If I walk into my greenhouse, I'm in danger of contracting a serious lung disorder from breathing in clouds of whitefly. The sticky yellow strips which I hang seem only to catch non-target insects like stray ichneumans and also stick to my face, whenever I give my disease-ridden plants too much attention.
The June display is done, weeks early, so there's nothing to see but dead grass, a few dusty succulents and the bare soil where some evil creature – possibly a capybara sized rodent or a vegetarian bird that would dwarf an emu – has ruined my lovely sweet peas.
But I'm getting bad tempered, and that won't do. Because the purpose of this post is to comment on Anne Wareham's new book The Bad Tempered Gardener - and two bad tempers on one blog post would be excessive.
Now, to Anne's Magnificent Octopus. . . but be warned. This is not a review - it's merely my personal reaction.
I see from the cover that several good and great ones have done dutiful plugs. James the Hat has place of honour on the front but Germaine Greer who seems able to opine about absolutely everything, includes a belter of a comment on the back of the dust jacket. It runs thus:
'[Anne Wareham] invites intellectual engagement. . .' Well dam' me, that's a bloody surprise! The only book that could possibly not invite intellectual engagement would be one with blank pages. And even then, one might ponder over the paper quality, grammes per square metre, whiteness, possible dot-gain and so on. And if that isn't intellectual engagement, I don't know what is.
Ms Greer goes on to say 'gardens should have ideas in them and the ideas should be perceptible.' May be, but perceptible to whom? I can imagine a bemused visitor, looking at one of my many garden cock-ups and saying 'what on earth are you trying to do here?'
'Ah,' I might reply, ponderously, 'that is the execution of an idea which is perceptible - but only perceptible to me.' And with luck, that would shut the bugger up. If it didn't, I'd go for less subtlety and say, 'none of your business. It's my bloody garden and I'll do what I like with it'
Digressing again - although not really. Hang in there.
I must begin by saying that I greatly enjoyed reading Anne's book. I like her articulacy and her acerbic style and although the structure is a bit random, I loved that and got the sense of reading a series of loosely connected, sometimes rather cross essays. And I hugely enjoyed Charles Hawes' pictures. They, and Anne's eloquent descriptions make me long to visit The Veddw.
Here are a few:
She loves garden centres; I abhor them.
She is not endlessly fascinated by plants; they are the core of my gardening existence.
She is scathing about gardening experts; I am one - of sorts, so can't hate them too much.
She detests neat, clipped lawn edges; I regard them as essential in certain places.
She hates roses; I love them
But we are both in concert with rose gardens and agree that they are horrible. And I'd go one further and say that they are also horticulturally suicidal - reservoirs for pests and diseases.
We both have big reservations about hellebores, too. But she appears unable to make cut hellebore stems take up water. Anne - here's how: take a jug of water out with you, cut the stems quickly and immerse them within two or three seconds to prevent air locks. While they're still under water, split the bottom inch of each stem on one side. (A simple tip but it works for me every time.)
Perhaps the biggest conflict we're likely to have is this:
Anne suggests that obsession with plants is the ruination of British gardens; I believe the one quality that lifts British gardens above most others in the world is our love of, respect for and deep knowledge of plants.
In good gardens, plants are allowed to speak, to proclaim their wonderful diversity. They are what drive a garden's dynamic, ensuring sweet change from season to season, providing surprises, changing emphasis, cheering miserable winters and enriching the mad extravagance of May and June.
The more plants you can have, the better a garden can be. Anorakish collecting can, in itself, become the main driver for creating gardens and THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT. I've seen superb collections of single genera, made to look ugly because they're clustered in pots on a concrete pad. And I've seen similar collections, in beautiful and naturalistic settings which are as moving and intellectually engaging as anything designed by such talents as Tom Stuart Smith, Mr Hat, the Lutyens-Jekyll gang or Repton.
In an over-designed garden, plants are often imprisoned, hacked or beaten into submission. That can work, of course, but to plant lovers it can also be hateful to the eye and painful to the soul.
I believe that gardens are highly personal things. That's why I don't particularly enjoy other people seeing mine, unless they're close and understanding friends. And why I HATE show gardens at Chelsea and howl with boredom if forced to look at parterres or knot gardens.
I also think it wrong-headed to try to preserve gardens, after the owners have gone, and awful to develop a National Trust attitude of sanctity about them, forbidding change and thereby killing the dynamism. The core quality of some gardens is their ephemeral nature, their fluidity and the little quirks that make each unique. Such things usually die with their owners, and that's probably no bad thing.
I draw virtually all my inspiration from nature. I try to study landscapes with my own eyes, and not to be too influenced by authoritative voices which tell me what I should see, rather than allowing me to see for myself.
And to me, gardens are relatively artistic, but they are not Fine Arts. Great, soul-jerking, earth-moving art, for me, is Michelangelo, Wren, the Chrysler building, Wagner, Ely Cathedral, Beethoven, Shakespeare, Keats, Ingmar Bergman, Dürer, probably Antony Gormley and one day, maybe, Lucien Freud.
I do not consider gardens as forms of great art. They can be beautiful, though, and inspiring and challenging and glorious. But let's not - please, let's not - make them bigger and more important than they really are.
Anne's book is one I commend you to read. Whatever your beliefs, I can guarantee that not only will you become intellectually engaged, you'll also probably experience a strong reaction one way or another. What more could one ask, from a book.
This week's film was El Secreto de sus Ojos (The Secret of their Eyes.) From Argentina, directed by Juan Jose Campanella, a superbly told and well-filmed story about a retired legal counsellor writing a novel about an old, unsolved case and thereby solving it and also re-kindling a long but hitherto unrequited love.
I'm listening to Beethoven's early quartets again.
This time next week, I'll be thankful that Chelsea is done for another year.
Gawd - what a long, boring, rambling, railing post. If you've read all the way down to here, you deserve a really good drink and a decent meal. Now go and get those edges clipped, AT ONCE! I WON'T TELL YOU AGAIN!