Writing on Gardens and Nature

| Gary Webb

I might have sunk into the depths for a while there, but I’m back now and getting into my old writing ways, on gardens and nature.

If you gave me the stage with an open mic, words would probably fade and I’d likely find myself with little to say of consequence. However, if you gave me a scribbling stick and asked me to write something down, I’d likely be back to you in no time at all asking for more paper, and a pencil sharpener. Writing does something for me, and over time it’s grown to the point where I couldn’t imagine living without it in some shape or form. Lately however I have needed to step back a little.

Recovering from illness, I’ve hardly found myself not able to write for a few weeks now, and I have genuinely missed it, indeed my last post back in April took quite a while to pull together. Feeling under parr has made it tricky even to get through working days, resulting in little capacity at the end of each day to write with a clear head, although strangely, taking it steady, I have felt comfortable working in the garden. Maybe after all, there is something restorative about fresh air, plants, and birdsong, that somehow puts things right?

I have continued to write in my journals each evening, recording highlights of each day be they weather, wildlife or garden related, but for sure, this wouldn’t compare with my normal writing output. ‘Normal’ activity is where I’m drawn some mornings and evenings to spill thoughts onto pages, saying precisely what I feel and what comes to mind. Starting from a saved photo or a memory seed sown during the day, words somehow just appear, sentences grow, and after both painful and playful editing, a post-worthy piece occasionally blossoms.

Writing massively scratches a creative itch I’ve always had. I write for others who like to hear a different view on gardens or nature, and I write because on most days, I’m exposed to so many garden delights that it feels wrong somehow to keep them all in. I don’t mind if that all sounds a little soft, that’s just how it is. If through my words someone somewhere is drawn to look a little closer at the magical world of plants, gardens, and nature, they too might be drawn to love it and care for it, like I do.

With so much social flow these days, I don’t expect anyone to have noticed my lightweight presence on Instagram, or the lack of posts to my Gardening Ways or Writing Ways Substack come to that. What I do hope though, and it’s looking good if you’ve read this far, is that you’ll maybe return to read a piece or two more, and if my words flow suitably, you may even pat me on the back with a like here or there. Until then, thanks for dropping by, and I look forward to writing here again for me, and for you.

Kind regards, Gary Webb

Morning Garden

| Gary Webb

A valuable first hour of the day watching the garden and day unfold.

Being the first to awake, I pull back the living room curtains to let in the light, and reveal the garden. Sitting with a mug of hot water and taking time to appreciate some waking time alone, I relish the fact that for a while at least, all is calm. All is calm, that is, but for the occasional airplane and birdsong, both effortlessly travelling through air, brick, and glass.

Outside, bright sunshine splits the early morning garden clear in two, two thirds to the left is bathed in warming light, the remaining third looking somewhat cooler in shade. It’s a superbly serene beginning to the day, and as I sit quietly observing, blocking out the day ahead and thinking over the work that’s gone into the garden thus far, I begin to write.

Cloud pruned box just outside my window. Gary Webb

The scene before the picture window presents a young, maturing garden, green mostly and bordered by a fence recently painted black. As a composition, the garden’s content has been laboured over for some time, ideas initially scribbled onto paper then marked on the ground and eventually, mostly, realised. There’s more yet to achieve, as often the way, but beyond the glass is a scene that now, I’m finally happy to say, passes for a garden.

What began life a little over two years ago as fence-to-fence turf rooted firmly in a claggy grey clay, is now a varied picture full of shapes, colour and importantly, life. Curving perimeter borders holding textures and forms now wrap around the lawn, looping out to vary the scene, and trees reach up from improved soil toward the sky. Granted, many of the woody plants are some way off their full potential, but they’re beginning to make their presence felt, spreading their branches to provide interest and intrigue exactly as planned.

So far, only a handful of shrubby plants have grown above three feet or so although, being head and shoulders above others they move often, more easily catching the breeze as it swishes invisibly in and out of the space. Shrubs might frame the future of this garden, but a few more stars will be taller again, the trinity of youthful trees selected to both enliven the space and feed the air, and I can’t help but dote on them.

