In 1997 I witnessed my first and never to be forgotten hanami. I was in Japan filming a series for Channel 4 and we arrived there at cherry blossom season to witness this important cultural connection to the natural world. The blossom forecast or ‘cherry blossom front’ announced by the weather bureau charted the daily progress as the opening blossom moved up the archipelago, so that parties could be planned in celebration.
We arrived in Kyoto with perfect timing, just as the first buds were beginning to open. The streets in the old town were lined with the sakura trees and the beautifully manicured limbs reached from behind garden walls and dipped down to hover above the pavements. As the week went on and the buds opened, a skim of petals began to pool on the dark water of the tree-lined canals and, with the mounting crescendo of bloom, came the parties of people that gathered under the branches. During the day the sakura made pale, luminous cloudscapes of blossom in the parks. By evening, for the night viewing of yozakura, they were illuminated with lanterns. Picnic blankets, almost touching like towels on a crowded beach, shadowed the canopies of the trees and the Japanese partied with sake and merriment to welcome the spring.
My most memorable blossom viewing was a trip we made to a cherry tree nursery. We had been instructed to visit in the afternoon to look at the trees in the fields and, with perfect timing, at dusk we were escorted to their king tree. This was their most magnificent Yoshino cherry, pruned over decades to form a wonderful canopy of limbs which were illuminated from below by a number of flaming braziers. The flickering light caught the first flower and, as darkness descended beyond the branches, we were held transfixed in a moment of absolute perfection. Sugary pink bud, a scattering of just opened flower and all the promise of what was yet to come in the season’s change. A metaphor for life that everyone there understood. Intense, breath-taking beauty, yet fleeting and ephemeral.
The Yoshino cherry (Prunus x yedoensis) is perhaps my favourite of all cherries and I have made room for one here, so that we too can celebrate the arrival of spring. Last weekend was our equivalent moment, with bud and expectation of flower. Today as I write, it is in full blossom and droning with honeybees. Though it is undoubtedly ornamental, with a live, bright pink to the bud, this rapidly pales as the flowers open. They are single, but massed on elegant growth, which reaches to form a widely-domed tree. I have planted a multi-stemmed tree here by the trough in front of the house so that, for the two weeks that it is in season, it is free to take centre stage. In time its limbs will reach out so that it can be doubly appreciated in the water. First in reflection and then with the petals scattered on the surface.
Although as a general rule I prefer to plant small, I invested in an air-pot grown specimen from Deepdale Trees for this key position. The airpot system encourages a dense and fibrous root system and, as a consequence, results in quick establishment. The Yoshino cherry is well-known for its wind tolerance and so far has done well here with our lack of shelter. Where the habit of some cherries can be stiff, the movement in the limbs and its arching growth make this a supremely elegant tree. It has a second season too with tiny cherries that the birds strip fast when they are ready and, in a good autumn, bright foliage of orange, russet and red.
It is important to dedicate some time to be with the tree when it has this moment. Stopping to look up into the energy caught in the blossom, take in the gentle perfume and the industry of the bees making the most of this early larder, time slows and the abundance and energy of spring are brought sharply into focus.
Words: Dan Pearson / Photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 14 April 2018
It has rained every day but one over the last fortnight. Not just a passing shower, but the whole day, like the ones you remember confining you to the house during the school holidays. The ground is wet, as saturated as it can be, and the stream has been rushing driftwood into dams, scouring the banks and rumbling stones into new places.
I have ventured carefully onto the beds just twice whilst we have been here over the Easter period to pull bittercress and winter-growing speedwells. They have seized the no-go zone and have made growth despite the cold. Hardy celandines have flushed the hedgerows with leaf, but they have not been showing their lacquered petals because the sun has stayed behind cloud. Elsewhere, there is half as much growth as this time last year and I find myself yearning for the chance to fill a jug with spring things, for the excitement of the new.
With the winter refusing to loosen its grip, the pickings have been slim, but this is compounded by the fact that this is a new garden. The tardy spring is a also a clear reminder that when you start from scratch, a garden is a commitment to waiting and though I know it will ease as soon as the weather warms, right now I am feeling the hunger.
I have started a list of early to bloom flowers that I’d like to see more of next year. The garden could take more pulmonarias in several places and in quantity for that early colour, and so that I can lace them with early bulbs. Right now, this is a garden without bulbs, because I like to feel settled for at least a year before introducing a layer that can complicate change if you need to make it early on. We have bulbs in the meadow banks that are slowly establishing, but their absence amongst the new life of the garden is stark. I want to see erythroniums where there will be a little shade, Ipheion where the sun can spring open their flowers and early Corydalis to make their way through the groundcovers as they mesh together.
Gladiolus tristis
Up by the house and alongside the barn where we are a couple of years ahead and have already started to introduce the bulb layer, I have planted Crocus speciosus, Nerine bowdenii and Amaryllis belladonna for the autumn, but right now and rising above them all at the other end of winter is Gladiolus tristis. This willowy South African is a week or so later this year, but miraculous enough in its emerging form to stave off my hunger. Awakening from summer dormancy in the autumn, their needle like leaves push through the receding growth of their neighbours to stand tall already through the dark months. Reading will tell you that they need a sheltered spot and yes, I have seen this winter green foliage damaged in a frost pocket, but they have stood unscathed by this year’s winter on our exposed slopes. Literature will also tell you that the Marsh Afrikaner is to be found in wetland areas and on banks above streams in high grassland in the wild, but here free-draining ground and full sun provide their favoured position.
