Audio version.

“A woman is beautiful by her scars.”
Diana Vreeland, former editor of Vogue magazine

When is a flower dead; past the point of no return? At what point do we flick the switch on its life support, reaching misty-eyed for secateurs to pluck the pendulous blooms of a rose, salvia, peony or iris? What does past sell-by date look like? A bit withered? Curled slightly at the edges? Vibrancy departed in favour of the colour of nicotine-stained fingers?

I ask because, even after a lifetime of gardening, I can’t always commit to chop a flower holding the slightest shred, the tiniest semblance of beauty. In older age, which I’m approaching at an alarming rate from the wrong direction, I find myself bypassing blooms I know are shortly destined for the compost bin. So I leave them, allowing their gently luminous beauty to persist another day, or two, only to discover the wake of lifeless petals the next day, scattered across the soil that gave them life, neglected like confetti blown into the portico after the church bells have finished pealing.

They’re not all left, of course. I’ve developed a sixth sense for knowing when the time has arrived, irrespective of whether I choose to acknowledge it. That innate sense is borne from instinct; a lifetime of gardening, from shadowing my mother around our family gardens as a nipper, watching intently, as if almost sensing I would need this knowledge, these skills one day. And that need for knowledge came so quickly. Before I knew it I was the owner of my first property, a small semi-detached house with a rather dull, rectangular garden attached to the back. I soon filled the space with roses, peonies and geraniums; shrubs and a very small tree; familiar plants, to start with. Plants I knew intimately.

I soon learned that premature picking of palling petals promoted profusion - try saying that after a couple of Babychams! Back then, a novice gardener, I quickly understood that faded flowers were quickly succeeded by scores of new buds. Life then, as a guy in my early twenties was endless, no horizon in sight. My youthful abandon and invincibility saw me whipping off blooms, some just slightly tainted, with fearless intrepidity, plucked before their time - all of them Marilyn’s, or Jimmy Deans or Natalie Woods.

These days, I truly appreciate the mellow grandeur of a lark on the descent, or a slightly washed out bowl, no longer full of beauty. I marvel at the unfolding drama within my borders, the short, but obvious history being played out before me. Emergent, vibrant buds, full of vitality, nestling alongside the evanescent allure of timeworn blooms. It tells a quiet story of lineage and the passing of time.

Of course, there’s no place for ‘faded’, or ‘spoiled’, and definitely not ‘spent’ flowers on socials, these days. Every leaf, petal and bud has to mirror perfection. Not a blemish, not a stain or a tarnished plant is permitted. Post not pallid petals, is the unwritten but quietly acknowledged word, for the algorithm favours only the bright, the vivid, and the vital. Our love of faded glory, besmirched elegance and diminished grace is no longer acceptable. Youngsters today are being brainwashed, obsessed with the perfectly toned and honed images of young studs and debutantes, grinning inanely from flawlessly filtered posts, stories and reels, their pearly-white teeth gleaming, not a hair out of place. It’s not real! Our gardens, our homes and our lives are being airbrushed into a comical caricature of what they really are. With imperfection comes reality. With reality comes true beauty.

So let’s not play the mindless game of posting perfection. Let’s share the tainted, the spoiled, and the tarnished. Let us celebrate the beauty of reality; the leaf scorch, the snail-chewed holes of hostas and the last, lacklustre spheres of rain-balled roses.

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So anyway, it was great to dig out the old Recorder and the headphones and speak to some old and new friends at the Chelsea Flower Show press day.

Guests include:

Kim Stoddart - Editor Amateur Gardening magazine and multi-award-winning journalist.

Sarah Cooper (aka Skippy) - Artist extraordinaire

Jasmine Mitchell - Bake Off winner 2025

Andy Jasper - CEO The Eden Project Morecambe - Bring Me Sunshine Garden

Growing Crazy (Stephen, Harry & Dianne) - Pelargonium specialist growers

Leigh Connelly & Leigh Johnstone - Designers of The Classroom Garden

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The five o’clock alarm pulls me reluctantly from my slumbers following a fitful night, tossing and turning. Sleep never comes easily to me when I’m heading off somewhere, these days. Half an hour later I’m on the road beneath a sky of the palest pinky-grey, flecked with dirty-purple powder-puffs of altocumulus, the base of each cloud refle…

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From writer - F. Scott Fitzgerald

At the risk of sounding like my late father, ‘Where the bloody hell have the first four months of this year gone?’

