Spring on the Conwy

Last weekend, I discovered a hidden gem in North Wales. It's as much a well-kept secret as it is a well-kept garden. Nestled on a tributary of the River Conwy near Tal-y-cafn, Bodnant must surely be one of Wales' largest and most pristine estates open to visitors.

Spring was in the air last weekend at Bodnant - and so too was a cloud of yellow daffodils, with brash golden trumpets held aloft on lemony petals. (Fun fact: scientists now reckon the trumpet of a daffodil is not related to the petals, but is a new organ, a corona, as found in Passiflora spp. (passion flower)).

The fields of yellow daffodils were an inspiration. They even inspired another visitor to don her own corona. 

One of the most exciting things about Bodnant was its setting. You can visit gardens all over and many have stunning backdrops - from my own favourite, Lyme Park, you can see moorland and green rolling hills; but rarely will you find a hinterland quite so dramatic as the mountains of Snowdonia before Bodnant.

Another things I loved was that, in spite of the lateness of Spring, there was still plenty to see. Manicured roses were pruned and trained in vast swathes along the walls of the formal garden, (I hope) ready to charm visitors with heady aromas come Summer.

In fact, wherever I looked I found surprising beauty in kempt Winter-ready hibernating plants. The Wisteria, still not quite in bud in mid-April, wrought its twisting, gnarly form over the historic fountain (which I think they're hoping to restore this year).

In Manchester, even in April it feels like we're in the depths of Winter: I've found climate is the only guage for season and we're left distinguishing one type of rain from another. Here in Bodnant, however, the garden heralded Spring wherever you looked. Magnolias (ignorant of paint charts in back bedrooms) were in full bloom, and the rhodies were beginning to show their colour, too.

Of course, weathering all seasons, the lichens crept on...

And in the dell, Lysichiton americanus (American skunk cabbage) grew rampant amid the hue of fallen petals. It would give the impression of some romantic alien jungle (if it weren't for the occasional skunky smell!)

What struck me about Bodnant was the sheer scale. If Lyme Park seems big, Bodnant is huge! When the National Trust took over the 80 acre site, they opened only a fraction of this to visitors. Since then, over half has been made accessible - and staggeringly, this whole area is not just accessible, but preened and manicured. 

I have a couple of dates in the diary to return to Bodnant, and am looking forward to seeing it develop through the year - watch this space!

Profile of a place: Malaga's Alcazaba

When I toured around the towns of Andalucia in October, I saw my fair share alcázares (castles) - not least the Alcázar of Seville and the Alhambra of Granada. These stone-built strongholds are reminders of the moorish hegemony of Andalucia that lasted right through to the late 15th century and makes the cultural history of the region so rich. 

It's hard not to be wowed by the Alhambra: set atop a rocky mass with the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada as its backdrop, the complex of fortifications, palaces and pleasure gardens certainly demands praise. It's not just a feat of engineering, but also a testament to the power of art and architecture to represent dominion.

The Alhambra and the peaks of the Sierra Nevada

However, it was the Alcazaba (or citadel) of Malaga that stood out to me above all the rest. Although I'd hopped straight off a plane from cool, dank England and found myself 16° further south and probably 16°C warmer, my appreciation of the Alcazaba can't just be put down to start-of-holiday wonderment. 

After all, the Alcazaba is the best-preserved citadel of its kind in Spain, let alone Andalucia. Sited on a rocky outcrop beside Malaga's historic town centre and forefronted by the exposed remains of a Roman arena, the myriad walls and towers of the Alcazaba don't just represent great architectural beauty, but also a rich history of medieval war defence. Within the outer citadel's massive entry fortifications is a labyrinthe of inner walls and towers complex enough to confuse the enemy, if nothing else.

Looking up to the Alcazaba - you can see the Roman arena in the foreground.

... and looking down again!