The flowers, which unfold themselves like bony fingers from their slender glove of foliage, are delicately balanced on almost invisible stems. Their necks tilt upward to suspend the flowers as they develop and there is room between each, flushing later in April first green then a luminous primrose to cream as they age. Standing at almost three feet by this point the hooded blooms will catch the slightest breeze to sway, tall and elegantly. At Great Dixter, where I first saw it in the Sunk Garden, I imagine its night perfume would be caught on still air held by the surrounding buildings. Here on our breezy slopes, we have it by the path so that you can dip your nose to the flowers at twilight.
Staking the rangy limbs is necessary if they strain and topple for light, so I like to grow it hard in a bright, airy place to keep strength in the limbs. Staking it once it is grown is almost impossible, however, as its foliage is every bit as delicate as the reeds it resembles and will bend irreparably once it falters. A network of hazel twigs, inserted if you can remember in the autumn, will allow it to grow into position and not to distract from its finely drawn outline. One that in every move of its early awakening will help in staving off the hunger pains brought on by a reluctant spring.
Words: Dan Pearson / Photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 7 April 2018
Easter is a time for baking, when the gently spiced scent of Simnel cake, hot cross buns, saffron buns and Easter biscuits fill the kitchen. This year, however, I have forgone the buns and fruit cake, which still have a whiff of Christmas about them, in favour of something lighter and more subtle based on an Easter cake traditional in Italy. Known there by various regional names including pastiera napoletana or pizza di ricotta, this is a baked cheesecake, often flavoured with orange flower water and studded with vine fruits soaked in marsala or chopped citron peel. Sometimes bitter chocolate chips are added.
A friend brought me back half a candied citron from the market in Palermo last summer, she had been told of the local cakes it was used in and thought I would be able to find a use for it. I have been waiting all winter for the right moment. A translucent pale green, the colour of new spring foliage, I imagined it flecked through a primrose yellow custard coloured and flavoured with saffron, a spice with strong associations with Easter and spring, and a natural affinity with both cheese and honey, which I have used to sweeten the cake.
The honey was a gift from our neighbours, Josie and Rachel, who as well as keeping chickens, guinea fowl and a brace of beef cattle, have about ten hives on the their land in this valley. Every Christmas we look forward to the bag that they habitually leave by the back door containing a card, some ingots of beeswax and two jars of honey. As this local honey is so special I use it only where its floral flavour can really be appreciated and this cake is the perfect vehicle.
After the prolonged cold, grey and wet of the last few weeks, when we are pining for heat and warmth finally, a slice of this cheesecake is light and fresh and the colour of sunshine.
INGREDIENTS
Pastry
250g plain flour, preferably Tipo 100
125g unsalted butter, chilled
Pinch of salt
50g icing sugar
1 large egg yolk, retain white for filling
Iced water
Filling
500g ricotta
250g mascarpone
2 large eggs, separated
2 large eggs, whole
5 tablespoons honey
Generous pinch saffron – about 50 stamens
2 tablespoons milk
25g candied citron peel, coarsely chopped, or zest of 1 lemon
Serves 8-10
METHOD
You will need a deep, fluted tart tin or springform cake tin 25cm in diameter.
Set the oven to 180°c.
In a very small pan scald the milk for the filling. Remove from the heat and add the saffron threads. Leave to stand until cool.
Make the pastry by sifting together the flour, salt and icing sugar. Cut the butter into small pieces and rub into the flour mixture until it resembles fine breadcrumbs. Whisk the egg yolk in a small bowl and add to the pastry mixture, stir through and then add just enough iced water to bring the dough together. Two to three tablespoons should be enough. Quickly and lightly form the dough into a ball without kneading. Wrap in clingfilm and chill in the fridge for 20 minutes.
Take the pastry from the fridge, unwrap it. On a lightly floured surface roll out until about 2 mm thick. Use the rolling pin to carefully lift the pastry over the tart tin. Gently press into the base and up the sides of the tin. Trim the overhanging pastry by tearing it away or use a knife if you prefer a tidier finish. Prick the base of the pastry with a fork. Line the pastry case with a piece of baking parchment, fill with baking beans and bake blind for 15 minutes. Remove the beans and baking parchment and return to oven for a further 5-7 minutes until it looks dry and pale gold in colour. Remove and allow to cool.
For the filling put the ricotta and mascarpone in a large bowl. Add the honey and stir well to dissolve. Add the saffron milk and stir well until the whole mixture is pale yellow.
In a bowl whisk together the two egg yolks and the two whole eggs. Add to the cheese mixture with the chopped citron peel and stir well.
In a clean metal bowl whisk the three egg whites (one retained from the egg used in the pastry) until they reach the soft peak stage. Add one tablespoon of white to the cheese mixture and gently fold in. Add the remaining egg white a tablespoon at a time. When folding in, bring the mixture up from the bottom of the bowl, until well combined.
Gently pour the filling into the pastry case. Bake in the oven for 60 to 75 minutes, until well risen and golden brown on top.
Remove from the oven and allow to cool. Do not be alarmed, the filling will sink.
Serve at room temperature.
Recipe & photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 31 March 2018
Although the snow from last weekend has all but gone, the drifts that stubbornly mark the lee of the hedges on the coldest slopes are a reminder that winter’s grip is still apparent. The primroses, however, have a schedule to keep and have responded with gentle defiance. The first flowers were out just days after the first thaw to light the dark bases of the hedgerows, and now they are set to make this first official week of spring their own.
Since arriving here, we have done our best to increase their domain. Although they stud the cool, steep banks of the lanes, they were all but absent on the land where the cattle had grazed them out. Save for the wet bank above the ditch where they were protected from the animals by a tangle of bramble. We noted that they appeared in this inaccessible crease with ragged robin, angelica and meadowsweet. Four years ago we fenced the ditch along its length to separate the grazing to either side and since then have done nothing more than strim the previous season’s growth in early January to keep the brambles at bay.
