Happily it is a week of inbound travel. After three months locked down in Dubai by himself, Neil is jumping through the many and various travel protocols in Dubai and at Heathrow to arrive here on Friday, when he can finally see his nascent vegetable empire in person. The Great Works (phase 1) are now complete, and as Anemone were departing, my lorry load of little Euro babies were arriving.
Plants have to have passports now: the spread throughout Europe of ravaging diseases like xylella, responsible for the death of countless olive trees in Italy, means the horticultural trade have to prove traceability and breeding, and so the huge Euro growers must label their products before they are shipped across the Channel. While I waited for the man with a van full of plants, this did lead me idly to wonder who checks the plants’ passports? I was awaiting under 200 specimens, small beer in comparison to the orders from designers for vast estates. Is there an elfin official, fluttering amongst the netted trolleys, ticking off the rows of greenery? Any cases of mistaken identity? How would your average passport checker, elfin or otherwise, know a juniper from a myrtle? These whimsical musings were halted by the arrival of our man, a cheery red faced soul very keen to have a little chit-chat while he unloaded tray after tray of plants. It’s all very difficult right now apparently - can’t get hold of some items for love nor money because of the pandemic and everyone wanting to garden - at which point he tells me that 90% of my order is here, but because my viburnum plicatum and a few other things fall into that highly sought after category, they will be delivered in due course. Frankly, I could have told him it would be difficult - ten days after I had placed the order with our contractors, the viburnum I wanted was voted plant of the decade by the Chelsea Flower Show (online audience). Still, the beautiful cotinus (smokebush) had arrived, along with much more, so there was plenty to keep me busy.
It is exciting and nerve racking to start planting. New garden, first large area to work with, and the largest bed in this phase of the work. As I mentioned previously, the terrace bed is also the most difficult to work with: gently sloping, then steeply sloping, 360 visibility so the plants’ heights and contours have to work from all approaches (as opposed to the typical bed with a “back” to it, be that wall or fence), with an enormous sandstone slab running about one metre underneath it, and now filled with completely new loam which is sandy and therefore exceptionally free draining. ‘Free draining’ is the polite gardening term for dry as dust when the sun shines for longer than an hour. I think of it as necessary antidote to the clay we have here, and lucky I’m used to desert gardening. Might however be back on the phone to those nice people who deliver mushroom compost (ie moisture retaining bulk) quite soon. You then run up against the next reality check: what you order in a lovely long list sent to your supplier is selected based on personal experience growing that plant and/or its description in a book. You allow space in your planting plan for it to develop to full size, and await your young sprig of green. What you get is not always what you expect however - in the past when I have grown lemon balm, a 2 litre pot was a mounded crown of those lemon and lime green leaves, spreading to 20-30 cms. The twenty pots that arrived on Tuesday look more as if they are going for the height award: very tall and skinny, and very pot bound. This may sound trite, but has a bearing when you are filling metres of space. The heleniums are also not looking too happy, but the fabulous beetroot red leaves of the lobelias (awaiting their scarlet blooms) are in perfect condition, and I am delighted with the briza (quaking oat grass) which sit well between the deep purple salvias and orange geums. Stipa, verbenas, artemisia, and the black currants also look in excellent form. I am waiting on orders of two lemon verbena sub-shrubs, phlomis (Jerusalem sage), more geums, and some red- and white currants. I have re-located nearly all the fleabane that I had tucked away around the garden last winter, and transplanted the acanthus (bear’s breeches) and echinops that had been residing in temporary quarters. There is still a large empty space in the bed, but this was anticipated: both the changes in schedule due to lockdown and the surprise of the vast sandstone plateau underneath that area meant I had ripped up original plans, and will re-think with tougher dry planting plus spring bulbs once they come back into stock at the end of summer. Meanwhile some pots can make up the impact, and the stunning red satin lily “Cavoli” will be high on the autumn order list.
Completion also means emancipation for the little fruit trees from their not so temporary heeled in homes. An unpleasant surprise a few weeks ago when I noticed that two young crab apples and my precious quince were looking a little bald, with leaves above the rabbit guards stripped right off. When our younger son commented on the “enormous rabbit poo” on the lawn nearby, it was obvious that unless Wallace and Gromit’s Were-Rabbit was on the prowl, the roe deer sighted in nearby fields had decided to come closer to domestic living. Very lovely, no doubt, having Bambino’s prancing around come night, but very annoying, especially as the trees are so young they could easily be killed by such predations. Having never had to defend a tree against a hungry deer, I decided to call an old friend, father to my best friend from childhood, cider maker, pilot and vintage car connoisseur and now (relatively) near neighbour Keith Knight. Owners of acres of cider apple trees, the Knights know pretty much all there is to know about protecting saplings from nibblers and grazers, but Keith very kindly consulted friends and acquaintances far and wide on the Bambi question, and said that as far as larger deer like roe were concerned, the options were physical barriers (a large wire surround), or lion poo. I have known this lovely man since I was five years old, but felt at this point the ties of friendship might be stretching a little: we are in the middle of a pandemic, but poo from Aslan is what is needed? Shame on me for doubting - Keith proceeded to tell me that rather than planning a smash and grab on Longleat or Dudley Wildlife Park, all I needed was to order online a box of Silent Roar. I wonder if it needs a passport, too.
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