However, the walls create splendid enclosures, containing moorish patios, trees, herbaceous borders and formal gardens. Unlike the rain-soaked bare remains of some of our own castles, the protective walls of the citadel make Malaga's Alcazaba a veritable haven for plants - and so too for botanists. The exposed dry rock at the base of the citadel is home to delicious succulents from sedum-like critters to full-blown cacti. Further into the garden there are mossy, ferny niches where it's moist enough, and well-protected spaces where tropical plants thrive. If there's interest in diversity, then the range of microclimates and the variety of growing things at Malaga's Alcazaba can only be described as fascinating. 

A type of Hottentot fig?

Tropical colour: palms and orange trees line the approach to the Torre del Cristo.

For me, though, the most exciting thing about the Alcazaba was the interplay between the labyrinthine moorish fortifications and the formal historic gardens. The route through the citadel takes the visitor through a series of impressive arches; each of these frames a vista or teases the visitor with anticipation and intrigue. Arches open onto impressive formal gardens containing pagodas hung with jasmine, or lead onto pathways, expediting the visitor to the next amazing view. Water flows cleverly around the garden in channels, cooling and yet also contributing to a sense of movement around the garden. My photos really don't do it justice.

 

In a nutshell, what excited me most about the Alcazaba was that it's a perfect example of how to create movement and intrigue in a space and leave visitors wanting more. I never thought I'd say it, but if there's anywhere in Andalucia I'd love to revisit, it's Malaga, thanks to its Alcazaba!

Plants and places: Andalucia

Last Sunday I returned from a week's holiday in Andalucia. Eight days, taking in the sights of Malaga, Granada, Seville and Jerez - as well as a couple of places in between (Cadiz, Ronda, and the occasional dustbowl-with-a-petrol-station which claimed to be a town). 

It was fantastic, not just because it was 20°C+. And sunny. And I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. In October. All of these things were very exciting, but to me were slightly secondary to the fantastic botanical delights Andalucia had in store.

Bird of Paradise (Strelitzia reginae)

I knew to expect oranges - after all, Seville is famous for its bitter oranges used in marmalade (I only remembered this halfway through the world's sourest orange scrumped from a public park). But having never been closer to the equator than Athens, the amazing diversity of flora and fauna in Andalucia was a totally unexpected pleasant surprise to me.

Excitingly, plants that in the UK are delicate houseplants, such as Jasminum officinale (jasmine), grew rampantly over the trellises of Malaga's Alcazabar; Schefflera arboricola (the umbrella plant), which is best known in the UK as a houseplant tolerant of neglect and unlove, was growing wild at the foot of the palace; and vast yards of cacti, that you could only dream of cultivating in temperate regions, grew as weeds on the hillsides of Granada. 

It was exciting to see these plants in situ and get a real appreciation for their natural habitat. It's one thing to see a greenhouse-grown orange tree in the Cotswolds with a single paltry fruit and say 'this is how it likes to grow'; it's another to see lines of orange trees, baked by the Andalucian sun, producing easy tons - I kept thinking to myself - as though they were apples.

Las naranjas de Sevilla/ Seville Oranges (Citrus × aurantium)

As I was travelling around, something else struck me, too. In horticulture, we learn a lot about plants' natural adaptations - be it leaf size, shape or structure, root depth etc. - that enable them to thrive in often very specific conditions. In Andalucia, there were some textbook examples of how trees and plants are suited to the mediterranean climate.

Apart from the fact it has stunning, iridescent pink pompoms for flowers and develops seeds in strange bean-like pods, the Mimosa tree is a fascinating case in point. Its bipinnate compound leaves (i.e. leaves composed of rows of tiny pointed leaflets) actually have a relatively small surface area. The leaves are also mobile, able to close up in response to low light levels (other varieties are able to close in response to touch), optimising the exposure to light for photosyntheis and ensuring low loss of water through transpiration.

Mimosa (Albizin julibrissin)

I started to notice that this was a bit of a theme - lots of the trees of Seville had feathery leaves with a low surface area, including this tree (to me, it looked like a relative of the willow).

A Spanish relative of the willow?

