to reduce the height of his neighbour's sycamores, which were shading his garden. He clung perilously to branches while wielding a small chainsaw, and deserved injury. he cut off about the top third of the trees, straight across. The following year the trees have put out bunches of water shoots so that they are more congested and cast more shade than before.
Why do these idiots think they know what to do when faced with a tree that may or may not need attention?

Not time to prune Fuchsia

At last some decent weather to catch up and I am off to the fussy ladies. My absence has forced them to cut their own lawns, but there are other jobs to do.
First, at Mrs B's, the Fuchsias all want cutting to the ground. No, this is not the time to do this. End of the winter is best, when the plants are dormant. These Fuchsias are flowering, fully green, with masses of buds. But she wants them chopped to the ground, and with barely a murmur of protest I do it. Every year I have protested, but it makes no difference. The customer knows best. Of course if she actually used my knowledge and expertise she would get her money's worth. And hopefully gain a better garden. I tidy up the climbing roses, weed around the butchered Fuchsias and head next door.
Here the victim is an Iceberg rose, coming to the end of a long season of flowering. It is getting on in years, but healthy, no black spot, well-shaped and flowers its socks off. She wants it out.
'The petals fall everywhere.'
I cannot even begin to understand this kind of attitude.
So I remove and chuck the rose. Like a doctor or nurse I detach myself emotionally from what I am doing.
Thank God this woman has no power beyond her garden wall.
Across the road it is lawn, large and mind-numbing. Unfortunately also very wet and the mower clogs constantly. I should have set the blades higher, but it is too late now. I slog on, turning the mower upside down several times for a good clean out.
But after lunch there is fun to be had at Mr E's. He is working in his garden and as I arrive he is looking at the holly tree. For the next hour I simply give instructions while he wields the loppers. My kind of gardening! His mate makes me a cuppa and we all share silly jokes while hauling branches about. Then I leave them with all the clearing up!

I have just used the RHS advisory service for the first time. Brilliant! On my raspberries are loads of ugly brown bugs and I want to know what they are and how harmful. Not at all as it turns out. Dock Shield Bugs or Coreus marginatus. So now I know.

Tips for working gardeners

I have learnt a great deal in the years since I started gardening for money - six years ago today in fact.



As a working gardener it is necessary to forget sexy, fashionable or even moderately attractive. Big knickers, long johns and men's vests (longer in cut) have become staples of my winter wardrobe. I wear thrown out sweatshirts and mis-shapen T-shirts with charity shop tracky bottoms. I am accustomed now to the looks at the school gate and in the corner shop. The store detective may follow me if I have to go to the supermarket on the way home. I have even trailed muddy boot prints right through Morrisons, shedding large clods from time to time. Of course in muddy weather it is advisable to have a spare pair of shoes to drive in. The summer is little better. In hot weather shorts and vests seem desirable regardless of less than perfect legs, but if you have no protection with you someone will ask you to prune the Pyracantha or Hawthorn hedge. Carry a long- sleeved thing. Are the socks presentable and hole-free? You may be asked indoors for coffee. Remove your boots for brownie points.



No gloves are thorn-proof and they all wear out at about the same rate regardless of cost.



Forget hair-styles and don't be vain about hats. It is very difficult to remove bird poo from one's hair. But carry wet-wipes and they help, plus limiting the dirt on the sandwiches.



When viewing the garden of a prospective new customer always find something to praise. "How neglected / ugly / old-fashioned" is undiplomatic. Especially if you have not seen the garden yet. Is there a dog? Who will remove the mess before you mow? The garden is stuffed with thorns in the form of Pyracantha, Berberis, gooseberries, Roses and Hawthorn plus a Yucca. Do you really need this job?



Never turn your back (or bottom) on a Yucca.



Tortoises are not slow. When mowing an average sized lawn you will have to move the tortoise at least five times.



Some people pay you to chat as much as to garden. Or to be chatted to. Others will feel they are being cheated if you stop to gulp a drink. Or to pant. Always accept a drink if offered. Refuse and it may not be offered again. You can always water the Busy Lizzies.



When she gestures across the garden and asks you to prune the Jew's Mallow, make sure you know which shrub that is. Remember there are many ways of pronouncing Cotoneaster. The customer is paying and she has been pruning the Hydrangeas in autumn for 25 years. You might suggest that spring would be better, but she will point out that they don't flower much anyway. You could say "That's because you ..." but you will probably do what she wants anyway.



