Valentia Island and the Ring of Kerry.

                In the last post I expressed my joy in coming home. Well, after three months away researching in Virginia my fiancée Michelle has come home herself. The reunion was sweet, and after some time spent in Chester I followed her over the sea to Northern Ireland where her folks live.
                 Understandably things have been rather blissful; it's been lovely seeing all of her family and the horses, enjoying coffees out and happy evenings under the same roof. When Michelle let slip that she'd secretly booked us a trip away to Kells Bay House & Garden in County Kerry, it came as an unexpected cherry on top of a cake already tasty enough! Not that I could turn it down, of course - so off we set, to the sparkling south-western facet of the Emerald Isle.

                County Kerry is considered so beautiful the road circumnavigating most of it has been given the magical title the 'Ring of Kerry'. It certainly lived up to its name! We couldn't visit every treasure there and for the ones we did I couldn't capture their entirety with my camera - though Michelle knows I certainly tried! Before I write about the wonders of Kells Bay Garden, I thought I'd upload photographs from our exploration of Valentia Island and Killarney National Park, as these were created by the hands of God rather than horticulturists!

                The west of Valentia Island looks out into the Atlantic Ocean. Two tiny isles loom out of the misty horizon separating sky from ocean: Little Skellig and Skellig Michael (Sceilig Mhichíl).

Skellig Michael is famous for two separate habitations: a monastery of stone huts built by St Finnian, populated by unimaginably courageous men from the sixth to twelfth century, and jedi knight Luke Skywalker.

The view from Valentia Island: from left to right, Puffin Island, Little Skellig, and Skellig Michael.

The height of the cliffs, the white of the waves, and the strength of the winds are epic, and you truly are witnessing majesty. To attempt sailing out into it all, let alone to live on Skellig Michael, is hard to comprehend and rightly inspires the awe of the modern visitor.

               

                The next day, we ventured further inland along the Ring of Kerry, passing into Killarney National Park to see Torc Waterfall. It meant leaving behind the bleak coastal terrain and entering deep, deep woods of golden beech.

These trees tower above the road, their high boughs covered with thick green moss and ferns.
The continuous drop of their leaves fills one's vision, but one's hearing is met by the sound of human chatter - the falls and the continuing river attract a steady stream of visitors. Although the voices are an array of different dialects, the language barrier does not prevent offers to take photographs of other parties and consequent expressions of thanks.

With the falls (and our senses) so busy and completely enclosed by forest, it couldn't have been a more different experience to Valentia Island - touching an entirely separate part of the soul. Indeed, having returned to the north we've been asked if we had seen the 'Ladies View', another part of Kerry which is completely different to the islands or the wooded waterfall. I truly believe that one could journey along the Ring every year, and still find fresh landscapes waiting to be discovered and explored.

Ness Botanic Gardens.

                With my apprenticeship in Essex at an end, the chance to spend time with the family up in Chester is a welcome one. It's also an opportunity to see some of the gardens to be found here in the north west.

                One of the best known is Ness Botanic Gardens, which lies on the Wirral peninsular between the estuaries of the Mersey and Dee rivers. Other than that - its location - I wasn't sure what to expect. I had visited a couple of years ago, very briefly and at a rather solemn time of year, and as my Grampy would say, "there wasn't much to write home about!" However, the sun was out and three of us (Mum & her friend Sue, both possessing far more horticultural knowledge than I do) set out to see what there was to be seen.

               It didn't take long for me to start questioning whether my last visit had been to a different garden, as the place we entered into this time was filled with colour, interest, and - if I can use a term rarely used in horticultural discussion - genuine coolness.

                Although the longevity of the summer plants at Powis Castle impressed by absolutely denying autumn's arrival, at Ness it was possible to see an intelligent and balanced response to the oncoming season.
                  On the one hand, some of the gardens (much like the RHS gardens, Ness contains an array of themes) remain untempered by seasons due to their style and plant choice. In the rock garden, creeping tufts of shrubs, herbs and grasses sit between crags of (mainly) local sandstone to create a pleasingly naturalistic form.

In the water gardens, the impact of bamboo is immediate - the visitor wants to look at them and through them to the water's surface. Apart from their obvious structural benefit en masse, their stripes add such pizzazz without breaking the green theme. I must jot the species name down next time.

                On the other hand, large parts of the garden have been set to utterly embrace autumn. Of course it is no secret to any gardener that deciduous foliage can transform into attractive colours, but the combinations and concoctions at Ness produce deep, rich tapestries. It truly left me wondering whether those who had chosen the plants could have cared about the other seasons as much, or if such perfect choices for autumn meant horrible clashes in springtime! However, the very fact that the area photographed below is named 'The Azalea Walk' suggests no such sacrifice has been made.

This dawn redwood (Metasequoia glyptostroboides), stood in a less bamboo-ey corner of the water gardens, may still be bright green but will look extraordinary once its foliage turns to a fiery orange.

