I’m currently re-listening to an audiobook of a very light-weight novel about a late-teen in the mid 1950’s who’s family owns a massive house dating back to Medieval times, with a huge extension by Inigo Jones.
It’s a big moment for me: the moment of the flowering of Tulipa batalinii.
It’s diabolically windy out there. I’m wondering if guy-ropes might help to keep the house on location, like Gulliver pinned to the ground by the Lilliputians. Must get me some decent pegs.
Had to make a quick dash up to Duneira on Mt. Macedon the other day, and turned into that incredible drive – possibly one of the loveliest in Australia – soon to be lined with millions of bluebells.
Many of the pleasures of gardening are direct and overt, and others just lurk beyond grasp-ability. Some are concrete, some just suggested or hinted at.
If anticipation is one of the assumed but rarely articulated responses that contribute an exquisite, almost painful ache to the whole garden thing, fragility is another.
Most of what I do professionally is biggish to big. I’ll be ordering perennials, for instance, with 150 or this and 200 of that, totaling in the thousands. I love using plants in vast, repeating sweeps, and wouldn’t have it any other way. Even at home, my preference would be to be planting up large spaces with low-diversity planting.
But that form is inherently limiting.
I’m in search of the perfect companion for my colchicums. They’ve been in flower since the last week of Feb and are looking distinctly lonely.
One of the truly great, anticipation-charged moments in the garden year looms. The first of the bulb catalogues has appeared. What’s on offer are brown, flaky, often ugly or even grotesque little packages of life, very nearly guaranteed to alchemically transform into big, fat, glorious flowers of unsurpassable colour. They’re horticultural hand-grenades, or floral fireworks, totally unprepossessing and deceptively inactive, until they explode.
Clearly there’s supernatural forces attached to blogging. It seems as if by making any form of declaration or assertion, wild or conservative (I’ve a habitual preference for the former), your experience is likely to immediately contradict it.
How did I wind up doing this? Three posts to answer a single question that should, by rights, require a book-length answer.
I was hunting for a pretext on which to show off some rare photos of Great Dixter (one of my favourite places in the world, and about which I tend to rant a little too often and at too great a length).
It didn’t take long.