When pruning it is important to remember Dead, Diseased, Damaged, but always take out the twig that is about to poke your eye out first. After pruning something very hard do not then fall over the stump. Do not beleaguer your secateurs because you can't be bothered to fetch the loppers.



Be sensitive. The cherished plant is dead. Break it gently and never blame the owner. Or yourself. You may have to prove it is dead. Leaving it for a season will do the trick.



It will rain.



Become accustomed to a vehicle that smells of old grass, where snails and spiders lurk. A spider dropping from the sun visor as you drive along is unpleasant.



When told that one brave snowdrop has naturalised on the lawn, the only sensible response is to keep those big boots off the lawn.



Personal stereos and secateurs do not mix.

Happy gardening!

One off job on a designer garden

We have had two settled weeks of almost uninterrupted good weather. Today has been warm as summer! A glorious autumn and the best time. I have actually caught up and can delude myself that I have a routine. It won't last of course, but good while it does.
Today I did a one off job in a small but professionally designed garden. That makes such a difference. There were neat circles in stone and a curved lawn. At the back were two groups of four posts, perhaps seven foot high and rectangular, to mark the edge of the garden. An informal hedge filled the gaps in between. The borders were full and yet the whole feeling was spacious. The planting was mainly for scent and evergreen, so Lavenders, Rosemary, Thymes (failing), Philadelphus. There were too many Escallonias and Griselinas. Also a Cercis 'Forest Pansy', Buddleia, cherry tree 'Amanogawa' and a white Hibiscus. Of course no-one has to pay a designer, but so many gardens are unimaginative - the twelve inch deep border along the fences and the rest lawn, in a rectangle or square.
However the garden had been 'done' four years ago and untouched since. It was very satisfying to wade in with secateurs and discuss changes where plants fail to perform.
I left the owners with instructions and plant ideas and my phone number. After all they can always call me.

Season of mellow fruitfulness

When it stopped raining or only drizzled, I worked. I am so far behind that I may meet myself coming the other way. That's an idea I quite like. We could get everything done in half the time. And we would not have to discuss anything.

My aged lady's lawn was strewn with windfall apples. I picked up the best, chucked many more into the borders for the blackbirds and anyone else, and those I couldn't be bothered to pick up I ran over with the mower. The aged lady said she could not use the apples and in fact all the trees (there are three) are mine. Three apple trees! All mine! Chutney.


The following day I parked my car under the Mulberry at my Thursday garden. I could see from the stains and the rotting fruit on the grass that the mulberries are not being picked, despite my reminding the owners the previous week. They had to go out, so the Lady-Who-Does and I stood in the tent of the tree, completely hidden, and stuffed our mouths with mulberries. They are the most amazing fruit. They are picked when almost black, and are full of juicy sweetness. To stand under the tree and eat them is the best way and, of course, unless you know a tree you are most unlikely to sample them. Gorgeous.

Today the forecast was diabolical but I got in a couple of hours at P&A. The fig tree has a lot of fruit on it, but it has not been picked. I had to cut down or knock off a number of fruits that were brown and mouldy. So when I found a ripe fruit at my height I am afraid I picked it without compunction. In the drizzle I stood and peeled it and crammed it into my mouth. Fabulous.

It is a wonderful thing to pick fruit and eat it at once. Sun-warmed strawberries, raspberries so dark they won't make it home. Even the humble Golden Delicious apple tastes quite different straight from the tree.

When I worked for Mrs AG I was lucky enough to eat white peaches and orange ones from the tree. They might as well be a different fruit when compared with the hard under-ripe things sold in a supermarket under the same name. The head gardener asked me which I preferred, the white or the orange. "The one I'm eating at the time", I said, and meant it.

I think I am going to aim to sample as much fruit as possible straight from the tree for the rest of my life. I am going to buy a peach tree and a weeping mulberry (as seen at Hampton Court Flower Show) and an Egremont Russet apple tree. If necessary I will grow them in pots. I have a fig in a pot (so far fruitless) and a damson that yielded five fruits this year, plus two blueberry bushes that give me a few berries for my breakfast every morning over a long period of time. There are the raspberries on the allotment (I picked two pounds last week) and alpine strawberries. Room for more.

It is a worthwhile ambition.

My gardening early years

How did it all start?

I love hearing celebrity gardeners tell how they began growing things at their grandad's knee, or some such twaddle. I didn't.

Apparently, as a very small person I pulled out the marigolds that my father had bedded out and gave them to the little boy next door. It is not recalled how many times dad replanted them.