Moreover, as with any garden that contains the katsura tree (Cercidiphyllum japonicum), attention has clearly been given to autumnal scents as well as to sights.

It may not relate to my enjoyment of the garden's autumnal treats, but I must mention one other aspect of Ness: labelling. One only has to look at the titles of the katsura and dawn redwood trees mentioned above in italics to suspect that I did not venture into horticulture out of love for botanical latin names. They are hard to spell, and harder still to pronounce. However, it is far more of a headache to walk away from a beautiful plant without knowing its name whatsoever, rendering the chances of finding another for one's own garden an impossibility. With this in mind, I must offer the gardeners at Ness my highest praise, for the most thorough labelling effort in any garden I have come upon. Not only is it something tremendously helpful in practical terms (and I do strive to do the same in whichever garden I come to work in), but it also generates a friendliness about the place. It is very much appreciated, and one of many reasons why I am glad to be home.

Powis Castle.

          I'm still very much a boy at heart, and I don't think I'm alone in saying that a good castle sets my pulse racing. What constitutes a "good" castle? Well, a good castle and castle garden should have fresh excitement awaiting on every level, from bottom to top.
Constructed in an ancient Welsh kingdom and embellished with every passing century, Powis Castle is a very good castle indeed - and its garden of many tiers revealed countless reasons for excitement on a grey September afternoon.

          Unless you are a medieval warrior assaulting the ramparts, a visit to the castle garden starts at the top.
Walking beneath wisteria-festooned gateways and between wandering peacocks (no less), you come into a central courtyard with a long stone balustrade along its eastern side. Its height has been cannily calculated - short in appearance, but just managing to screen the view beyond, compelling you to walk across and lean over it like a ship's rail.
It works beautifully - not only does the Severn Valley lie before you, but so too does a second teaser, as glimpses of the gardens below can be seen behind yew trees and hedge-lines.

                Once you have descended past the courtyard, these yews are as much a part of the castle's structure, majesty and eccentricity as the stonework - some sitting like giant bearskin hats, and others forming entire walls. One hedge is a truly colossal fourteen metres in height, and some yews date back to the 1680s which makes them older than some countries. Initially abstract in shape, the hedges straighten further down the garden (some are yew, others are crisp box hedges), and the va va voom factor moves from the hedges into what the hedges are containing: herbaceous borders.

                I'm not familiar with the climate of the Severn Valley, but clearly some magic occurs here. With the summer seemingly behind us, the gardeners here had clearly kept it a secret from the dahlias, pelargoniums, rudbeckias and ricinus plants which all stood as tall and bright as though it were a sunny day in late June - looking all the prouder for not caring that it wasn't. Whatever the trick is, it has seemingly been steadily honed over a great length of time: old photographs placed at particularly scenic points in the garden show moustached gardeners stood before the very same flowerbeds, virtually identical in appearance.
                As the garden finally descends to its lowest point the pathways are replaced by wide lawns, and the plants of these borders tumble across them - traditional, romantic choices such as hollyhocks and Japanese anemones in pinks and pale yellows. To reach these pretty squares, however, one must pass through one of the most enjoyable parts of the garden. The moustached gardeners clearly had flair for fruit-growing, creating two avenues of apple and pear trees. Their rounded forms would be charming enough, with every lichen-encrusted branch curling at its tip and revealing decades of loving pruning. However each tree is also underplanted with circles of herbs which adds further interest, splashes of colour right along the path and something marvellous which I have never seen before.

                A gentle fountain marks the end of the formal horticulture, but not the end of the garden. Ascending from the lawns into wilder banks of mature trees and shrubs, and the season's first sprays of cyclamen flowers, the pathway finishes upon a large pond. Walking along this winding stretch, the view of the castle and its many terraces (another visitor has titled it Wales' very own Hanging Gardens) naturally draws the eyes back westwards. It is, then, all too easy to pass by the quiet corner on the other side of the path which holds my favourite part of the garden: the plunge pool.

                A small sign adjacent to the pool explains that eighteenth century thinking upheld bathing as beneficial to one's health, and a bath placed out in the fresh air with beautiful views as beneficial to one's soul. Stood in the shade of the rhododendrons and charmed by the old stonework covered in moss and hart's tongue ferns, I felt it unnecessary of the sign's writer to limit the description of an obvious truth to a mere philosophy (and an apparently dated one at that)!
                Baths are one of my deepest pleasures, and the regularity with which I can be found in one has caused plentiful amusement amongst my friends. They shall certainly be my secret weapon against back and knee weariness as I continue gardening. I cannot enthuse strongly enough how much I desire to replicate this beautiful pool in my own garden one day. It marks the last in a fabulous array of wonders found at Powis Castle, a bastion of colour and vitality against the grey September skies. It does, quite naturally, raise the question as to what else can be found here in spring and summer!
I very much intend to return and to find the answer.