A cherry blossom tree of seven feet or so contrasts noticeably with the dark fence behind, holding a canopy of taught stems that shift vigorously whilst its leaves and tiny fruits glow in the morning light. Nearby, a silver birch, its white lower stems lighting up despite being in shade waves its taller whippier stems gracefully across the fence to the world. The trio is completed across the garden by an heirloom tree, a seed-grown rowan rooted in history; the mountain ash might well hold a fiery bright berrying future, but for now I’m just happy knowing it is there, growing alongside us and the garden.

As restful and composed the morning garden looks from inside, outside activity grows too. A small foraging bumble bee lumbers into the space for a while, and countless flies can be seen zigzagging and speeding through the air. Two starlings visit as I continue to watch, pecking across the lawn in search of leatherjackets, and a robin and blue tit individually pause at the bird table to grab some of the seeds put out last night.

After a while a female blackbird arrives, carefully exploring the ground in search of food and bedding, hopping about and throwing bark mulch across the edge of the lawn; some days I rake it up, most days they throw it back. Whilst the blackbird pauses often to check for predators, two magpies in another moment show a little more bravado, hopping up closer to rip threads from a rush mat near the window: you’re very welcome, I think to myself!

Rounding off my thoughts, I realise the sunlight has now reduced the shaded area a little, a few more seeds have left the bird table, and a little more woody litter has been strewn around the lawn’s edge. Leaves are busy taking nourishment from the sunshine, roots are drinking and drying the ground, and the daisy flowers nurtured in the lawn have mostly opened for the day.

I understand that gardening is about the doing, of course, but through moments like these I’m reminded of the benefits of taking time to look at a garden properly, of taking moments like this to observe and process how a garden is growing. By absorbing the evolution and development of a garden, and especially by seeing how wildlife interacts with it, only then can we really begin to understand the value that plants and gardens bring to our lives.

Anyhow, it’s time for me to stop writing now, to stretch a bit, pop on my boots and head out there. After all, whilst I know the garden is perfectly happy to grow its own way, I would like to grow alongside it too!

I hope you’ve liked reading this post, and that you’ll return for more soon. You’d be very welcome to subscribe (it’s totally free!) and join me in the garden again soon.

Kindest regards, Gary Webb

A Feel for Gardens

| Gary Webb

Do you find that some gardens are so large and complicated that it’s hard to really connect with them? Occasionally I find this to be the case, and often it leaves me feeling a little cold towards them. That’s not to say I don’t always like what I see, it’s just that some places can be so extensive or so busy and involved, they’re a challenge to understand.

Now, this isn’t such a problem if I’m simply looking to enjoy a garden’s ambience and spirit, and if that is the case I just breeze around a garden and enjoy it for what it is. Indeed, some gardens which initially seem hard to read can become even more enchanting if their secrets do remain hidden. Sometimes though I need a little more than that, and want to understand the mechanics and motivations behind a garden, it is then when things can become a little frustrating without having something more substantial on which to hang my hat.

The reality is that many gardens, being carefully planned, are complex and dynamic products, designed to harness some of nature’s raw and living elements, repurposing them into ever changing, interactive works of art. Most places will have been worked and modelled and manicured to within an inch of their lives, enduring intense change initially, but left then to ripen and mature over time, nurtured of course by gardeners. As a modern day visitor, being now much further down any garden’s timeline, expecting them to come with a guide called ‘how it was made’ isn’t just difficult, it’s virtually impossible, and in most cases, it isn’t how they were meant to be experienced anyway.

Knowing this generally to be the case, I guess it’s for me to lighten up a little, to train myself not to stress over a garden’s creation or maintenance but enjoy it for how it both looks and feels. To do that however, to flick my garden history and design switches to the off position when I walk through a place can be quite a challenge. If you’ll allow therefore, I’ve come up with an alternative approach where a large garden can be compared to a sparkly new book on a shelf – I know, it sounds a little weird but run with me for a while!

Sometimes when browsing bookshelves we are drawn to a title or an author, or maybe to its spine or cover design. Carefully taking the book from the shelf, we might be drawn further in by recommendations on the back cover, an engaging description inside or by its list of contents or preface. Even after absorbing these messages though, we’re often still blissfully unaware of the full story that awaits between the pages and yet, often we’re happy to take the book based on what we see on the surface.