The first garden I recall was in a village called Bishops Hull, near Taunton. We lived in a cottage with the wonderful name of 'Snail Creep' for perhaps a year, maybe two, but no more. I was six when we went there.

The front garden was lawn divided by a central path, and on each half grew a Stags Horn Sumach. We loved its strange furry cones. On the left side of the garden, running right through the whole plot, was a very high brick wall. Yellow wallflowers studded the red brick.

The back garden was long, but had vanished under waist-high grass. For the first time in my life I saw my dad as a gardener. He cut down the grass and discovered a path, a pond and even a shed. He sowed a new lawn. He grew sweet corn and tomatoes against the wall. At the far end of the garden was a rubbish heap and over that he grew nasturtiums in glorious reds, oranges and yellows. From there we could look into an orchard where rabbits bounded.

When I look back to that cottage it is to an idyll of long summery days outside, the colours of the flowers and the particular scent of tomato plants. My sister and I played two-ball with green tomatoes that had fallen off the plant. Of course, if we could not get a matching pair we might have to coax another from the plant... Only recently did he discover the truth about those tomato plants that lost so many green ones.

It must have started there, for me, the gardening bug, although it took a long time to become a full scale disease. Our next two gardens were places for five children to play, with a ropey lawn and a climbing frame. But as we grew older and needed less space, my mother turned towards the garden and the front pocket handkerchief lawn was dug up by her and me, to be turned into a picture of flowers and shrubs. My father began to dig a pond and then another in the back garden. I married and tentatively attempted a little work in our first Scottish garden, and then again down here in Kent. But the husband was not a nice man and attempts were often frustrated. I dug a flower bed and began to plant it, only to have him run the mower right over it.

After we split up, aged twenty-eight, I was living with my two sons in part of a house, with a bramble-smothered garden. There is nothing I like better than starting from scratch - although I did not know it then. There was a pampas grass in the middle of the brambles and the aim was to be able to walk round it. So I cleared brambles, laid turf, dug a pond, planted a tree, filled the place with flowers and shrubs, made loads of mistakes and became a Gardener. My mother bought me my first gardening book, which I think was a book on herbs, I began to visit gardens, and each time we moved I began again from scratch.

Where I am now is my fourth garden, I am on my second allotment, and I am planning the fifth - if we ever sell the house. And I cannot imagine a time when I did not garden.

The Horticultural show continued

Woke up thinking about my box! I mean, how daft can you get?

Did the usual jobs - watering all the pots, checking out the greenhouse, breakfast for the Small Person and me.

Then I spent an hour arranging my goodies in the box. The flowers (edible) got wet paper towels and tiny bags filled with water around their stems. Beans and mangetout, shallots and raspberries got their own little cone of brown paper, padded in some cases. I polished the onions. It all looked rather splendid. And I felt nervous!

Then I had to persuade the Small Person to put down his playstation controller and accompany me to the Show. We walked there, me self-conscious and terrified of dropping the box, him inventing games for us to play and yanking on my sleeve or shoulder-bag at regular intervals.

In the tent there were a few boxes already on display. Still self-conscious and therefore apologetic, I did not even tweak things, just plonked it down. Almost as an afterthought I brought out my photo and added it to the table. I cast an eye at the pictures. There was one of impressive lines of cloches and crops and another of three smiling kids squatting behind their(?) cabbages. I expect the judges will like the kids. Mine looked colourful and untidy. like my allotment.

We walked home and I told the Small Person how much I would like to win a certificate. He did not seem to understand.


Later that day we returned. Instructions were to collect the exhibits at the end of the show, at 4p.m. We got there with about half an hour to go and I bought four plants from the one plant seller (it was a very small affair, this Grand Horticultural Show), bought Harry a very nice ice cream, which he tired of and I dropped!, then proceeded to the show tent. We worked our way round. One man had done very well in the carrots, beans and onion line and there was a huge cabbage, but most of the exhibits had already been removed. Which was very disappointing. To the boxes. Only two remained, and neither had a prize. I was very disappointed and could not even view the winners to see what gave them the edge. It felt funny, putting in so much effort and getting nowhere. When was the last time I did such a thing? At school? A bit like art classes when your picture does not get to the wall.

But, under my photo, this photo, the wrong photo, the photo of my allotment as disorganised, scruffy, few crops visible (unless you count nasturtiums), a card proclaiming second prize!
I have stuck it on the wall.
I am pleased as Punch.

'We're going to hold another next year', says a gentleman as we leave. 'Will you have another go, or has it all been too much?'
Probably.