Some trees took it to the extreme. This tree in particular was comprised a mass of fine filaments of feathery leaves, with the result that you couldn't even see the trunk or branches.

A mass of feathery leaves

A final point - you can't go to Andalucia without seeing palm trees - they are as common in amenity planting as cotoneaster in the UK. However, I found something it is unusual to see over here: beside the cathedral of Jerez is a public space, planted with palm trees, but there were spaces where a palm had been cut down. You don't often get the chance to see a palm stump, but it demonstrates a really interesting point about the tree - that it's not really a tree at all. 

Just pretending: the palm is not a true tree

That's because palms are monocots (they have fibrous roots and stems and bandy leaves with scattered veins) and also herbaceous - they don't have the capability to produce the secondary growth we know as wood. So there's not a single tree ring in sight!

Ringless palm stump!

Mead: Drink of kings

Mead may have ancient origins, but you don't have to be a caveman to enjoy it.

As soon as I discovered that mead existed, I wanted to try it. Just the idea of honey wine is a delicious one - and the reality doesn't disappoint: mead is mellow, earthy, and sweet. It has all the good qualities you would expect from a wine made out of the best natural form of sugar.

But there is something more: to me, it tastes medieval. If there's any drink that makes you want to don a fur tunic and dance an estampie in the courtyard, or call "off with their 'eds" while you tuck into another pheasant, it's mead. 

Although I associate the flavour of mead with the middle ages, its origins are much older. Archaeologists have discovered traces of a mixture of honey, rice and other fruits along with 'organic compounds of fermentation' in neolithic pottery found in Northern China, which could attest to an early form of mead (...or a dollop of Marmite in an ancient Chinese soup). Early origins aside, there is written evidence of mead from 1700 BC, and we know it was enjoyed by the ancient Greeks and Romans too.

But while mead has now become a rare drink with historic connotations, it's no surprise that it enjoyed such popularity in the past. After all, honey would have been a key source of concentrated sugar before sugar cane and beet.

Last year, I made a variation of mead called 'melomel' - fruit mead. For the fruit element, I used a mass of rusty-coloured rosehips foraged from local hedgerows. I boiled them up to create a vat of rosehip tea, and also included a bag of spice (as a sort of bouquet garni) including cinnamon, cloves, and star anise.

Once the rosehips had been strained from the 'tea' and the liquid had cooled off, I added honey and yeast.

Fermentation was rapid and effervescent - I've never seen such a lively wine! - but by late spring fermenation had calmed to the occasional bubble, and in late August it was ready to bottle.

After years of homebrews that taste of slightly questionable sherry, I think we've hit the jackpot. No gag-reflex and no aftertaste of drain-cleaner, melomel is delicious, rounded, palatable and subtle. It's no wonder mead was so popular in the past, and I'm looking forward to making it again this year!

Tomatoes and sundries

I've always felt that tomatoes are in the blood. A century ago, my great-grandad Jarvis returned from the trenches of the First World War to grow tomatoes on his native Isle of Guernsey. During the Second World War, his family (including my Nan) were evacuated to Stockport - but there was no room on the evacuation boats for young men. He survived the Nazi occupation by growing greenhouse tomatoes and fiddling with a crystal radio. 

I've always loved the bittersweet aroma released when you nip out sideshoots or touch the stem. It's unique to the tomato plant, and it gives me a moment of nostalgia for the summer before, the first time I smell it each spring. 

As a culinary antidote to last year's gutsy beef tomatoes, this year I decided to grow 'San Marzano', an Italian plum variety, marketed for its sweetness and flavour. Not only would they be delicious to cook with - they would also have curves.

But every season gives you gluts of one kind or another, and soon you find yourself with more tomatoes than a person should reasonably know what to do with. This heralds the vegetable gardener's perennial problem: storage. The main option, apart from freezing, is to preserve the glut in an environment hostile to bacterial growth - so sugar, vinegar, salt or alcohol.

However, there are two more options which have great potential: drying (dehydrating) or preserving in oil are easy alternatives, and really versatile when you come to return your veg to the pot.