Primroses (Primula vulgaris) colonise the banks above the ditch
The new regime has seen a slow but gentle shift in favour of increased diversity. Though the brambles had protected them in the shade beneath their thorny cages, now that they have been given headroom the primroses have flourished. Their early start sees them coming to life ahead of their neighbours and, by the time they are plunged once more into the shade of summer growth, they have had the advantage. Four years on we can see them increasing. The mother colonies now strong, hearty and big enough to divide and distinct scatterings of younger plants that have taken in fits and starts where the conditions suit them.
Each year, as soon as we see the flowers going over, we have made a point of dividing a number of the strongest plants. It is easy to tease them from their grip in the moist ground with a fork. However, I always put back a division in exactly the same place, figuring they have thrived in this spot and that it is a good one. A hearty clump will yield ten divisions with ease, and we replant them immediately where it feels like they might take. Though they like the summer shade, the best colonies are where they get the early sunshine, so we have followed their lead and found them homes with similar conditions.
The divisions taken from the heavy wet ground of the ditch have been hugely adaptable. The first, now six years old and planted beneath a high, dry, south-facing hedgerow behind the house, have flourished with the summer shade of the hedge and cover of vegetation once the heat gets in the sun. It is my ambition to stud all the hedgerows where we have now fenced them and they have protection from the sheep. Last year’s divisions, fifty plants worked into the base of the hedge above the garden, have all come back despite a dry spring. Their luminosity, pale and bright in the shadows, will be a good opening chorus in the new garden. The tubular flowers can only be pollinated by insects with a long proboscis, so they make good forage for the first bumblebees, moths and butterflies.
The six year old divisions at the base of the south-facing hedge behind the house
A one year old division at the base of the hedge above the garden
By the time the seed ripens in early summer, the primroses are usually buried beneath cow parsley and nettles, so harvesting is all too easily overlooked. However, last year I remembered and made a point of rootling amongst their leaves to find the ripened pods which are typically drawn back to the earth before dispersing. The seed, which is the size of a pinhead and easily managed, was sown immediately into cells of 50:50 loam and sharp grit to ensure good drainage. The trays were put in a shady corner in the nursery area up by the barns and the seedlings were up and germinating within a matter of weeks. As soon as the puckered first leaves gave away their identity, I remembered that it was a pod of primrose seed that had been my first sowing as a child. Though I cannot have been more than five, I can see the seedlings now, in a pool of dirt at the bottom of a yoghurt pot. The excitement and the immediate recognition that, yes, these were definitely primroses, was just as exciting last summer as it was then.
Primrose seedlings
The young plants will be grown on this summer and planted out this coming autumn with the promise of winter rain to help in their establishment. I will make a point of starting a cycle of sowings so that, every year until I feel they are doing it for themselves, we are introducing them to the places they like to call their own. The sunny slopes under the hawthorns in the blossom wood and the steep banks at the back of the house where it is easy to put your nose into their rosettes and breathe in their delicate perfume. I will plant them with violets and through the snowdrops and Tenby daffodils, sure in the knowledge that, whatever the weather, they will loosen the grip of winter.
Words: Dan Pearson / Photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 24 March 2018
The last of the perennial skeletons have now been cut to the base to make way for the turn in the season. It is just in the nick of time. Where just a fortnight ago the newly cleared ground gave away no more than a hint of what had been there before, we now have the evidence that spring is finally here. Held tight and close still, the flushed rosettes of embryonic foliage are bursting with energy.
This new life is remarkable for its break with dormancy and so begins our morning routine of combing the border for change. Sometimes, in the case of the lipstick red shoots on the peonies, it is a moment that is arguably as good as what comes later. The colour is strong and meaty and welcome against the dark ground. Team their flaming shoots with ‘Brazen Hussy’ celandines, which are up early too and done by the time the peony foliage shades them out, and you have a moment that is worthy of the weeks we have waited for such activity.
There is also the excitement of the appearance of new things. The autumn-planted Fritillaria imperialis ‘Rubra’ (main image) have speared the bare soil of the new garden with priapic vigour. We will be watching them closely for the first sign of lily beetle, which makes its appearance much earlier than expected with the first warmth of the sun. I always try and plant those bulbs that are prone to beetle attack close to the paths so that it is possible to pick them off without trampling into the beds.
Ranunculus ficaria ‘Brazen Hussy
Paeonia mlokosewitschii
Paeonia mascula
The rhubarb are at their best too and showing us now the huge reserves that they have built and stored in their crowns. The leaves, flushed copper, puckered and ready to expand, the crimson stems just waiting to push them to the light and the warmth that will very soon be in the sun. The rhubarb was moved just eighteen months ago, the autumn before last, and though I should be leaving it to build another year before forcing, it is clear that it has the heft. A quarter of the crown has been covered so that we can enjoy some early spears.
It is also a time to check that everything has made it. Just a week ago the fickle agastache, which easily succumb to winter wet, were looking like they might have done just that, but this morning I could see they have mostly made it through. Embryonic clusters of shoots held tight to the old wood, blue-purple and intensified in colour, but clearly identifying the plant that is yet to come. The pigmentation in new foliage is richest this early in the year with coppers, purples, blacks, reds and pale citrus greens. In the case of the Iris x robusta ‘Dark Aura’, the inky new growth is almost its best moment. New life, concentrated and full of anticipation.
Rhubarb ‘Timperley Early’
Iris x robusta ‘Dark Aura’
Other rosettes reveal an exponential increase, more than you can imagine might have been possible between autumn and now, but one that shows that the plants are happy. Coppery Zizia aurea doubled, if not trebled, in size from last year and angelicas erupting to let you know that they have got their roots down. This year, I can see it already, they mean business and in some cases will be sure to overwhelm their neighbours.