Albizia julibrissin.

As I walked out of Hyde Hall, I noticed a tree in the Dry Garden which for most of the year has truly appeared lifeless. Not only have its bare branches come into full leaf, but otherworldly flowers now cover it too.
       The leaves really are fantastic - ferny frondy things in lush green, although I gather a 'Summer Chocolate' cultivar has elegant bronze-coloured foliage. The flowers, wispy little pink fluffballs, give the impression that the tree - an albizia - is happily celebrating its apparent return to life.


Albizia julibrissin, "Silk Tree".
(Deciduous tree.)


Planting: Sow seeds in early autumn after collecting them from pods, soaking them in hot water and then leaving them to cool for a day.
Flowering: Late summer.
Aspect: South-facing and sheltered.
Hardiness: Not hardy to freezing point.


Notes:The albizia tree possesses an unusual habit of closing its leaves in rain and overnight. In Persian, it is thus called "night sleeper" (شب‌خسب or shabkhosb), and in Japanese it is known as nemunoki - "the sleeping tree".

A few final glances at Hyde Hall.

As he sets out upon adventure in The Lord of the Rings, Frodo Baggins draws mockery from his dear friends for endlessly looking over his shoulder, sighing and "muttering: 'Shall I ever look down into that valley again, I wonder,' and things like that." As I begin packing, it has occurred to me that there are certain views and delights of Hyde Hall that I have enjoyed a hundred times and shown my family & friends but never described on the blog. A little brief and a little late, but I thought I might make amends for that now.

Andy T's Aussie Border (or less informally, the Australia & New Zealand Garden created by Andy Tebbutt).
Anemanthele grass, white libertia, glorious eucalyptus trees - and best of all, tall blue-flowered Solanum laciniatum which appeared as weeds but being Australian were hastily added to the party's guestlist.

Amaryllis belladonna (left) and an Albizia tree (above) flower in the Dry Garden,
which naturally comes into its own during the burning heat of late summer.

Farewell to Hyde Hall.

                The first time I considered a career in gardening still seems so fresh in my memory, thus I can scarcely believe what I write next. I have finished my apprenticeship, and my time at Hyde Hall is at an end. For two years it has been my centre point, about which so much of my education, my thoughts and conversations have been - and no small measure of hard work. I have become familiar with its gardens and its toolsheds and its routines, and I have grown to care deeply for some of the people there. I'll miss it, and when I imagine new apprentices who'll work on and witness further chapters of Hyde Hall a flicker of envy shall pass across my face. Indeed, I cannot pretend I didn't try to stay a little longer. No one before me has made the leap from apprentice to horticulturist, yet I cannot fault my ambition - and the faces of those who have not appreciated me will serve as a reminder that there are aspects to Hyde Hall I shall not regret leaving behind.

                Endings are a time of sadness, but also a time of celebration. If I cannot believe I am leaving Hyde Hall, then words utterly fail to express my astonishment at the news I have passed my RHS Level II Theory exams with commendation. The staggering breadth of knowledge that I needed to retain truly dwarfed anything I battled at degree level, something which many students far more brilliant than myself agreed unanimously. I had to check with at least two sources before I believed the good news, and claim with utmost sincerity that this was a miracle of God.
As for the successful completion of the apprenticeship beyond the classroom - the two years of blood, sweat, and raindrops in the garden - I am rather proud of an engraved trowel from the RHS stating I've made it through. It's not quite a sword to put over the mantelpiece, but a lovely touch.


Somewhere a door is opening. I must lift my head and turn my eyes toward a new horizon. I wonder what it shall bring.

Trees in London.

I'm always thrilled to pass through London - I love the buildings, the parks and the museums, even the underground. Not every day of my life has been a Richard Curtis film but I certainly do experience that feel-good sensation walking through the capital. However, it encourages one of my worst habits: 'people watching'. A perfectly innocent pastime, and an understandable one given the fabulous array of cultures and jobs and individual faces you see there. However, when someone does notice me pondering their business or admiring their hat before I can look away, it does occur to me that my intentions need only be misinterpreted once for a black eye or a police caution. This week I thus resolved to channel my gaze toward another marvel of London.

The city's history of encouraging tree planting and park creation has made for a very leafy present day. In the last minute or so I've learnt that the oldest plane trees here date back to 1789, and I'm very tempted to spend my Saturday looking more deeply into all of this! Indeed there are actually walks designed to take a visitor past some of London's most glorious giants. However, I just thought I would take a few photos of some of the loveliest trees lining my way as I walked from the business district to Euston railway station.

Dunham Massey.

