Essays

The answer was in the garden all along

| Gary Webb

I knew something was wrong but it was the garden, as often the way, that helped me figure it out…

Upright, resolute and with its happiest face ablaze in the morning sun, my whippersnapper white flowering cherry tree shivers outside in a fresh spring morning breeze. Two blue tits are skipping amongst the twiggy birch tree branches, daisies are acting all daisy-like across the lawn and lavender cushions are covered in new season growth, yet something feels amiss.

White cherry blossom flowers washed in early morning sunlight
Cherry blossom doing its thing in my garden…

Tight bright pink ‘Jan Bos’ Hyacinth blooms are emerging from a terracotta pot newly planted last autumn. A chest high Acer is bravely pushing its first claw-like leaves out into the world, and along the fence line bright green ‘Mrs Robb’s bonnet’ Euphorbia stems stretch knee high to the sky as if to say, “don’t forget us!” The borders are clearly beginning to fill out right now but still, something is not quite right.

Continuing to study and quiz the garden, I tune into some long thorny rose stems that were tied down so very carefully back in February, where eight-inch new shoots now stretch upwards all along the stems – just as planned. Then my eyes pause on two box topiary shrubs that have rested tightly in their pots all winter, now whiskered with bright green tiny new leaves. Taking it all in, it is clear that the garden, following the longest wettest winter is now growing strongly again, but still, something is out of sorts.

Then it strikes me, it is this of course, not the garden but my writing that is out of line, where after an extended break I am once again deep in thought before a page, with a willingness to write. I haven’t stopped writing completely of though, if keeping a personal journal counts that is, but publicly my garden and nature inspired articles ceased to exist as we approached the end of winter. So why have the words from this Gary-made-good disappeared and what brings me back here today?

Well, until recently I would write each morning and almost every single day. I’d jot things down in notebooks or on my phone whilst out and about, and given a good chunk of time would hide myself away and type feverishly once a hint of an article had formed in my head. Then and without fail, I’d lose myself in a washing drum cycle of editing and re-editing whilst working to polish my creation into something half decent, before hitting the publish button and sending out into my tiny world.

For some time though my daily writing sessions have dried up, along with my articles too. It’s not for me to get into it here but suffice to say that life has weighed heavy for a while now, suppressing my motivation for gardening let alone writing; which is not me at all. My pens have collected dust in their pot, my laptop has been mostly closed and my creativity put on hold. Daily work has continued of course, but in no small measure have I been called to question again and again my working ways and gardening in general, so with all this in mind I’ve not had the will to write.

As I sit here today though whilst pondering my predicament, sun washes over the garden I previously described and the room inside is half in chaos. Furniture is piled high, dust sheets are laid down, and a half empty paint tin awaits re-opening so to coat another living room wall. A while later I’ll be taking one of my lads to the football through the Saturday traffic, and later still I will visit my dad in hospital; but right now and for the first time in weeks, I’m called to write.

Indeed, having fallen into a groove where I would do almost anything but make time to write, I now find myself sitting here with words bursting to get on the page. Things may be on pause for a little while and for sure, life is waiting to pull me hither and dither, but in this moment, I block it all out and write. 

Today then and for a while at least I shall roll with it, let the words flow, and go with that pull of creative energy that I know is life sustaining for me. It is not just the gardening, but the capturing of it in words that matters to me this day, and I must not hold that back come rain or shine or decorating for that matter. (Especially not for the decorating!) 

The garden will carry on being the garden, doing garden-like things, and work will carry on challenging me as it has for ever and a day. Little old me in the centre of it all however will sit here and write, come what may. Thank you for reading to the end, you’re one of my stars!

Gary Webb – Gardener, and yes: writer, dad, son and decorator too. (Whether some folks like it or not!)

When Clouds Dull The Day

| Gary Webb

Well, these first few weeks of the year certainly haven’t done anything to water down the notion that our nation is rain-soaked and dreary. I mean, yet again during daytime hours I find myself writing whilst knowing that I really should put the big light on! Nevertheless, as gloomy and wretched as the weather has been yet again today, beyond the large windowpanes all is brilliantly bathed by the sun’s light; even if filtered by a wishy-washy veil of grey cloud.

As I look out, raindrops cause tiny splashes as they spit spot across paving stones, with yet more droplets tapping lightly on the doorsill. Nearby and across a shallow pool surface silvery rings quickly erase each one that came before, and sky-lit watery beads build beneath branches, readying themselves to free fall into saturated soil below. Everything shows signs of moisture in a garden that’s already full to the brim.

Undeterred by the murk, fascination is still to be found everywhere out there however, my view being into a gardener’s garden of course. Mind you,

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January Garden

| Gary Webb

Possibly the grimmest day of the year so far, but somehow my garden pulls me through, giving much food for thought in the process. Potpourri, anyone?

In my neck of the woods most gardens would be considered ‘damp under foot’ for the duration of January. Unless you’re a professional or serious amateur gardener though, there’s probably not a great deal you’d want to do in the garden just now anyway. After all, January soil can be wet soil, I don’t want to play soil, stay away soil. It’s probably better to let the January garden be, if I’m totally honest.