Understanding the rush of early season growth and the impact it can have on later-to-emerge neighbours is key to achieving balance when you are mingling plants. The late-season grasses for instance will see panicum smothered, if it is not teamed with neighbours that are also late risers – asters and rudbeckias – companions that will allow them the time to catch up. This early-season flush is wonderful for the way it marks the break with winter, but it can easily leave a hole when early energy is expended and there is still the bulk of the growing season to come. Although it feels far too soon to even be thinking about it, a late June cut-back of early geraniums and the Anthriscus sylvestris ‘Ravenswing’ will be sure to provide a second crop of foliage.
The shift, mapped in these fingers of new life, and the clues to the growing season ahead, is a gathering tide. One that, if we photographed the garden again next weekend, would reveal something altogether different. Although I have savoured it this year, it is good to feel that we have finally reached the end of winter. A new year awaits in the joy of observing.
Anthriscus sylvestris ‘Ravenswing’
Zizia aurea
Allium christophii
Allium angulosum
Tulip ‘Apricot Impression’
Paeonia ‘Coral Charm’
Paeonia rockii
Angelica sp.
Lunaria annua ‘Corfu Blue’
Thalictrum flavum ssp. glaucum
Patrinia scabiosifolia
Aquilegia chrysantha ‘Yellow Queen’
Hesperis matronalis var. albiflora
Nerine bowdenii
Eryngium eburneum
Cirsium canum
Deschampsia cespitosa ‘Goldschleier’
Iris sibirica ‘Papillon’
Words: Dan Pearson / Photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 17 March 2018
The first posy of March was picked last week, ahead of the cold north-easterlies and the snow that plunged us back into winter. The galanthus, the primroses and the wild narcissus that just last week were tilted in bud, are buried now in snowdrifts as March comes in, roaring like a lion. In the garden the hunt for new life has also been halted, but we have gained the time to seek out the minutiae of change. Newly visible buds, stark and green against the whiteout on the hawthorn and the Cornus mas in full and oblivious flower.
The Pulmonaria rubra stirred early in January and, beneath the snow they are already flushed with bloom. I was given a clump by our neighbour Jane and, having never grown it before, I can confirm that it is a doer. The silvered and spotted-leaved lungworts are arguably more dramatic, for they provide a textured foil and foliage that is easily as valuable as their spring show of flower. Give them shade and summer moisture and they will reward you, but the slightest sign of drought and they will sadly succumb to mildew. It is important, therefore, to find them a place that keeps cool. Pulmonaria rubra, however, seems altogether more adaptable and when the thaw comes they will flower unhalting until summer.
Pulmonaria rubra
Despite its modest presence – it has plain, green foliage and soft, coral flowers – I have enjoyed its willingness and ease on the sunny banks close to the studio where, from the veranda, you can hear the buzz of bumblebees. They love it, as do the first early honeybees and the heavy soil there suits it too. So far it has taken the sun and dry summer weather with no more than a little flagging in midday heat. I have planned for shade with the young Salix purpurea ‘Nancy Saunders’ that grow alongside and for there to be hellebores there when I have the shade for sure. The lungwort and the Lenten roses will be good in combination and we have experimented here in the bunch with a spotted dusky pink hybrid, whose colouring makes something more of the lungwort. This year it became clear that the red hellebores are just that bit later than the blacks, greens, yellows and picotees, whose earlier buds were ravaged by mice. Sometimes disasters teach you as much as triumphs.
Helleborus x hybridus Single Pink Blotched
The last of the winter is held in the Bergenia purpurascens which colours from a deep, coppery green to the colour and shine of oxblood leather in the cold months. This form, which I first saw growing in Beth Chatto’s gravel garden, was initially called ‘Helen Dillon’ after the Irish plantswoman and gardener, but has now been renamed ‘Irish Crimson’. I like it for the scale of the leaf which is finely drawn and held upright to catch the winter sun.
Though bergenia are a stalwart of shade, it is worth finding Bergenia purpurascens a position in sunshine so that the leaves can be backlit in winter. The glowing foliage makes up for the absence of flower elsewhere and is a foil to the first bulbs. I have just one clump which is slowly increasing, but I plan to split it on a year on/year off basis to have enough to mingle it with fine stemmed Narcissus jonquilla and white violets. Though bergenias are tough and reliable, I have found that they are magnets for vine weevil. The tell-tale notches to the edge of the leaf are made by the adult and these signs will show you that there are grubs eating the roots. An autumn application of nematodes should help in controlling the problem if it develops.
Bergenia purpurascens ‘Irish Crimson’
Salix gracilistyla ‘Melanostachys’
Salix gracilistyla ‘Melanostachys’ is an easy, compact plant which I’ve chosen to grow hard in the gravel surrounding the drive. It has lustrous stems that start out green before turning blood red and throwing out coal-black catkins from early February. They are a surprise and a delight and, some time in the next couple of weeks, each will push out a glowing halo of red anthers. For now, they are planted up at their base with Erigeron karvinskianus to cover until they bulk up. They won’t take long to reach a metre or so in all directions. As they shade out the erigeron, I have also included Viola odorata for its willingness to take their place in the shade. Next year I will add snowdrops to provide a contrast to the darkness of the willow. They will be easy to keep to a waist high bush with the longest growth being pruned out for catkins as an accompaniment to the last of the winter or the first of the spring pickings.
___________________________________
In memory of
Enid Brett Morgan
28 March 1937 – 28 February 2018
I picked this posy last Sunday with mum on my mind. My brother was looking after her, giving me a day’s respite from sharing the care of her at home at the end of her life. I didn’t know then that she would leave us so quickly this week. However, looking at the spareness and sombreness of this arrangement now, shows me that somewhere deep down I did. Mum loved hellebores. Coral and old rose were two of her favourite colours.