It seems like only yesterday I was giddy with …

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I saw no Weeping Angels, Sea Monsters, Cybermen, or Oods, let alone Daleks. There was not a sign of a ruffle-shirted Jon Pertwee, a be-scarfed Tom Baker or a blond-bobbed Jodie Whittaker? Maybe you saw what I didn’t, but we were clearly caught in a time vortex on Friday night, taking us from late-summer into the very depths of winter, bypassing the joys of autumn. Saturday morning dawned with temperatures that had plummeted, transforming that refreshing nip in the morning air of recent weeks into a “Brrrr, where’s my bloomin’ jumper”. Dirty-grey clouds were thrown over us, and hurrah, rain of near biblical proportions fell upon us. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, drifts of sodden leaves were huddled in gutters and littered across pavements, the wind howled like hungry wolves and rivers of scum-laden rain cascaded noisily into the mouths of thirsty but overwhelmed drains, flash-flooding roads and pulling traffic to a halt.

We needed the rain. We’ve been calling out for it for weeks, even months now, so I’m not complaining; I’m just marvelling at the seismic leap from summer to winter in a twenty four hour period.

ooOOOoo

Powdery mildew:

With much reluctance my dahlias have quite literally been axed! The foliage of Totally Tangerine, Blue Boy, the very reverend Bishops and David Howard was an eyesore, all dusted liberally in a thick layer of icing sugar, throttling to death the life-giving process of photosynthesis. Enough was enough! The formation of new buds had petered out and those buds that summoned up the energy to actually flower were small and insignificant, the flamboyant beauty of their predecessors snuffed out like a church candle.

I know many of you have struggled with powdery mildew this season, and it’s nothing you have done, so don’t go pointing the finger of blame back at yourself - it’s the hot, humid summer. And it’s not just dahlias, many plants have succumbed to powdery mildew.

Luckily this condition is unlikely to kill plants. Stressed trees and shrubs are resilient and the majority will shake of symptoms, like the majority of us with flu. The ghostly, white foliage, stems and flowers of perennials, including dahlias, should be cut back now to approximately 5-10cm and binned, not composted. Then, next year, a new flush of fresh foliage will flutter forth - try saying that with a toffee in your mouth!

It’s heartbreaking though; my dahlias were the best they’ve been in years, and with the introduction of a handful of blood, fish and bone to the peat-free compost, they were putting on an impressive Display. Their autumnal performance, alongside the other stalwart of our late-summer/early autumn gardens, asters, was much anticipated. I love how they sit there, stand there, regardless of what the weather throws at them, only to be felt finally by the first frosts. So sadly, Mr John, my dahlias are not still standing!

ooOOOoo

It’s autumn because…

I was listening to a podcast just yesterday morning, whilst pottering in the greenhouse, cleaning and tidying the plant and compost debris that accrues so quickly - or is that just me? During the course of an engaging and vibrant conversation, the presenter shared that summer had ended…, heralded by the arrival of a new series of The Great British Bake Off.

Her comment saddened me, somewhat, realising that for many, the passing of the seasons is noted not by being at one with nature, recognising the arrival of spring with a clutch of snowdrops, the soft call of a cuckoo in the woods acknowledging the first stirrings of summer, or the arrival of smouldering crimson acer foliage in autumn, but by cultural events. Imagine, only knowing that winter was coming to an end because The Six Nations rugby had started - yes, I did have to Google that; summer had arrived because Wimbledon had started, or that we were in the thick of autumn because a Freddie Kreuger-masked child had appeared on your doorstep, pumpkin in hand, begging for a bag of Haribo’s.

I’m eternally thankful, each day, that Mother Nature allows me a front seat to witness the turning of the seasons.

ooOOOoo

Missing moggy:

“Where’s Willow?” Peter asked, mild worry colouring his words.