The process used when encountering books can equally be applied to gardens, where much like a book’s cover, they might possess a visually attractive exterior, full of detail and artistic flair. In exchange for contents, a visitor map may clearly label each area we are to discover, and by way of introduction, interpretation boards or a leaflet guide might lay a foundation of knowledge and intrigue for the journey ahead.

Beyond those however we are on our own, left to venture and explore garden paths like pages within the book, step by step or page by page. Most importantly it must be remembered, we’re left by the garden’s creator and author to find our own way through the story, making of it what we will. Our hand isn’t held by the garden’s designer or creator, just as our book isn’t read to us by the author, we are just left to venture at our own pace, in our own time, and to make our own impression.

Old gardens can be fascinating, evocative creations, made once and held in a moment of time, but often they’re a collection of intertwined layers, sections made and remade, grafted and spliced with fragments from yesteryear. We can take them on face value for sure, in much the same way as books, but even if we can’t engage with it, we must acknowledge the hidden meaning and spirit that resides in the soil, lime-mortared walls and twisted trees.

Large gardens and landscapes can be appreciated for how they appear, for how they flow and wrap themselves around us one moment and open us out to the world the next. It is perfectly fine not just in some cases, but in most cases to engage in a light-touch way, gasping in awe at the sheer extravagance or brilliance of it all, or sitting back to process a personal situation. Think nothing of having to engage in a deep and meaningful conversation with the garden, but study it as you would a painting in a gallery, an architectural masterpiece, a fine piece of sculpture or indeed, a very nicely crafted book on a shelf.

This post might be as much for my benefit as for you, but we don’t always need to know how the artist mixed their paint or how many bricks an architect used, neither is it necessary to understand the sculptor’s casting process or the authors mechanisms for setting out the book. As we move through a garden between precisely placed plants and furrowed orchards, sneeze our way through flower-filled shrubberies and sit back in ornamental garden buildings to admire a view, we might just be seeing all that the garden’s creator wished us to see; nothing less, nothing more. 

Finally, I agree, there will always be occasions where gardens and landscapes will demand further investigation, where there will be a constant cascade of questions for the curious, but when that happens you will know, and your quest for answers will become deep and meaningful. In lieu of those moments, embrace every place for how it looks in that moment, and especially for how it makes you feel.

Gary Webb, Gardening & Writing Ways

A Pocketful of Weeks

| Gary Webb

Focussing on spring flowers.

Now the vernal equinox is upon us there is little doubt that spring is here, and not a moment too soon! Ahead of us are even longer, warmer and brighter days with waves of colourful new growth appearing in gardens and throughout our countryside. Seemingly, it’s been a longer winter than usual, and definitely a wetter one, but now we’re beyond the worst of it, surely, and should be looking forward to the treats ahead with anticipation.

Whilst the spring outlook remains rosy, you don’t need me to remind you that there’s no guarantees where good weather is concerned, so do proceed with an air of caution. If we’re to endure a few more ‘off’ days though, even some visits from Jack Frost, we can at least rest assured that the 2024 growing season is officially underway, and indeed, there’s nothing we can do to stop the floral flow now, just grin and enjoy it!

Prunus ‘Collingwood Ingram’

Since the dawn of the new year, we’ve been charmed by drifts of snowdrops along roadside verges and in gardens, where their presence is always eagerly awaited and welcomed. Even before snowdrops began to fade though, our eyes were being challenged, pulled upwards to feast upon clouds of cherry plum blossom lighting up hedgerows and gardens. Cherry trees won’t stop there however, so try if you can to immerse yourself in the Hanami season and its colour across the next few weeks, and if you can’t get out just now, try searching up the hashtag ‘blossomwatch’, where you’ll be in for a visual treat!

Along with cherry trees, daffodils are beaming cheerily now, tulips are coming along nicely too, and with a few of my own favourite primroses thrown-in for good measure, maybe the odd hellebore, there’s little more we could ask of a spring interest garden. Okay, so maybe there’s a few more little additions, like a shade popping Japanese quince or large magnolia filled with fist-sized flowers, a bright drift of crocus through a verdant lawn or path side shrubbery bordered by sweet scented Daphne. Oh yes, we could always wish for more!

Casting our minds back briefly to the short winter days then, it’s easy to think that our outside spaces were a little gloomy and bland. I like to think though, that from the first winter aconites and snowdrops to now, in just a pocketful of weeks, flowers never really left us at all. If therefore as the busyness of the new year grows, that it all seems a bit much, or for whatever reason your mood dips, focus on the flowers I say, for they never really left us, and they never will: flowers will always see you through.