Huw Morgan
Words: Dan Pearson / Photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 3 March 2018
The word on the street was that this year’s Chelsea Flower Show was a little lacklustre, suffering somewhat from the late withdrawal of a number of show garden sponsors. However, the show always has something to delight at if you look hard enough.
Although there are increasingly fewer of them, the specialist nurseries in the Great Pavilion show what real, impassioned horticulture is all about. I always head there first, notebook in hand, to find the treasures that might inspire a new planting, or add an extra something to an established scheme. It is impossible to resist some of the plants on display and, as I place orders for later delivery, I visualise the changes the new arrivals will make with excitement.
A handful of the show gardens caught my attention this year but, despite the reduced number, there were several which repaid closer viewing. I made notes on a number of new plants and well-considered combinations. These are some of the things that caught my eye.
I’m on a slightly unstoppable peony roll at the moment and, as well as ordering some tenuifolia hybrids, I hankered after these from Binny Plants.
Paeonia ‘Mahogany’
Paeonia ‘Claire de Lune’ & Paeonia ‘Buckeye Belle’
Paeonia ‘Pink Hawaiian Coral’
And these from Kelways.
Paeonia ‘Blaze’
Paeonia ‘Roman Gold’
I always seek out Kevock Garden Plants, who supplied a huge number of the tangerine Primula ‘Inverewe’ that was one of the stars of my last Chelsea show garden. The delicacy and perfection of their display never fails to render me speechless. A garden fairyland that takes me right back to my childhood. Stella Rankin, one of the owners, told me that this year they had a new helper with a background in floristry set up the stand, and there were some sophisticated and bold colour combinations.
Primula florindae and Meconopsis Lingholm’
Meconopsis ‘Lingholm’
Primula japonica ‘Postford White’
Semiaquilegia adoxoides
Corydalis calcicola
I also spotted these beauties on a nearby stand but, to my annoyance, forgot to note down which one.
Meconopsis baileyi ‘Alba’
Lupinus lepidus
Kniphofia pauciflora
There is usually at least one variety of foxglove on The Botanic Nursery stand (main image) that catches my eye, and this year was no exception.
Digitalis purpurea ‘Apricot’
Digitalis ‘Primrose Carousel’
Digitalis ‘Polkadot Pippa’
Digitalis cariensis
And on the Harperley Hall Nurseries stand this one stood out.
Digitalis ‘Illumination Raspberry’
In spite of our south-facing hillside site I can never resist the woodlanders, and have been planting for shade so that I can have just a few of my favourites. I am slowly building a collection of martagon lilies and so never miss a lengthy exploration of the Jacques Amand stand, my notebook quickly filling with new varieties I want to get to know better.
Lilium martagon ‘Arabian Night’
Lilium martagon ‘Claude Shride’
Lilium martagon ‘Sunny Morning’
Lilium martagon ‘Terrace City’
While I really wanted to get my hands on this hybrid lily from H. W. Hyde.
Lilium ‘Garden Society’
I have recently made a dry herb planting in the gravel between the house and the kitchen garden, predominantly of lavender, with salvias and a range of umbellifers for pollinators. I was on the lookout for some additions to lift the scheme and, although I already have Allium christophii in the mix, these sculptural alliums from Warmenhoven would definitely add to the feeling of ornamental production I am aiming for.
Allium sativum var. ophioscorodon
Allium ‘Green Drops’
Allium scorodoprasum ‘Art’
While I thought this thistle would also make a good companion in the gravel.
Galactites tomentosa ‘Alba’
From dry plants to aquatics at the Waterside Nursery stand, where I visualised the pond in which I might plant some of these choice specimens.
Typha lugdunensis
Typha minima
Ranunculus flammula
Iris pseudacorus ‘Roy Davidson’
Iris versicolor ‘Mysterious Monique’
Just as I was leaving the Great Pavilion I chanced across these two clematis on the Thorncroft Clematis stand, which I would love to find homes for.
Clematis mandschurica
Clematis integrifolia ‘Ozawa’s Blue’
Of the show gardens James Basson’s Best in Show winner grabbed the attention. Bold and confident hard landscaping was colonised by a huge range of native Mediterraneans, whose weedy grace was a great foil for the beautifully detailed, monumental stonework. The rectilinear walls created some carefully framed moments.
Charlotte Harris‘ Gold Medal garden for the Royal Bank of Canada was an exercise in stylish restraint. Inspired by the boreal forests of Canada the space was held by a group of jack pines (Pinus banksiana), which sheltered a graphic pavilion of burnt larch and copper, creating a potent sense of place. In contrast to this evergreen presence the woodland and waterside plantings were transparent and delicate, with some exquisite combinations.
In the Artisan Gardens category the yearly return of Ishihara Kazuyuki is always one to be celebrated. As is the beautifully-crafted way with all things Japanese, the fully-planted, green walls at the side and rear of his ‘Gosho No Niwa’ garden were more magical than the front, conjuring somewhere tranquil and dreamlike
To fill the holes left by some of the show gardens that were withdrawn, Radio 2 produced five Feel Good gardens relating to each of the five senses. Given the exceedingly short time frame of two months in which the designers had to design, source and build these gardens, the standard was extremely high, which made it a shame that they were not included in the judging.
The garden representing sound, designed by James Alexander-Sinclair, was a lush green oasis, punctuated with a staggered series of rusted troughs. Speakers mounted beneath the surface of the water vibrated to create ripples, splashes and gentle undulations depending on the bassline of the song being played.
The Anneka Rice Colour Cutting Garden was designed by Sarah Raven, who had somehow managed, in the time available, to assemble a riotous potager bursting at the seams with her signature jewel-coloured plantings.