So I decided to combine the two and make sundried tomatoes in olive oil. I used the recipe for 'Slow-dried tomatoes in oil' from Pam Corbin's excellent Preserves title in the River Cottage Handbook series as guidance - but it's really not rocket science and is a variation of techniques used as long ago as the Aztecs. 

You slice the tomatoes in half and season with salt and caster sugar (and if you're me, pepper and herbs), and stand them face-up on a rack over a baking sheet for 20 minutes.

Turn them over so that they're facing innards-side down on the rack, still over the baking sheet.

Then place then into a preheated oven at 100°C for around 7 hours, or until the tomatoes have lost most of the body weight (but before they become crispy). This is the dehydration part of preservation.

Allow them to cool completely, then place then in a shallow bowl with white wine vinegar for 20 minutes, before spooning the tomatoes and a couple of tablespoons of the vinegar into a sterilised jar. Top up to 5 mm below the rim with extra virgin olive oil, then seal the jar.

Mr. Jarvis may well have been my tomato-growing great-grandfather, but Bob, as they say, is your uncle!

The competitive edge

Last weekend, one of the biggest events in the local horticultural calendar took place. It's not cool, and it doesn't have bells on. But it's still great in its own right, and it has a special place in my heart: the local Village Show. 

If you're struggling to imagine what this entails, just picture a bowling club function room, the perimeter delineated with makeshift tables, and a further row of tressles filling the centre of the room. At 8am, the tables are empty; by 10:30am, they are gradually filling with all sorts of flowers, vegetables, fruit and handicrafts, carefully sorted by category. 

An elderly gentleman is shuffling photos (class C: handicrafts) to make his snaps more prominent. Children run, carrying pristine miniature gardens and vegetable animals (all the children's own work, the parents vouch). The dahlia man has been lurking outside to keep his blooms fresh, and enters at the last minute, passing ruddy faces that are scrutinising marrows of impossible proportions.

At 11:30am, the room is vacated, and only the judges remain. Assessing each entry to (slightly wobbly) judging criteria, they determine the success of your produce, and place beside three entries from each category a red card (for first place), a yellow card (for second), or a blue (for third). Lucky entrants from each class may be given green cards for best in show or special commendation - and all come with generous cash prizes.

It's superbly parochial - it's middle-England at its best. Even taking the children's entries into account, the average age must be over 60. There are gaggles of scones-eaters and tea-drinkers and islands of slightly awkard old men.

But I'm a sucker for it. I've entered something every year since I was a tot and progressed from the children's categories to the sections for 'real' flowers and veg. I'm a veteran, and I'm not ashamed to say it. So what is it that keeps me coming back year after year?

Prize carrots, age 8

Nice roots, age 17

There's certainly an element of pride involved. That's not to say it's about showing off, but there's a strange satisfaction in seeing your produce displayed alongside others' and in having the fruits of your labour appreciated - even if they are comically bad.

Not much improvement, age ??

For me, another aspect is inspiration. The Village Show is a necessary annual top-up of enthusiasm for me as an amateur horticulturist and lover of crafts. The seasoned pros bring carrots longer than you could ever imagine, perfect victoria sandwiches, and impeccable specimens of gladiolus. And a vain, competitive, almost primal part of you thinks: maybe I could grow carrots that long, make a victoria sponge that perfect, foster gladioli so impeccable. 

But the competitive aspect of the Show doesn't just give amateurs aspirations. It gives the gardener and amateur craftsperson, who, for 364 days a year sees visible zeds across the faces of others when they mention the wellbeing of their onions, the feeling that they are not gardening or crafting in a vacuum. Fundamentally, it creates a sense of community, of shared journeys and common battles. It's by discussing these - the what and the why and the how of pests and disease and exploding ovens - that you learn. 

And you know what? Next year, that learning may just give you the competitve edge!