Gary Webb, Gardening Ways

The Little Hawthorn Tree

| Gary Webb

Logic tells me its hard wood picked up none of my thoughts, but nonetheless I willed the little tree to feel something, not wanting it to stand there in silence anymore. In humanising this undeniably non-human being though, sending thoughts in lieu of an impossible conversation, I wanted the tree to feel noticed and appreciated, not just ignored as part the scenery.

I’ve stood before this somewhat ordinary tree many times, this time however, my attention was seized by a blood coloured berry, one of just a few left dotted around the tree’s tangled twiggy mass of branches. Where just a few weeks ago little red treats adorned its crown now tiny buds lit the way, many being forced open by milky green leaves like fresh eyes opening to see the new year.

This standard, run-of-the-mill and unremarkable hawthorn tree lives on a grassy bank in a park not far from my home. It stands there all the time minding its own business, being one of a few field edge trees chosen many moons ago for their ability to withstand knocks from people playing nearby. In fact, whilst the tree’s needle-sharp defences might have been developed to protect it from grazing animals, in this particular spot they’re likely to have felt more footballs than front teeth.

With an awareness and respect for the folklore attached to hawthorn trees, I found myself pausing just a little longer this time and appreciating the tree’s journey through the colder months. I pondered its relationship with the ivy that clung scale-like to its trunk, its dense network of branches that in summer will become a camouflaged haven for songbirds, and I pictured the white mayflower spectacle that will arrive just a few weeks from now.

In my moments of contemplation, I questioned whether the tree could actually pick up on my thoughts at all, realising that if it could, there was a chance it might not care for them anyway: the tree’s outer appearance clearly emitting stay away vibes. So, might its response be as tough as its exterior, telling me in no uncertain terms that it didn’t need or want my appreciation, or might its character be open to thoughts, praise and adoration.

What I did see in the moment was a thorn tree that stood motionless, without reaction or any sign of acceptance of my thanks or recognition. I also realised it was the perfect time to see that its outer appearance was again changing. Very soon the last berry would be gone, the leaf buds will have burst open and the tree’s form will be full and green. Had I after all been summoned in some way, to stand in appreciation? Had that one berry been left as a visual gift, or a lure to focus my attention?

I know not what mystical powers are at play, or if my love for nature and overactive imagination are getting the upper hand. Whatever it is, maybe next time I’ll make time to find and leave a token, something biodegradable as an offering to show my appreciation. If the little hawthorn tree knowingly accepts the gift I’ll still not know, but I’ll be happy to take my approval in the form of its soon to come flowery crown and the subsequent crop of berries, both of which may be all the brighter, I’m sure, for my gift. For now, though, I’ll leave few these words as my sign of respect, for the field edge hawthorn tree.

Gary Webb – Gardening and Writing Ways

Just Outside Basecamp

| Gary Webb

Re-evaluating a writing future.

Nothing but fresh air has arisen from this blog for over a month now as I’ve busied myself establishing a Substack and with a writing course. I’m happy though to at last get back to my own writing ways, on Gardening Ways, where you find me re-evaluating my writing future.

Writing for me has steadily grown over the last decade since taking to blogging platforms, initially to help with promotion of my workplaces, and to share my love of horticulture, gardens, nature and more. Throughout the years of blogging, I do think that I hadn’t quite grasped the creative path I was in fact pursuing, both through my gardening and online activity, so whether through plants, words or pictures, I was simply happy to be toying with them.

Gardening aside, assembling images and text and posting to social media has occupied many hours of my so-called spare time, maybe too many. Oftentimes, I’d rise early to write before my family were awake, and sit up late playing with sentences until, often bleary eyed, I felt ready to hit publish. Sometimes I published just to release myself from the cycle of editing and re-editing; “just post it, be done with it and get yourself to bed” I’d say to myself.

Now, after many watery articles have passed beneath the bridge, I can see that aside from being just an artistic endeavour, blogging has presented me with an opportunity to speak to the world, and still does. Yet somehow I still need to push my creativity, hence this post to publicly confirm my intention. I shall continue to see myself as a gardener and horticulturalist, but I shall now state with pride that I’m a writer too, and one day, if a fair wind blows me in the right direction, I may even become a published author.