Words: Dan Pearson / Photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 27 May 2017
Nearly all of the vegetable beds in the kitchen garden are now empty of last year’s crops and are gradually being refilled with this year’s. The autumn sown broad beans are 3 feet high, the peas, sown just over a month ago, are twining around their supports, and the first seedlings of lettuce, beetroot and carrot are finally getting away after the long dry spring. The very last of the old veg to come out is the chard. Sown this time last year, eight plants (four of white-stalked Swiss chard and four of the crimson-stemmed ruby chard) have stood all winter, providing some variety of greens amongst the cabbages. For the past three months, the young leaves have been the foundation of our first salads, while the older ones have found their way into a number of chard tarts.
Swiss chard with ruby chard behind
You rarely see Swiss chard in farmer’s markets, and I have never encountered it on a restaurant menu. This is most likely due to the fact that the large fleshy leaves quickly wilt after cutting, giving it an unappealing appearance for sale. Freshly cut, however, they are shiny and juicy and squeak with health as you gather and prepare them. We rarely grow spinach as we have had trouble with even the bolt-resistant varieties. For the amount of time and effort expended in sowing, tending and harvesting, the resulting meagre handfuls we have been able to gather before they go to seed reduce to nothing in the pan and so are hardly worth growing. Chard is far less temperamental and has a much longer growing season.
Although they don’t have as high a concentration of oxalic acid as spinach, and which gives these leafy greens their distinctive ‘dry’ taste in the mouth, I use chard leaves to replace spinach in any recipe that calls for it, and prefer the sweeter, mellower flavour. Chard also has the added benefit of its thick edible stalks, or ribs, for which, in France, they are primarily grown and considered a great delicacy on a par with white asparagus. A completely separate vegetable from the leaf, they are most similar in texture to sea kale and can be used in any recipe that calls either for that uncommon vegetable, white asparagus, cardoons or celery. As you would with cardoons or celery, the stalks must be de-stringed before use, or you will find yourself with an unpalatable, unswallowable mouthful of fibre.
In France it is common to make a gratin of the blanched stalks covered with either a béchamel sauce or, in the south, one made of tomatoes, onion, garlic and olives. The quickest way to prepare them is to cut them into pieces, blanch them for a few minutes, drain and then transfer to a pan in which you have stewed some onion and garlic in olive oil. Leave to cook together, covered, for a few minutes more, then season and serve dressed with lemon juice and chopped parsley.
Sometimes, though, I want to elevate this seemingly mundane ingredient into a dish over which a little more care is taken, and this very slightly adapted recipe from Richard Olney’s Simple French Food, is one I often make. It is incredibly simple, but cooking the stalks in an aromatic court bouillon before combining them with a richly-flavoured, slow-cooked sauce, creates a layering of flavours that causes the vegetable to undergo an almost alchemical transformation during cooking into something that is more than the sum of its parts.
Garlic, anchovy and saffron are much-used ingredients in Provence, where Olney lived and learnt much of his art for French country cooking from Lulu Peyraud, and the taste of this dish is reminiscent of rouille, the saffron and garlic sauce that accompanies bouillabaisse. So, as a side dish, it is a natural pairing with fish.
When serving as a main course I might scatter over a handful of oiled breadcrumbs and some grated Gruyère for the last 10 minutes of cooking, and, as Richard Olney himself recommends, serve with a simple pilaf of onion and tomato.
Remove the fibres from the ribs using your fingernails or the edge of a sharp knife
Ingredients
500g of chard ribs, trimmed and destringed, cut to the length of your gratin dish or into 10cm long pieces
Court Bouillon
2 litres of water
2 banana shallots or 1 large onion, finely sliced
2 bay leaves
A large bunch of thyme
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
10 black peppercorns, lightly crushed
1 teaspoon of salt
Roux
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon plain flour
2 anchovy fillets, ideally the large ones preserved in salt, or 4 of the small fillets in oil
2 large cloves garlic, peeled
A pinch of cayenne pepper, to taste
A pinch of saffron threads, to taste
500 ml of the court bouillon
A small bunch of flat-leaved parsley, leaves removed and chopped
Serves 4 as a side dish, 2 as a main course
Prepared chard stalks
Method
Put all of the ingredients for the court bouillon into a saucepan and bring slowly to the boil, then simmer gently for half an hour with the lid on. Strain the liquid, discarding the solids, and return it to the cleaned pan.
Bring back to the boil, put in the chard ribs and cook until tender – 10 minutes or a little longer. Remove the ribs with a slotted spoon, allow excess liquid to drain, then transfer them to the gratin dish.
Turn the oven to 230°C.
In a mortar pound together the anchovy, garlic, cayenne and saffron threads until you have a fairly smooth, golden paste.
Anchovy, garlic & saffron paste
Make the roux by stirring the flour into the olive oil in a small pan, and then cook on a low heat for two minutes, stirring all the time. Add the anchovy, garlic and saffron paste and, still stirring, cook for half a minute more. Off the heat add a couple of spoonfuls of the court bouillon and stir well until smooth. Add the remainder of the court bouillon, stir and return to the heat. Stir continuously until the sauce comes to the boil and begins to thicken. The sauce should be quite thin, so don’t expect it to thicken much. Then leave to simmer on the lowest heat for about 20 minutes. Skim off the skin that forms on the surface as the sauce reduces by about a quarter. It should have the consistency of single cream. Taste and season with salt, no pepper.
Pour the sauce over the chard ribs and put into the oven for 20–30 minutes until bubbling and golden brown at the edges. Scatter the parsley over the top and serve.