Birch and Viburnum leaves amongst others cloak much of my own garden soil today having layered themselves down like sodden potpourri. Initially having tumbled down, they’re now compressing after recurring rainfall, sealing the soil and locking out light, thus preventing growth of too many wild plants.

A mixture of brown leaves laying soaked on the ground, their ribbed and textured form still clearly visible in January.
All the leaves are brown…and the sky is… 

In the right quantity wild plants have always been dear to me, and decade upon decade my gardens have become more welcoming to their presence, softer around the edges you could say. Musing on wildflowers and gardens, I remember when wildflowers were once allotted a specific space in gardens, but now see further softening to their presence. Gardens now seem to be shape shifting, re-forming tradition through a shared desire to heal the world and help our pollinators; a kind of No Dig for Victory, I hear people say.

Where this will lead gardens I cannot say, as I’m unable to read a crystal ball, but a creative gardener’s desire to shape and improve will certainly see each place adapt and evolve. Not that a ‘traditional’ garden fixed in an old form is a bad thing, whatever a traditional garden is, that is. There’s certainly room for a heady mix of traditional and wild, old and new, as long as they’re nature rich gardens. As Alexander Pope once penned: “In all, let Nature never be forgot”.

Tripping over the labels we attach to gardens and gardening styles sometimes leads to words wasted, I feel, but questioning what a garden is can be fruitless too; a garden being something different to each and every person. USP’s aside, each garden is an intrinsically personal space to someone, even if it’s a shared space, so various opinions will exist as to how it should be formed or re-formed; and most will be just fine as long as nature’s requirements are considered.

In my own January garden, a diverse range of carefully chosen ornamental plants hold their stations, each either having gone to ground or is presently delighting me with some winter form and colour. Again though, labelling plants themselves as ‘ornamentals’ undervalues their role in the place that is my garden, a space where all the plants are fulfilling an important role in the local eco system. Yes, they’re aesthetically pleasing, but they’re useful in other ways too, be it for food or refuge.

Not especially useful to some people, as gardens go, my garden is completely useful to me, and to local wildlife. In the drier, warmer months my garden gives space to breathe and retire from the world, offering various niches where to relax and unwind. Right now, even though I fear to tread into it on the dullest of winter days, my garden entertains. Perimeter planting waves in the wind, cloud pruned box reminds me where I’ve been, and raindrops animate a mirror pool. Yet it is the plants, regardless of their origin, that stand up to the grey day, offering life and foraging places for wildlife.

Whilst I ponder January and observe the seasonal wheel as it turns, rain continues to fall across my garden. It may not be an easy time for all natural things, or for gardeners come to that, but for this gardener on the grimmest of days, my garden’s seeing me right. I believe it’s time for a winter brew.

Gary Webb.

Old Spades, New Gardening Ways

| Gary Webb

This article is a reflection on the shifting nature of gardening and considers how old methods like double digging fit into modern, sustainable practice.

I’m sure this could be applied to many activities, but if there’s one thing I’ve come to understand about gardening, it is that nothing stays the same for long: places, processes, people and of course plants themselves continue to change. There are many examples of how change plays out in life of course, but the one I pull from my gardening hat today concerns an old gardening task known as double digging.

Whilst in practice double digging wasn’t expected or carried out nearly as often as one might think, by the time I encountered the technique it was long established; a trusted method for preparing compacted or depleted ground. Whether working an allotment or old kitchen garden therefore, digging down two spits deep, incorporating organic matter and inverting the soil was considered a route to success.

Possibly due to my working situations, I didn’t often get to put my double digging skills to use, but I certainly held faith in the procedure. After all, like it or loathe it, the DD process adds nutrients and humus, opens and aerates compacted soil, and helps towards that happy place somewhere between not too wet or dry – what more could anyone possibly do to help plants grow?

A black and white image of Gary Webb weeding a patch of soil beside a compost bin.
My good self, not in the act of double digging! (Not there anyway 😉)

The idea behind this text however, is not to deliberate on whether double digging or no dig is best, or if any gardening method is superior to another. My reflections here are wholly centred around the evolution of horticultural practice, of collective and individual learning, and of thoughtfully managing change.

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Walks and Wild Words

| Gary Webb

Won’t you come and crunch some acorns with me? Fact, fiction and times past, all woven crudely together and unravelled here, in this short story search for purpose.

Early one autumn morn during a country walk, I happened across an impressive holly oak tree, where I chose to sit for a while. There, I was to discover not just a handsome tree but a potent place, one that offered a lens through which landscape and life could be viewed.

Prior to that deep-seated moment, I’d been drifting in and out of thought whilst stomping up a hill, upon which oaks and yews had lived for a century or more. Boughs from path side trees formed an impressive tunnel overhead, but my eyes were mostly flitting from fronds beside the path one moment, to fungi living on fallen wood the next: all the while crunching over acorns strewn all about, it being a mast year.

After a few minutes of continual climb, I was drawn by some light glowing from the side of the track, although given the seemingly never-ending weather pattern, it wasn’t so much a burst of sun, but a brief patch of brightness. Nevertheless, whilst standing there appreciating that burly oak’s silhouette, a narrow track appeared before me, so through the ferny foliage I duly stepped, unsure if I was simply exploring the place, or had been summoned to it.