Riding the wave

In our climate, gardening can be an emotional cycle of peaks and troughs. In midsummer, the fresh air and vitamin D can leave you feeling footloose and fancy-free, but at other times, you shut the door, feeling that what you can't see can't hurt you.

It has something to do with the changing seasons. They determine the rate of growth on the one hand, and the demands on our time on the other. Typically, the season when we have most spare time is usually the season when we don't want to be outside for any length of time. 

(It would be interesting to know whether gardeners in tropical regions without seasons experience the same cycle. Are they just constantly chipper, or do they burn out, too?)

The emotional cycle I've often succumbed to sounds a little like this:

March

Eager anticipation. The buds on trees and shrubs are starting to swell. By the end of the month they may have burst into leaf, and it should be mild enough for you to sow annuals.

April

Spring is in the air. Early flowerers are in bloom. Weeds haven't got out of bed yet, and you're excited: it's the season for germination and new growth.

May

Proficiency. It's a month of rapid growth, but your plants are still small enough to handle - and so are the weeds.

June

Pride. June is the month of first fruitfulness. The sun is high and the garden is in its prime. This is real summer.

July

June lulled you into a false sense of security and you've rested on your laurels. Your free time is now split ten ways, and you're going on holiday at the end of the month. But the garden continues to grow apace...

August

Burn out. You're overwhelmed by unruly, leggy plants and insurgent bouts of rusts and aphids that you missed in July. The garden is looking tired and parched of colour. You are determined to win the battle - but it's hard: isn't August supposed to be a month of hot, sunny weather? It's just been a bit iffy.

September

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. The weed, pest and disease crackdown has mostly paid off: the majority of plants have been saved from a rusty/aphidy fate, and you can rejoice in the (often tasty) fruits of your labour.

October

The (surprise?) success of September's harvest takes you into October with enthusiasm and good intentions. Yes, pruning! Yes, autumn maintenance! You can do it!

November

Death months. There are more fallen leaves than you can shake a twig at, and the average rainfall feels like it rivals India in the Monsoon. You physically can't go outside because the wind is holding the door shut.

December

Ah, crisp and frosty morns, brisk walks in the country. But it's too cold to garden. Just don't look - what you can't see won't hurt you.

January

Disconnection and guilt. It's too late. If it can't survive -15°C and 8 inches of snow, maybe it was never good enough for you anyway.

February

It's a tempestuous month, but as supermarkets rebrand for spring and seed catalogues land on your mat, you feel anticipation and excitement - but it's still only warm enough for Parsnips...

... and so the cycle continues. 

However, it's not all bad news. If you suffer the same peaks and troughs as me, here are a few things you can do to keep your garden on a high.

1. Don't bite off more than you can chew

Be realistic with yourself about what you can manage in terms of your time and space available. If you have limited time and space, go for slow-growing perennials which require minimal regular maintenance, or evergreens which won't shed (as many) leaves in the autumn. The same goes for annuals: plan where you're going to grow the plants on before you even sow them. This should tell you how many you need. If you can't bear to thin and discard seedlings, give them to friends to grow on. A problem shared is a problem halved, as they say!

2. Be a (horticultural) mind-reader

Anticipate problems before they occur. Doctors always tell you that prevention is better than cure, but prevention can feel like a hollow victory: it's about something not happening. You put nets over your brassicas and Cabbage Whites don't lay eggs on your prized specimen. You pull up a weed before it sets seed and a new generation of Cardamine hirsute doesn't grow. But a preventative approach in spring should mean you don't have to adopt a scorched earth policy come August.

3. Look at your plants

As self-help guides everywhere tell you, acknowledging that you have a problem is the first step towards solving it. Similarly in gardening, identifying a problem (it could be a pest, diesase, or disorder) is the first hurdle. But often a problem only comes to our attention when it's too late - when slugs have nibbled through the plant's vital arteries or blight has infested our whole crop. So it's worth taking the time to just look at your plants, check them for signs of something amiss, and nip P&Ds in the bud.

