The Wasteland: loss and longing (2)

The endless cycle of idea and action, endless invention, endless experiment

T S Eliot

What else is evident? A few daffodils and bluebells are putting out leaves, but there are no snowdrops. No snowdrops? How can a garden in this part of the word not have snowdrops? These beautiful miniature soldiers of the early spring push their way up along roadside banks and in the corners of gardens everywhere.

For each decision I make there must be some justification. For the absence-of-snowdrop-problem the route to supplying the garden is straightforward. Piers' cousin Becky has a beautiful garden in Sussex and she digs up snowdrops that come from their grandparents' house in Wales for us. They are pure and simple in shape and the connection through the family is a very satisfying one; plants given and received are reminders of friendship. To contrast with their simple form, we buy some Galanthus Titania, one of the Greatorex varieties with a green, double centre, from Marchant's Hardy Plants near Lewes.

The snowdrops are on hold in pots and I can start to clear and then feed the soil in preparation for design and planting.

 Double snowdrops occur not infrequently in the wild, but this one was developed by Heyrick Greatorex in Norfolk in the middle of the last century. In general, I am aiming to use plants that have had earned their place in cottage gardens over the years, so buying bred plants goes a little against the grain. I rationalise by thinking that this is such a charming plant that it would be silly to reject it out of hand. The scale is just right, it gives us a subtle contrast between the two and it seems like a natural development of the common snowdrop. Nature is ever-changing, so I let myself venture into the realm of enthusiastic plant developers. Greatorex was an avid snowdrop-grower; who am I to reject his work?

The Wasteland: loss and longing 

“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish?

T S Eliot

We all need space in order to flourish. It could be time to ourselves, time to think, time to stand back so that we can see the wood from the trees. For a garden, since we are the enabler, the designer, it means space for our chosen plants to spread and be themselves.

Men at work...

The garden in Dorset is small and nearly all of the plantable area is overshadowed with bushes that have grown too large for the space and depleted the soil of nutrients. They must be pulled out to make way for the chosen plants that will enhance rather than just occupy.

I don't feel up to the task of pulling out the bushes myself, so we ask a local firm of tree surgeons to do it for us. When they have done their work, the garden looks worse than it did before – a bit of a wasteland. We keep a small cypress, an acer and and a viburnum, as well as the hydrangea petiolaris, honeysuckle, ornamental vine and rose that cling to the walls.

A time to be born, a time to die

A time to be born, a time to die

As I tie back the climbers I hear sheep and birds in the distance, people walking along the street. I cut away the dead wood from roses, realising that those branches once bore flowers that delighted the previous owners; the thorns drew their blood as it now draws mine. Birds have taken last year's seeds from the ivy, leaving little bare stalks, and there will be birds to take seeds from this year's plants as they ripen. This garden is a part of its many-faceted community, past and present and future; I must work with nature, not try to conquer it.

A little ivy

To begin the creative process, I need to take stock of what I have. The garden covers an area of approximately 80 square metres and is bordered by high, sheltering walls. About one third is going to be dug and the rest includes hard standing with interspersed planting. Much of the planted area is in deep shade, but there is also some dappled shade and places where the sun shines for a good part of the day. The soil is slightly alkaline, well-worked but rather impoverished by having too many shrubs taking up the space. I will carefully consider which of the existing plants will be kept and which new plants I need to introduce – and ask myself questions as I  go on.

And a time to every purpose under heaven...

What is creativity in the context of making a garden?

February was the beginning of the gardener's year, the start of the seasons that take us through all the variations that the climate can throw at us in a bumpy arc through to the end of next winter. At this point most of the garden life seems to be dormant. The earth is solidly brown with punctuations of stalks from the existing herbaceous plants; the branches of the shrubs and climbers are bare and straggly; snow has recently melted and left soggy patches on the rather dated concrete pavings.

a hint of buds

But of course, not all things are dead. The earth is pierced by the shoots of bulbs; the many insects that keep the soil healthy are working, but working slowly; the bare branches are showing signs of new buds; birds visit in hope of food and potential nesting places. Creation in the grander sense is "working its purpose out".

Beginnings, continuations, and creativity (2)

 There is a season...

The cottage in Dorset has a small walled garden which has been much loved in the past, but neglected recently.  During the gestation period between choosing to buy this property and owning it, my imagination has been working.

The garden is a place waiting to be brought to life and it's me that's going to do the bringing.  I feel inspired, I feel a great weight of responsibility to do it right, and my head is filled with questions.

(Right now, the garden is filled with blue sacks of compost, lovingly transported from our last home, compost bins cunningly disguised as beehives, and very unlovely concrete slabs and walled beds - watch this space!)