Words & photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 20 May 2017
The tulips are finally over or, more to the point, we are taking control this weekend and will bring their extraordinary display to a close by lifting the bulbs and clearing the bed. As is the way with Christmas decorations, I feel almost as much pleasure in finally stripping away their ornamentation after the period of illumination and, for a moment, for there to be quiet. And, with the cool, dry weather this year, they have been flowering for a full six weeks.
We started growing tulips in earnest in the garden in Peckham, ordering a handful of varieties to fill the pots on the terraces. Each year, a favourite was kept on to get to know it better and winkled into the beds to see if it would last in the ground. That was how we discovered that we preferred ‘Sapporo’ to ‘White Triumphator’, for the fact that it ages from primrose to ivory, and it has been hard to match the perfume and vibrant tangerine of ‘Ballerina’.
When we moved here we continued to experiment, upping the number of varieties and planting the tulips in rows in the vegetable garden to slowly build an armoury of favoured varieties. As we became more confident with our experimentations and learned how to extend the season by including early, mid and late season tulips, we began a to grow them altogether differently.
Tulipa ‘Sorbet’
Tulipa ‘Sorbet’
Tulipa ‘First Proud’
Tulipa ‘Perestroyka’
I was in the process of planting up a client’s walled garden and, for cutting as much as display, we created a series of mixes to play with the sheer breadth of varieties. We chose colour combinations to conjour a series of moods and colour fields, some dark, some pale or pastel, but always with a top or bottom note of vibrancy or depth to offset the predominating mood. The flowering groups were combined together to lengthen the season so that the early varieties were covered for by the late, and short with tall so that the combinations were layered. We also included differing types – doubles, parrots, flamed, fringed and picotee – for that sweetie box feeling of delight in variety.
At home, this has now become the favoured way of keeping up the experiment. Each year we buy thirty or fifty bulbs of up to eight varieties and dedicate a bed in the kitchen garden exclusively to a spring display. We have moved them from bed to bed to avoid Tulip Fire. Tulips are most prone to the fungal infection when repeatedly grown in the same ground, but rotate on a three or five year cycle and you will diminish the chance of infection. In combination with our thirst to try new varieties, it has also been the reason that, at the end of the season, we discard the bulbs and start again with a new batch for November planting. The bulbs, which are cheap enough to buy in quantity wholesale, are planted late at the end of the bulb planting season. They are debagged and thoroughly mixed on a tarpaulin before being spread evenly on the surface of the bed and winkled in with a trowel a finger’s width apart so that they are not touching.
Three forms of Tulipa ‘Gudoshnik’
This year we have also started growing the Broken and Breeder tulips from the Hortus Bulborum Foundation. This range of old varieties – some of which date back to the 17th century – fell out of popularity in the 1920’s because, in the main, they are late flowering, and the quest for colour to break with winter began to favour the earlier flowering varieties. Their lateness has been a delight, as they have come just as we have begun to tire of the resilience of the modern tulips. Because they are choice (and expensive) we bought just three or five of each, combining them in pans and planting an individual specimen of each in 5 inch clay pots, so that they could be brought into the house for close observation.
Inside, they last for a week in a cool room and continue to evolve whilst in residence, their more subtle colouring, feathering and breaks filling out and flushing in the maturing process. They feel precious and not disposable like the Dutch tulips, so we plan to try and keep the bulbs when they are over. I will grow them on to feed the bulbs for six weeks after they have flowered, before drying and storing the bulbs in the shed until the autumn. I am hoping they will come to more than just leaf next year.
A mix of Broken and Breeder tulips from Hortus Bulborum
Tulipa ‘Absalon’
A more subtly marked form of Tulipa ‘Absalon’
Tulipa ‘Prince of Wales’
Tulipa ‘Lord Stanley’
As cut flowers tulips continue to grow, their stems often lengthening as much as a foot or more in a tall-flowered variety such as ‘First Proud’. This has been a new favourite this year, rising up to 90cm; as tall as, but later than, ‘Perestroyka’. A mixed selection of varieties is also good in a bunch and, as they age, the stems arch and lean, sensing each other it seems, so that a vase full will fan out like a firework exploding. The flowers change too, opening and closing with the heat and light and changing colour, sometimes intensifying, sometimes bruising from tone to tone as they fade. The mercurial colour changes are the most interesting and offer far more in terms of value than those that change less, and a new personal favourite this year has been ‘Gudoshnik’, the flowers of which you would swear were different varieties; some are pure vermilion, others red with yellow feathering, others yellow with red streaks. We have also enjoyed the raspberry ripple breaks and freckling of ‘Sorbet’.
If you are experimenting as we are the mixes can be hit or miss, and this year’s wasn’t one of the best, because we didn’t warm to a couple of varieties that have thrown the colour off. We won’t be growing ‘Zurel’ again. The flowers are boxy, the petals stiff and waxy and the flaming is rather coarse. ‘Slawa’ was worth a try, because it looked interesting when we ordered from the catalogue, but it felt too graphic in the mix. The colour combination of peach and plum needs careful placing, and the flowers are less graceful than some. Harsh criticism, perhaps, but a good combination is easily let down by an element that isn’t quite right.
Tulipa ‘Insulinde’
Tulipa ‘Marie-Louise’
Tulipa ‘Beauty of Bath’
Tulipa ‘Panorama’
Tulipa ‘Royal Sovereign’
The less successful varieties were also shown in a new light by the older varieties. The breaks, feathering and flaming of the Broken tulips, and the rich tones and pastel gradations of the Breeder tulips are altogether more sophisticated. Put side by side the latter are certainly a rather superior race. Not without their problems I’m guessing, because they are less robust in appearance when compared to the modern hybrids. Particular favourites have been ‘Insulinde’, streaked the colours of blackcurrant fool, ‘Marie Louise’, a Breeder of a delicate, graduated lavender pink, ‘Panorama’, a Breeder of a strong copper orange and ‘Absalon’, a Broken tulip (and one of the original Rembrandt tulips) which has ranged from the flamed, blood-red and yellow you see in illustrations to a more subtle mix of mahogany streaked with tan, like an old-fashioned humbug.
