urbane horticulture

A writer falls in love with an idea and gets carried away. Doris Lessing.

This well describes me a few years ago. Now, the idea has become flesh so to speak and my book, Gardenlust, is reaching an audience. What will become of it I don’t know. I hope, of course, that it is widely read and that readers find it enjoyable, stimulating and  informative  and that praise will abound and flowers will be strewn at my feet.

Although writing a book is a bit like sticking your bum out of the window and being embarrassed about doing so at the same time.

My first reader was overwhelmed by the brilliance of the book.

“Sometimes I don’t even know why I’m writing what I’m writing…

I’m just following these people around and taking notes.”

― P. Anastasia

 

A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. Roald Dahl

There is truth in Dahl’s statement. Freedom – that beautiful blessing and terrible curse.

And so my book is out and I will promote and perform in many places so that my stories can be read and heard. The play begins.

 

I used to live in North Wales, back in the mid-1970s. Many London hippies did. We were “getting back to the land” although most of us knew nothing about land. If I remember correctly, I hitch-hiked to Wales with a backpack full of brown rice, a pot of Marmite and, I guess, some clean clothes. I think my mother packed the clothes.

I lived in a small caravan by a river for just a week. I then moved from house to house, enjoying the comfort of strangers. It was a fine summer full of mountain hikes and ice-cold rivers. I was skinny and brown, my hair almost down to my waist. I rode horses – bareback. I was macrobiotic and probably malnourished but I was healthy and happy. All of us hippies got together frequently. We talked of mushrooms and wildflowers and poultices and poetry and getting back to the land we’d already got back to. Sex and drugs were abundant. There was no need to talk of sex, it was everywhere. We talked about it nonetheless. There was a lot of dope. An apt name I discovered later. There was music. We listened to the Grateful Dead and The Incredible String Band. Clapton was still God. Some of us played music. Some well, most not.

I needed to garden. I needed a job. After the summer, I started work at Plas Brondanw, then the home of Clough Williams-Ellis, the creator of Portmeirion. Decades later, just last week, I returned to Snowdonia, to walk the mountains, visit friends, and look at stone.

Here are some pictures of Plas Brondanw, a Welsh-Italianate garden.



After Plas Brondanw, I worked at Portmeirion.

A silly, lovely place.  But it was the mountains that interested me the most. Raw and beautiful, often pouring with water, criss-crossed  by Roman roads and rock-walled  sheep pens. My time there was one of the most powerful in my life. I was pleased to visit it again and pleased that I no longer live there.

 

 

 

 

I

 

 

It has arrived. My advance copy. The publication date is September 18, 2018.

It took me ten minutes to open the package.

Part of  the book’s dedication is –

And for the gardeners of the world.

You with the crazy eyes and rough hands.

You who are so much in love with growing things.

You artists and scientists, poets and painters, protectors and advocates.

You who fall in love again and again.

You know who you are.

It has arrived.   它已经到达 Det er kommet  זה הגיע     Het is aangekomen Il est arrive Sie angekommen ist Έφτασε Ini telah tiba Ito ay dumating È arrivato  それが到着した  Chegou  Он прибыл Ha llegado Den har anlänt มันได้มาถึง O geldi  Mae wedi  cyrraedd    Він прибув Je prišel To prišlo Stiglo je Dotarł 그것은 도착 했다  Nws tau los txog  Stigao je     وقد وصلت   Dit het aangebreek.

I will let it sit on the table for awhile. And then I will approach it with caution. But don’t you do the same because this is a lustful book and you, lustful reader, should devour it.

Or, you could just read it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I turned 65 on July 1. With what seems like astonishing speed I went from 42 to 65. To celebrate my birthday and also to look at places and plants new to me, Mary and I took a trip to Dubrovnik, then to Montenegro, Albania and Greece.

The first stop was Dubrovnik. It was founded in the 7th century. Its history is the history of the Mediterranean world. In 1991 it was shelled by the Yugoslav People’s Army (JNA) and badly damaged. Today, only the newer tile roofs of the repaired houses indicate it was ever damaged. But some 60 people died in yet another pointless internecine struggle.

From Dubrovnik south to Montenegro and the city of Ulcinj. And a little sailing.

Sailing being looking at this beautiful sailboat from the shore.

Then to Albania and a couple of days spent in the Llogora National Park.

With wind blown black pines (Pinus nigra)

and the remains of one of Enver Hoxha’s 173,371 concrete bunkers, used to observe and repel any potential invasion.

Growing in the rubble is Digitalis ferruginea.

Phlomis fruticosa

and Pterocephalus perennis (I think).

The Ceraunian Mountains drop sharply to the Ionian Sea.

Down to a lovely bay which was once a Soviet submarine base.

On to Greece. The Peloponnese. Olives and grapes everywhere.

And Smokebush (Cotinus coggygria)

Euphorbia dendroides coming into leaf.

Genista lydia in full flower.

Echinops spinosissimus

So many plants. So little time.

I think I will return. In Spring. This time to Crete.