4. Keep growing

Our perception of gardening is totally skewed towards spring planting and sowing, and I suspect it's this seasonality that contributes to summer burnout and autumn/winter disconnection from the garden. However, many hardier crops such as New Zealand spinach or year-round varieties of cauliflower can be sown in late summer for overwintering. Autumn is the prime time for planting fruit trees (though the supermarkets would say differently) and bulbs - so spread your gardening enthusiasm throughout the year to keep things ticking over.

5. Ride the wave

Having said all of this, I'm going to give a potentially contradictory piece of advice: ride the wave. You can adapt your style of gardening to take the pressure away during those times when you're just too busy, but the main thing is to never let gardening become a chore. Only do things when you have time and enthusiasm, not when you feel you have to, and you'll enjoy it all the more.

If nature is beautiful...

... and beauty is art ...

... why not frame it?!

Stars of August

August is a month of music festivals and bank holidays; a month of high hopes for long and balmy summer evenings sitting out on the patio with long drinks. It's a month when you want the garden to look at its best - it's on show! - but it can be difficult month in terms of generating summer interest.

After all, by this month all the spring-flowering perennials will be looking a little tired. Digitalis purpurea (Foxgloves) and Lupinus perennis (Lupins) will have flowered and be reduced to a spike of seed-setting greenery. Hanging baskets need constant attention to avoid them turning into plantless bird nests. And the spring flowers of shrubs like Choisya ternata (Mexican orange blossom) and trees such as Magnolia grandiflora are forgotten in a mass of verdant summer growth.

However, beds of droopy spring-flowerers and monochromatic shrubs can be avoided by careful selection of eye-catchers that give continued interest right into midsummer. Here are six of my particular favourites.

Cynara cardunculus (Cardoon)

The Cardoon is neither humble nor modest. From huge pale green leaves emerge fibrous stems which in August support bizarre, almost sci-fi, flowering heads. What's more, a relative of the Globe Artichoke, the Cardoon is technically a perennial vegetable: if blanched, the stems can be eaten; they are savoured in the form of a Christmas soup in Italy.

(c) Howard Bristol

Lathyrus odoratus 'Anne Gregg' (Sweet Pea)

Sweet Peas may now have been bred to come in all tones and colours, but what the new cultivars have in showiness they often lack in scent. Nothing can really compare with the delicious heady fragrance of traditional Sweet Peas such as 'Anne Gregg' - it's an aroma you just want to bottle, and it explains how the flower came by its name.

(c) Howard Bristol

Echinops sphaerocephalus (Globe Thistle)

Similar to the Cardoon, the Globe Thistle is a fantastic statement plant that really comes into its own in August. Atop its 1.5-2 m stems are purple globe-shaped flower heads. Bees seem to absolutely love them, and the thistles have an ethereal halo when you look at them against the light. And once the stems have dried out in winter, I like to remove the leaves and use them as rustic-looking canes to create a cottage garden feel.

(c) Howard Bristol

Agastache foeniculum (Anise Hyssop)

While the leaves of Anise Hyssop can be used as a herb for their delicate aniseed-fennel flavour, it's in August that this perennial herb truly shines: with Lavander-like flowers atop 50-cm stems, Anise Hyssop becomes a magnet for bees and other pollinators - as well as a point of interest in your summer border or herb garden. 

(c) Howard Bristol

Papaver somniferum (Poppy)

The petals of the Field Poppy may be short-lived, but the bulbous seed head (or 'censer') gives the plant enduring beauty after it has flowered. A raggy-petalled mutant grows pretty rampantly in my garden. I like the interest it adds when spotted among other herbs, and it never becomes too much of a problem as it can't stand having its roots disturbed. 

(c) Howard Bristol

Crocosmia paniculata (Montbretia)

For most of the year, Montbretia forms long, bandy leaves that look how grass may look to an ant. But August is the month for Montbretia - it expresses itself with orange or red trumpets held on spikes. It's a great ground cover plant, and both the leaves and flowers give a plentiful supply of midsummer colour and body for cut flowers, too.

(c) Howard Bristol