Though we have heard much about their growing popularity, seeing them in the flesh has been a little like discovering really good chocolate. I fear we have now been spoiled and it won’t be possible to be without them.
Words: Dan Pearson / Photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 13 May 2017
I was watching closely this year as the buds on the tree peonies started to swell. My plants needed to be moved from the stock-bed to their final positions in the new garden and it was critical that the timing was right. They have sentimental value, for I collected the originals as seedlings that were springing up under their parents at the Edinburgh Botanic Gardens. I was 19 and working under Ron McBeath, a great adventurer and plant collector in his own right and a man who understood that, if you fell for a plant, it was an all-consuming thing. It was tacitly acknowledged that a certain amount of ‘pockle’ (the term for spare plants for the taking) was tolerated. In fact, I had an orange crate strapped to the back of my bike for such booty. The seedlings were our morning’s weeding so a clutch made their way back to my digs, and then to my parents’ garden, before I was able to take them on to my garden in Peckham a good fifteen years later.
From there they came here as a new generation of seedlings which I’d been growing on just in case. Although they take up to five or six years to flower, growing from seed is easy enough if you sow it fresh as soon as it drops. Germination happens six weeks or so afterwards, but only underground. The first leaves don’t show themselves above ground until the following spring. I left them in the cold frame for a couple of years, as the young roots resent disturbance, and they were lined out here in the stock beds and flowered a couple of years after we moved in. Each plant has subtle differences – the joy of raising from seed – but all are as captivating as the original I now saw thirty-four years ago.
Paeonia delavayi and Smyrnium perfoliatum
I have half a dozen Paeonia delavayi in their new positions, stepped through the entrance to the garden from the house to form a gateway of sorts. Although I wasn’t ready to move the plants until the end of winter, they were dug carefully with a decent root-ball to minimise disturbance. The move happened as soon as I saw the buds swelling, so that they would have the energy of growth on their side and not sit and sulk in wet soil.
Read up about moving peonies and most literature says they are hypersensitive and prone to failure and, if you do succeed, they take a long time to establish. It is also recommended to move them in the autumn, so that the early growth is supported by roots which have been active the winter long and can support this early flush of activity. However, my plants have proven all of the above to be rules worth bending.
Growth is famously early, fat buds breaking ahead of almost everything else and making them vulnerable, you might think, to the cruelty of March and April weather. Again, according to the books, you are supposed to plant tree peonies in positions where the early growth isn’t caught by morning sunshine which, in combination with a freeze, is lethal. A slow thaw is better but, miraculously, our plants were all untouched by a vicious frost last week that toasted the Katsura down by the stream and wilted the early growth on the campion in the hedgerow, so I believe them to be tougher than the hybrid Moutan peonies, their more exotic cousins.
Growing in pine clearings in Yunnan and Eastern Asia, Paeonia delavayi is more adaptable than you might first imagine. Edge of woodland conditions suit it best, but here, on our retentive soil, it has been happy out in the open with all-day sun and freely moving air on the slopes to confound best-practice positioning. I do like contradictions and the ever-evolving learning curve when you get to know your plants and their limits.
Standing in glorious isolation, and ahead of the planting which will join them in this part of the garden in the autumn, I am free to admire their form and am imagining their companions; the things that will complement their moody atmosphere and rich colouring when it comes to planting time. Tall, rangy stems, that will eventually reach six foot or so and as much across as they mature, give way to elegantly furling growth at the tips. The flowers, of darkest blood-red and with stiff, waxy petals, appear before the leaves are fully expanded, hanging at a tilt to hide the boss of red-flushed stamens which age to gold. The beautifully dissected foliage is coppery-bronze at this stage with a damson-grey bloom that fades to a matt neutral green as it fills out.
Paeonia potaninii and Smyrnium perfoliatum
Paeonia potaninii, which hails from Western China and Tibet and is thought by some to be a subspecies of P. delavayi, is similar in its growth, but differs in its gently suckering habit. My original seedling, still growing in the dappled shade of my parents’ orchard, is now several feet across. It looks happy in the clearing and is competitive enough to deal with the infestation of ground elder and ferns that have made the orchard their territory.
Here conditions couldn’t be more different, but my plants show their adaptability by flowering more profusely and being less lush in leaf out in the open. The flowers are the most extraordinary confection of apricot overlaid with burnt sugar, like shot silk surrounding decorative saffron stamens. The flowers hang heavy amongst the new leaves and cast a strong perfume as you pass on the path. The distinctive scent has something of the citrus spice of witch hazel, but overlaid with an exotic, grassy sweetness. Cut, in a vase, their perfume is more easily savoured.
We have them here with the acid-yellow Smyrnium perfoliatum, which lifts the subtlety of the colour and throws it into relief. I’ll need to do this in the garden too and plan to have the darkness of P. delavayi amongst Anthriscus sylvestris ‘Raven’s Wing’, with P. potaninii floating above the ruby-red droplets of Dicentra formosa ‘Bacchanal’.
Though the brilliance of the Smyrnium is perfectly pitched with these rich, warm colours, I take heed from Beth Chatto’s words when I told her it hadn’t yet taken off in my garden in Peckham. ‘Just you wait !’, she said. And I, not wanting to break all the rules, have remembered her advice and have only set it free on the rough ground behind the barns with the comfrey.
Words: Dan Pearson / Photographs: Huw Morgan
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