The garden was a blank canvas when I first moved in. A single tree. A lawn invaded by alkanet. London clay so hard you couldn’t push a spade in. I was more concerned with urgent matters such as the defunct central heating and problematic broadband reception when a friend asked me, “What are you going to do with the garden?” A question that started an unstoppable avalanche of wants.
Of course I would like to grow some of my own food. I need fruit trees and nut bushes, bay trees and a herb bed. I couldn’t live without a strawberry patch and canes of raspberries. Currants, red, white and black, and pots of blueberries were high on the list too. There must be space for runner beans and rows of peas. Oh, and a bed for brassicas. My wish list was akin to Ratty’s breathless picnic list in The Wind in the Willows.
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The truth is, I had no idea where to start. Where should I plant the fruit trees (plums, greengages and mirabelles) and would cob nuts work in the shade? It made sense to put the fruit trees at the far end of the space, a mini orchard. I consulted nothing more than the fruit tree catalogues; a decision that resulted in too many trees in too little space.
Having a professional garden designer look at your garden is not an extravagance. It saved me a lot of money in lost plants.
Within a couple of years, the quince had tangled with the ‘Oullins Gage’, the damson was fighting with the crab apple and the nut bushes, hidden under the canopy of the fruit trees, were struggling with the lack of light. I brought new meaning to the term amateur gardener.
My editor came for lunch. An avid allotmenteer himself, he eyed the rest of the bare space and asked about my plans. Monty Don, who at the time wrote for the same newspaper, kindly came to have a look. Insisting he was not a designer, Monty nevertheless opened my eyes to what the garden could be, but I still found myself undecided.
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The problem was that I wanted everything, regardless of soil, aspect or microclimate also what it couldn’t. Up to that point I hadn’t noticed that it had two definite sides – one in full sun, the other moist shade – or that the walls would be good for espaliered fruit trees. Following Monty’s suggestions, I split the garden into beds (herbs, soft fruit, beans and peas, brassicas and potatoes) and planted a domestic- sized tree – a ‘Nottingham’ medlar – to give a little shade where it was needed. Suddenly, the space made sense.
I still found myself undecided. The problem was that I wanted everything, regardless of soil, aspect or microclimate.
I left the rear of the garden to run somewhat wild, assuming I’d find inspiration at some point. But despite a bookcase full of gardening books, and annual trips to the Chelsea Flower Show and Chelsea Physic Garden, I still found myself undecided. The problem was that I wanted everything, regardless of soil, aspect or microclimate. I asked designer Dan Pearson to take a look. He encouraged me to rethink the possibilities of the space.
Having a professional garden designer look at your garden is not an extravagance. It saved me a lot of money in lost plants (my bucket list of beautiful specimens would not have survived my London clay). Rather than taking the fun out of designing something myself, I was given the gift of experience. Any notion of a designer taking everything off your hands and pushing their favourite plants on you, doesn’t happen, or at least it didn’t in my case. The process will still be fun and a good designer will listen to – and edit – your wants list (even those a mile long ).
Something I hadn’t considered is that a designer can open up opportunities you haven’t thought about. It would never have crossed my mind that the space could be a tiny woodland until Dan mentioned it – one complete with a Cornus kousa with single flowers the size of giant butterflies, a quietly charming Rosa x odorata ‘Mutabilis’, a blanket of jiggling epimediums and a mock orange that fills the space with its heavenly scent in early summer.
Obviously, you can pinch ideas yourself. Every garden book and magazine is a menu from which to choose something you fancy – maybe a copper full of Verbascum, a hole in the hedge to peep through or a bench in bed of forget-me-nots. Other people’s designs are there for us to run with. But if ever I were to start again, with a new space, I would always consult others.
While I would hate the idea of a garden appearing ready-made, I do value another person’s experience and vision, and perhaps, most of all, their ability to think outside the box. Wanting to do it all yourself is fair enough, and bringing someone else in to help is not in everyone’s budget, but they can also save you making expensive mistakes. It’s a bit like trying to design a kitchen yourself. You can do the aesthetics easily; less so the plumbing and electrics.
Of course, no matter which designer you choose for advice, or whether you plough your own furrow, eventually some of the ideas and schemes will change – it is a natural part of the evolution of any planted space. No one can predict exactly how plants will behave. When I look at my garden now, I see how it has changed significantly from those early plans, yet it retains the spirit of its original designers, who kindly lent their expertise and vision.
It is still my garden, and has been from day one, but a better garden, I think, for the seeds that others have planted there.
