Over the years, neighbours have given so much to my garden. A wisteria that clambers through my plum tree, flowering early, its long purple racemes hanging down while the fruit tree’s stems are still bare. The white climbing rose that sends ivory petals falling like snowflakes on the terrace beneath. Others have sent herb-scented smoke from their barbecue, or the chance to harvest the fruits of an overhanging ‘Victoria’ plum. In return, I have given only a fig tree that drops over-ripe fruit onto their garden furniture.
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The old saying is that good fences make good neighbours, but in my experience good plants do too. I currently share a rampant, deeply scented honeysuckle that is so prolific I am not sure whose it is anymore, and a medlar tree that fills both gardens with single white blossom in spring. A climbing jasmine is another shared joy, and a robinia provides dappled shade to both spaces on hot summer afternoons.
Others have given me their rampant Russian vine, for which I am less grateful, and savage regularly with shears and curses. It is the unwanted gift that keeps on giving; the one you cannot donate to a charity shop. They have also bequeathed unto me the tree from hell, a red-leaved Photinia x fraseri that I loathe with a passion – an ugly tree that sends wisps of grey fluff into the garden each summer, making us cough and splutter our way through our alfresco lunches. I hack it back as best as I can.
My neighbours have bequeathed unto me the tree from hell, which I loathe with a passion
I cherish my common ivy (Hedera helix), but it is not a love that’s shared, so I’ve been slowly replacing it with other climbers; a jasmine and a Virginia creeper. Unimaginative they may be, but they do the job and are more controllable. Because no plant in our gardens should really be allowed to annoy our neighbours. It is neither fair nor neighbourly. We all like different plants, and one person’s beloved morning glory is another’s dreaded bindweed. I am sure there is someone, somewhere who likes Russian vine, but I would love to meet the neighbours, long gone, who planted the one that invades my garden each summer. So we should plant considerately and with a thought to the future – but there’s a limit. To ask the houses either side of you what boundary plants they would like is to risk a garden led by committee. No garden deserves that.
I settled for a row of hornbeams, which have received hate mail
There has been many a legal case over the subject of the dreaded leylandii. Perfectly fine in the right place, I’m sure, but not at the end of one’s garden. Apart from blocking your neighbours’ light, they seem to turn the soil beneath them to dust. Having not the most attractive view from my house, I was once briefly tempted myself, but settled for something deciduous instead – a row of hornbeams, which have received hate mail anyway, but are here to stay. A few years ago, I filled an unused green space I adopted with hawthorns and Spiraea. I’m not sure anyone noticed until the following spring when it burst into a mass of snowy-white flowers. Five years later, it is still going, giving enjoyment to everyone who wanders past. I also recently made a little pot garden with various pittosporums, and a salvia or two, initially to hide a neighbouring wheelie bin (don’t get me started). It worked a treat, but I hadn’t expected the little garden to attract so many smiles from passersby. Even in early winter, Salvia ‘Amistad’ was battling on, its midnight-purple flowers peeping through the green of the osmanthus leaves.
I hadn’t expected the little garden to attract so many smiles from passersby
And then there is my basement lightwell, which was never planted for myself alone. I may get the occasional glimpse of its taller occupants from my kitchen, but the space was created with others in mind. It is the neighbours who get the pleasure from spotting the random assortment of ferns, acers and pittosporums. I only see it when I am putting my key in the front door.
When the cornus is in full song, its white bracts are admired and photographed several times a day; the little pots of crocus, namely ‘Orange Monarch’ and ‘Cream Beauty’, receive complimentary oohs and aahs, and the most eagle-eyed snoopers will also spot the occasional snowdrop I sneak in among the foliage. Strangely, making this garden – if you can call it that – gives me as much delight as those bits of garden I can see from the house. I am happy just to know it is there.
I have long envied those cobbled mews where every house has pots of greenery outside its front door. One charming central London location I know features pots of scented-leaf pelargoniums almost as tall as me, there for the stroking (and who could resist?), and jasmine that clambers up drainpipes. Particularly splendid are the salvias, many of which have outgrown their already huge pots.
There is barely a house that hasn’t joined in the fun, and the mews is lined on both sides by slightly different but compatible plantings. Plants shoot up from an enchanting and eclectic assortment of containers. Olive trees sprout from giant olive-oil drums, tin buckets are given a second life with spring bulbs and sweet pea seedlings find homes in empty tomato tins. Cherry trees fill the mews with blossom in spring.
I rather like the idea that we can garden not only for ourselves and for the neighbours we know, but also for those we don’t.
