Many people have had a hand in my garden, most without knowing it. They may not have turned the earth with a spade or clipped my hedges, or chosen a new plant, but they are as responsible for how the space looks, feels and smells as I am.
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I like to think the choice of plants is mine and mine alone, but how did I come up with the idea of burnt-orange tulips gracing the verdigris-coated copper planter? It was lifted from Vita Sackville-West’s Cottage Garden at Sissinghurst, just as the old pots of straggly pelargoniums were ‘borrowed’ from the sitting room of Jim Ede’s house at Kettle’s Yard in Cambridge. The dark-pink roses sitting in front of my terracotta-painted brick walls did not come from my own imagination, but were inspired by a sun-baked palazzo in Florence, and I’m pretty sure I know the book cover that is responsible for the positioning of a magenta rhododendron against the dark yew hedge.
It would be hard to find a single bit of planting in this garden that I could truthfully say is mine and mine alone.
While I often refer to ‘my’ garden, the truth is closer to ‘their’ garden, the term more accurately respecting the provenance of the ideas behind it. I often use the expression ‘borrowed’, but sometimes an idea is literally ripped off, like the flock of mauve hepaticas around a tree stump I spotted on Instagram. Within an hour of seeing the post, I’d ordered a range of pale- and dark-purple cultivars and moved an ancient tree stump into a suitable place under my robinia.
I’ve carried some ‘inspiration’ around in my head for years. Images from books, television and gardens I have visited have been squirrelled away in my head for decades, waiting to be unpacked. The notion of splitting my long, thin urban space into three rooms was a concept I picked up from elsewhere. I happily took the idea on board and now can’t imagine the garden with any other layout.
Occasionally, I have had no choice but to work with others’ ideas.
Designers, books, television programmes and magazines have all played their part in creating this space. And so they should. Every book must earn its keep, and what is the point of watching inspirational television programmes if you don’t take up some of the suggestions on offer? It would be hard to find a single bit of planting in this garden that I could truthfully say is mine and mine alone. The same can, of course, be said of recipes.
Some of this garden comes from plans formed long, long ago. The first plant I held in wonder was an apricot-coloured azalea from my parents’ suburban garden. The delicate wings, long filaments and deep red anthers made me think, at eight years old, of an embroidered dragon, the sort you might find on a long satin robe. I have never had the right soil for such a plant to succeed, and yet here they are, in pots of ericaceous compost on my kitchen-roof garden.
That said, there is such a thing as too much inspiration
Some people get a bit of credit for their input. Designer Dan Pearson brought many ideas to this space, including clouds of white brunneras and epimediums for underplanting; the snow-white Cornus ‘Gloria Birkett’ (known in this house simply as Gloria) and lacecap hydrangeas. They are plants I probably wouldn’t have chosen myself, and I remain ever grateful for their introduction. Such things were rigorously planned, but other ideas have been more spontaneous. The Magnolia yunnanensis I bought on sight at a nursery on a whim. An admittedly bonkers idea, but it is now growing in a large pot in the front lightwell, where it is, somewhat surprisingly, thriving.
Occasionally, I have had no choice but to work with others’ ideas. I wouldn’t have planted a large robinia in a garden as diminutive as this, but someone did, and I just work around it. It has taken much trial and expensive error to work out what will survive under its canopy. Some other ‘brilliant ideas’ I have happily strangled at birth include the enormous bamboo a previous owner planted near a drain – what were they thinking? – and the hideous grey panelling that made the garden look like a NCP car park.
Books and even films are particularly good sources for anyone planning a garden
Books, especially the addictive coffee-table variety, and even films are particularly good sources for anyone planning a garden. The notion of incorporating high hedges came from Peter Greenaway’s film The Draughtsman’s Contract. The setting of Groombridge Place in Kent is home to magnificent hedges and topiary that stayed in mind for almost two decades before I had the opportunity to plant my own. This is very much a magpie’s garden in that ideas have been picked up from all over the place. If something sparkled, I was on it.
That said, there is such a thing as too much inspiration. A visit to a garden show or even a trip to a nursery can sometimes result in an overload. I regularly come home bursting with new plans and often want to tear my garden to pieces and start again. These plans have usually dissolved, or at least been tempered to within the realms of possibility, within 24 hours. What I take away is more likely to be small details. Occasionally, a decision is made on the spot, without a plan. The notion of letting a climbing rose rampage over a tall yew hedge was unconsidered but I wouldn’t dream of changing it. The wisteria climbing into the fig tree is something the wisteria decided to do with no help from me – a delight I could not have foreseen.
So what I have ended up with is a garden made up of ideas that have been begged, borrowed and yes, stolen. It is none for the worse for it – in fact it is all the richer for it. I am grateful to all.