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A Gardening Connection, at BBC Gardeners’ World Live.

| Gary Webb

You presently find me fully inspired after a visit to BBC Gardeners’ World Live at the N.E.C. in Birmingham. If you know me personally, the mention of attending a garden show might take you aback, as my preferred place of comfort would by choice be somewhere much calmer: a quiet corner of a wildflower filled garden, maybe a woodland trail, the allotment or seated on a bench in my garden. After a successful show visit therefore, to now sitting back reflecting with wholly positive thoughts, feels pretty good indeed.

Generally speaking, thinking of how we’ve moved from the local village garden show to the likes of BBC GW Live is hard to fathom. Dozens of trade stands, bottle-necked thoroughfares and variegated willows whipping you in the face when least expected. Weary stall holders wilting under the heat of a marquee alongside their perfectly grown plants, and bite-your-lip moments due to those infuriating push-me pull-me show trollies; possibly the very best and worst garden show product that ever there was!

The Plant Based Garden, by Nick Bailey

It might all sound a bit much, and in some ways it is, but there is a reverse side to the coin: a glorious and gigantic garden show in the blazing June sunshine that features the very best early summer flowers. Garden shows of this size, therefore, are meant to be exciting and busy places, and can assault your senses; but there is balance and payback if you seek it. I like to think of large garden shows as magnets, working as super central places where all and sundry converge on one location which is, let’s face it, as convenient as it gets.

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Tortured Tree – Planted but not forgotten

| Gary Webb

My discovery of an ill-fated tree on a wooded hillside, a tree striving to survive and play its part for our world – a reworked essay from Gardening Ways 2017.

Time travelling back to a tree planting day on a gentle hillside a century or so ago, I picture a fresh-faced country character with their sleeves rolled back and a bead of sweat beneath their flat cap, standing back to admire their work. They, like us now would have wanted only the best for this tree that I now stand before, especially after digging into this heavy ground that I know to be stone filled and stubborn.

As for any tree planter today, our character would have wished for this tree to establish well and prosper, feeling equally sorrowful and comforted knowing it would hopefully remain long after they themselves had breathed their last. Nodding to the future then, they’d have prayed for a mild season or two to ensure that its shoots would get away and its roots would establish well, binding the tree to that spot for generations to come.

A beech tree encapsulated in a rusting tree guard that should have been removed long ago, set in a thin woodland.
Until you see it, I mean really see it, it’s just another tree in the woods. G.Webb.

After firming down clods of earth with the heel of a hobnail boot, the planter would likely have scooped water from the nearby lakeside to settle its roots, then fixed in place a strong protective frame to guard it against attack; a metal cage likely to have dwarfed the infant tree but certain to keep it from harm. Little did they know that despite the most caring of intentions, their actions condemned the tree to a torturous future.

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Fresh Air and Fruit Trees

| Gary Webb

Getting closer to a pruning day between the branches.

Gary Webb

With heavy curtains drawn tightly together, it may have been hard to notice that day was breaking outside and the sun was readying itself for an appearance. As our gardener raised their head from a warm pillow though, even with half opened eyes, they knew exactly when and where the sun would appear and importantly, when it was due to retire.

Preparing for a cool winter’s day outdoors, our weathered tested gardener dressed themselves, adding quilted layer upon layer in the hope of finding that magical working balance between not too warm, not too cold, and actually remaining mobile. As if on auto pilot, they shovelled down breakfast, prepared and packed a hearty lunch and allowing for a moment of pause, moved on to lacing up some well-worn but ever-so comfortable boots. Finishing with a woolly hat pulled down over their ears, they headed out to the car for a familiar journey to work, their breath chuffing into the cool morning air.

Journeying to their work’s garden, rays from the blindingly low sun glimmered through the driver’s door window, flashing repeatedly through the ancient hedgerow trees as the car whooshed along the lane. The cloud-free sky was becoming brighter by the second and promised a dry, if cool working day. Today, they thought, might be the day to finish the orchard pruning, a task they were keen to complete, for spring was in the air and the sap was beginning to rise.

The day started with picking up debris from the previous day which was in itself unusual, for they usually preferred to clean up as they worked. Yesterday though they had pushed on pruning until night fell, being keen to complete an especially large tree. With light falling

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Earthen Foothills

| Gary Webb

I don’t speak mole, but I feel the need to try…

Digging, I push through dark earth, busily clawing my way forwards, behind me pushing scoops of loosened grub-free soil. If I could, I’d leave no sign of my existence at all, preferring by far to live below ground out of sight, quietly tunnelling and forming my subterranean world, only surfacing to taste fresh air from the midst of my mountainous mole hills.

Existing in your world and mine too, I take no solace or consolation from the sun or stars above as you might, or the clouds or trees for that matter. I live in and for the soil. My focus is close, my ambitions are kerbed, and my territory is limited by nature; I know exactly where I’m at.

You will know where I’ve been though, for whilst I can be inconspicuous, my industrial spoils are heaped in plain sight. My earthen foothills

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