I would dearly love to think that my father, gardening in the 1960s, had embraced ma, the Japanese term for ‘the space between’, the ‘presence of absence’ between plants (or people or objects). Sadly, it was more likely he regarded the bare earth between his precious azaleas and phlox, dahlias and petunias as a sign of a well-tended garden. “Look everyone, no weeds!”
Naked space between garden plants has become unfashionable, and now – at least in my garden – it is all about Vita’s cry of ‘cram, cram, cram’. In my case, the plants jostle and nudge one another because I am a greedy gardener, who often buys before he thinks, but also because I like the idea of a garden overflowing with plants. It feels informal, romantic, easy and generous.
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At first, I struggled with filling the gaps. Everything with which I tried to clothe the ma either withered or became a bully. The tooth-edged leaves of Pachysandra procumbens are generally reliable for covering the bare ground between and under shrubs and trees, yet failed to survive in the shadow of my philadelphus and infant magnolia, while the march of woodruff ’s (Galium odoratum) twinkling stars became unstoppable. I pull them out like weeds. Underplanting is essential in my garden because I am not as fond of bare soil as was my father, if only because every inch of bare ground in a tiny garden feels like a wasted opportunity.
Pulmonaria, wood anemones and the utterly charming Erigeron daisies seem to do the job of helping the larger perennials to join hands, to help the garden flow; the carpet beneath the furniture, if you like. Finding such help was not without its pains. Forget-me-nots forgot to self-seed, snowdrops stayed huddled in tight clumps and violets, the sweetest of all groundcover plants, were washed away in heavy rain. I have high hopes for the primroses I planted last year under the amelanchier, magnolia and apple trees. Already developing into plump cushions, they seem to enjoy life in the shadows as much as their owner does.
Tucked out of sight at the somewhat wild end of the garden, an underplanting of Cyclamen coum is coming on a treat, and its dark-green leaves and twinkling pink flowers have spread further than I could have hoped. The pale-pink hepaticas – often capricious – have come back again this year to surround an old tree root. I should also like to give a shout out to Pachyphragma macrophyllum, an undervalued groundcover plant, whose bright green leaves and tiny white flowers in spring love a little dappled shade.
My exception to filling bare spaces comes in early spring when the garden wallows in its annual mulching. Never does the space look smarter than when we have spent a day layering rotted bark on the beds. Mulch has helped to break down my infernal London clay, opening up so many planting possibilities. Crucially, the moist, dark compost allows me to get my head around the planting, framing the unfurling green knuckles of the deciduous ferns, silhouetting the roses with their fresh, deep-red leaves and highlighting new growth in the white dicentra Lamprocapnos spectabilis ‘Alba’.
Mulch (such a perfect name for the squidgy, rotted bark I use) is something I have to see and feel before I purchase. Most nurseries and garden centres have some open samples to get your hands into. Choosing the right texture is crucial: too coarse and your garden will resemble a children’s play park; too fine and it is inclined to blow over the paths once it dries out, which in my experience is surprisingly quickly. This year, the heavens opened just as we had emptied the last of the bags onto the beds, for which I said my thanks.
The right mulch is crucial: too coarse and your garden resembles a children’s play park
Timing is important. I try to get the mulch down just before the crocuses pop up, but inevitably a few early ones do get submerged. Mulch is not for all comers. The tree peonies particularly disapprove of being tucked in too tightly, so I leave a good 10cm of clear space around their stems. Irises, ditto. Hydrangeas seem to thrive on the stuff, but then, it keeps their feet moist, which they rather like. Annoyingly, the birds do too, throwing the fine top layer over the paths almost as soon as we have it down.
I do my best to mulch as deeply as possible, 10cm or so. But here’s the thing: like mincemeat at Christmas, there is never, ever enough. We carry 30 large bags through the house and it is gone in a heartbeat. I would honestly go so far as to say there is almost nothing a garden enjoys more than a late winter blanket of good, dark mulch and there is nothing I enjoy more than applying it. It traps moisture, feeds the roots, suppresses weeds and makes the garden as sharp as a pin.
To my infinite joy, this urban plot has an abundance of neighbouring trees, and making leaf mould is as easy as pie. (Easier, to be honest.) There are many ways in which to make a fine, leafy tilth, but I simply pile leaves in the corners of the garden over winter. By late spring, the greengage, amelanchier, hazel and wisteria leaves have rotted down into what I like to think of as gardener’s gold. If you garden on a windy site, then you might need some string bags or a compost bin to hold them. The only work the leaf mould requires is the occasional turn with a rake (you can use a fork, but watch out for sleeping hedgehogs).
The first signs of my underplanting coming through the mulch are heartwarming. Those first tips of crocuses and snowdrops and, with luck, the unfurling anemones. Nothing can stifle woodruff – mine could find its way through concrete. Within weeks, the first shoots will be joining hands across the garden, covering the ground between plants, the sacred ‘presence of absence’ that this greedy gardener is happy to live without.