“Outside, I think, probably sat in Marcy’s garden,” I reply, knowing that’s where she’s usually to be found, rolled up in a tight, sleeping ball, oblivious to the frantic calls of her ‘dads’.

“She’s been gone a long time.”

“She’ll be back,” I say, fingers crossed discreetly behind my back. This has happened too many times before, the mercury rising in the capillary tube of the panicometer as each minutes passes.

We head into town, returning an hour or so later.

“She’s still not here!” Peter says, rushing outside. And so Operation Missing Moggy is upgraded in a heartbeat to FULL ON PANIC MODE! Bedroom drawers are pulled out, carefully - she’s been known to get into the drawers from behind, crawl in and fall asleep. Wardrobe doors are whipped open, the garage door opened, all the while us calling out “Willow? Willow!” Her food bowl is rattled - that’s always a winning move. Still no sign. Tiny nuggets of cat food pour loudly into it. “Willow. Food!” Still nothing. Where on earth is she? We don’t speak to each other, our eyes darting left, right and centre. We re-check EVERYWHERE! I head over to the pond. She drinks from it, but heaven forbid… No soggy cat, Phew! This continues for forty minutes, then, I hear Peter calling.

“Michael!”

Oh my God, what is it? Peter is in the greenhouse. And there, sat nonchalantly on the chair I pulled in there earlier in the week for a podcast sits Willow. Eyes closed, oblivious to the trauma, the panic. She yawns, mouth wide, eyes scrunched together. She stretches, arching her back and jumps off the chair and heads out into the garden.

She heard us, calling out and rattling bowls. Hmmmm, there’ll be no more cats, he said, smiling to himself, very aware these words were spoken when we lost our last cat, ten years ago.

ooOOOoo

Paperback writer:

I'm writing a book! There you are, I've just come right out and said it. It's a novel, and it's about a young garden designer who’s had the most appalling start to his life. I'm 20,000 words in, and probably need to do around 90,000 words, so, every long journey starts with a first footstep. I'm really enjoying the writing process, and, as silly as this may sound it ain’t easy! Don't get me wrong, I'm not lying prostrate on the ground, vying for sympathy, but, when we read books, it's a wonderful, joyous experience, turning the pages as the story unfolds before our eyes. Writing a book is difficult. Decisions need to be made about the words you use, how to construct sentences, and frame chapters; and that’s the easy part. The difficult part, I’ve discovered, is making the big decisions about the fate of characters within the storyline. Will they all make it to the end? SPOILER - Probably not. Will the main protagonist fall in love and live happily ever after, or will someone derail the course of true love, and try to besmerch their character.

Watch this space… and of there are any publishers out there…!

ooOOOoo

Tulip bulbs:

I don't want to panic you, but we're heading towards the middle of September, and if tulips are on the menu for you, then now is the time to act, especially if you're after particular varieties. The great and the good of a wonderful garden community are tapping away as we speak, placing scores of tulips in their baskets and checking out, smug smiles across their faces.

As you probably know, tulips needn’t be planted until at least mid November, or even later, so if you're laissez-faire about these things, then worry not. If you're a typical Virgo, like me, then you'll be getting twitchy now, panicking that the jewels of the tulip world will be snatched up, leaving a sorry selection of specimens that nobody wants. So, get in there folks and fill ones boots!

ooOOOoo

Thank you for popping by again, and having a read, or a listen, and for your lovely comments on my previous posts. It's always great to hear your thoughts and comments. And thank you all for your book recommendations, following my last post. Which reminds me, I finished The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides, so if psychological thrillers are your thing then you won’t be disappointed!

I don't usually do the hard sell on my posts here (I’m too British), but, here goes… If you have enjoyed this article, please hit the heart, and perhaps share it with your followers on here. Here endeth the lesson.

I'll be back again very soon.

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Temperatures creeping towards the mid-twenties, clear blue skies and wall to wall sunshine - who could want for anything more from May?

Even the two hour train journey, sun streaming through a filthy window had me hot and bothered as I journeyed to London.

Firstly, full disclosure, cards on the table, I’m not a garden designer. I’m n…

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