As for my journey through the last few weeks, I’ve been busy splicing lengthy work trips with family and school holidays, endeavoured to catch up with long awaited webinars and carved out time for my course too. It’s been a drain if I’m honest and my energy is heavily depleted, but it’s been a delight too, and despite still having much coursework to complete, I’ve loved joining in with and being part of such a supportive group.

I’ve taken part in a Book Proposal Masterclass, hosted, and run to perfection by the talented author 

Beth Kempton, who’s book ‘The Way of The Fearless Writer’ first pushed me to reconsider my writing. In the wake of the course, I’ve yet to really process its impact, so heavy has been the flow of other work. Everything though has changed, it seems. Whilst the world may hardly have noticed my month-long absence from posting articles, I’ve been busy adjusting my take on the world of writing.

Emotions may settle in a while as I recalibrate, but my whole outlook has changed. Day to day I’m feeling that other tasks and my usual work is just getting in the way of writing, so I’ll need to balance that out. I feel as though my book dream has become a possibility; I just need to make it happen. 

There’s a changed person that now sits behind this keyboard, someone with a new and more creative writing mindset. Sure, I’m not going to produce a best seller over night, I do have my feet on the ground, but I’m here, just outside basecamp, and I’m ready to stake my claim.

Thanks to Beth and the wonderfully supportive masterclass writing community, if you find me vacant for a while, you can rest assured that I’ll most likely be working or thinking on my book.

Kind regards,

Gary, 

Gardening Ways, Writing Ways.

Allotment Love

| Gary Webb

Reflecting on two years of allotment love and my journey to plot 38a.

Finally over the weekend I made time to visit the allotment and it was refreshing to see a few other allotment holders flexing their green fingers. Since returning home though I’ve spent a little time thinking on both the past allotment year, and our longer term relationship – which does have something of an elasticity to it I have to say.

December 2022

Weeks can become busy and overly filled for the best planners amongst us, and for many, there’s often too little time to get through all the tasks on the to-do list. Might growing an allotment then at this point in life be a challenge too far? That doubt is always there and frequently I’m reminded of it by the naughty elf sitting on my shoulder. On the other shoulder though is another more positive elf, one who argues with a tiny trowel in their hand that the allotment is a good thing. “It pays forward in ways you never could have imagined, and brings much more to your table than food alone”, they say.

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Christmas Chaos

| Gary Webb

It is morning, and the Christmas tree stands silently in the corner of the living room jewelled with baubles and decorations, my favourites being miniature flower pots and garden tools, naturally. This year we’ve added a little shiny watering can, just to keep things green. Paper snowflakes hang around the room in otherwise blank spaces, extra candlesticks and lanterns have been artfully placed, and an olive wood nativity scene sits on top of a bookcase; our own Christmas stage is almost set.

Outside, the garden as often the way in winter, is sodden. Around here for the last two weeks or so we’ve swung from sharp frosts to long periods of rain, and the garden in many ways is best enjoyed through the window. Indeed, venturing out yesterday with a handful of bird seed for the table, the ground squelched nastily underfoot. One day I left icy impressions in the frozen grass and the next, Croc-shaped footprints in the mud.

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A First Forest Bathing Experience

| Gary Webb

Exactly what do people do when ‘forest bathing’ is a question I’d pondered for sometime, when intrigue recently got the better of me. I happened across Healing Earth Ways who were offering a session relatively nearby, another bonus being that participation supported Warwickshire Wildlife Trust; surely it was a win-win situation for all.

My first session began on a sun-blessed morning when frost covered shaded ground, beside a reservoir car park in rural Warwickshire where our welcoming guide stood patiently with a list of names, smiling reassuringly. Before us was an especially bright white stand of birch trees, and behind those a woodland belt which clearly concealed the place we’d soon to be heading.

Morning perfection, by Gary Webb

Beginning with an introduction to the nature of forest bathing, or Shinrin-yoku as it’s called in its origin homeland Japan, our guide softly explained what we’d let ourselves in for. Rather than growing concern, I’m quick to add, my worry lessened with every reassuring word spoken, and before long, we found ourselves navigating a route skirting Earlswood lake.

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