          In the Hackett family, you have your mug. My Dad has his mug, my Mum has her mug, my sisters have mugs and they don't even drink tea. We probably have hundreds of mugs and many of them are ceramic works of art but nonetheless I use one mug and it is my mug. Family friends Deri & Peter Fabian gave me mine, a little thumbs up before I left Chester. It's emblazoned with 'Head Gardener' - and I hope to keep it until I am indeed the real deal.

           Always an incredibly fit and intelligent man, Peter was hit hard by a stroke recently. He has a strong spirit and Deri is a rock of support, but of course my confidence in his recovery hasn't stopped him being in my prayers. He had mentioned to me that many moons ago he'd worked at a National Trust place called Dunham Massey - it's a funny old name and so it had stayed in the back of my head. This year, the family & I made the time to visit it.

The name Dunham Massey... it certainly sounds very 'National Trust', rather northern - the sort of place to which you'd take an anorak, and which might have an historic mill. No! How poor my imagination. Dunham Massey is a Georgian hall of romantic and heroic history, and has - I'm delighted to say - fabulous gardens. There is a small mill.

          If there were ever a way to set the tone of a fairytale garden, outer parkland filled with friendly fallow deer fresh from the forests of Disney does it very nicely. Having made our way through the parkland -- via the ice cream parlour - we entered through some old iron gates.
           The gardens offer a generous balance of trees (sometimes specimen trees, but often thickening into woodland), grand shrubs and informal drifts of herbaceous perennials, opening into glades or channels of water. Comparisons could be made to the wild garden at Wisley or the Beth Chatto Gardens, but this feels further along in years. The trees are more mature, creating a sense of a taller and atmospheric garden. Moreover, being a garden from centuries past there are inevitably a few extra curiosities lying in wait for the visitor walking through it. These include moss lawns and a grove of white birches, and to my astonishment a glade of Cardiocrinum giganteum - giant Himalayan lilies. Taking seven years to grow before a sudden eight-foot eruption of white trumpets, they die as soon as they have flowered and set seed. Mastering their cycle to create a display of many flowers in one year is a real feat of horticulture, and a spectacle I shall not forget. Thankfully I had a camera to hand!

          The most exciting feature of all, however, was a walled rose garden. White roses, pink roses, red roses, yellow roses, roses lining the paths, roses climbing the walls, rose tunnels, rose pergolas, roses with alliums, roses with lavender, roses with roses. The array of flowers and fragrances, the hum of bees - good golly Miss Molly. It has that magical sweet shop feel about it, and one half expects Willy Wonka to come skipping through the middle. The high old brick walls enclosing the rose garden from the rest of the world enhance the impact it has in many ways, and yet because there are these formal brick walls, and you are surrounded by roses rather than say chocolates, it retains an elegance despite this overwhelming excitement. Because of this, you walk through the garden rather than skipping, and thus you have the chance to savour every scent and every angle. And how many there are to enjoy!

          Sadly having to leave the rose garden eventually, and walk back past the Cardiocrinum glade, and then beneath the trees and past the deer herds, my family & I all knew we had just been to somewhere very special indeed. What a fantastic place Peter has worked at. We shall have to return soon - we are certainly not done visiting Dunham Massey.

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RHS Hampton Court Palace Flower Show.

          From the moment I was taught that a person could encourage birds & wild animals by planting a tree or making a pond, I knew that at some point in later life I would seek to create a garden of my own. However, I could never have imagined I would ever play any part in the production of an elite show garden, in the glamorous multi-million world of flower shows. Celebrity guests, cream fedoras and cocktails - even as I've started viewing horticulture as a profession as well as a passion, show gardens have seemed as distant from "real life" as the streets of Hollywood or Bond novels. A bit of fun, far far away.

To my own disbelief, then, I can proudly declare that this summer I was invited to take part in the construction of the Witan Investment Trust Global Growth Garden - not a name which rolls of the tongue, but with a lot of promise as one of the larger show gardens on site. Three of us set off toward Hampton Court Palace to join (first-time) designer Jane Bailey and her landscaping crew for the day: senior horticulturist Matt Oliver (he would return for many of the subsequent days), student Josie Rose, and myself. 

Being there during the construction stage was a curious experience, rather like stepping through a looking glass. The noise and busyness of these weeks perfectly equal the show week, yet instead of the hum of a thousand polite conversations in visitors' polished voices, the decibels are made by the raucous yells of landscaping boys, their radios and the reversing beeps of their lorries. In the catering tents, waitresses have to contend with the wolf-whistles of builders and the demands of designers for organic produce - all stood together in the same queue. Obviously the strangest sight of all was of incomplete show-gardens, not yet the immaculate finished articles shown on the nation's televisions. Seeing an actor without their mask or makeup, or a well-loved author's meandering first drafts, must produce a similar sensation. It was very interesting, very surreal, and shattered a few illusions perhaps - not least that these gardens do not pop out of the ground with some fairy dust and the Ground Force brass band. Yet if this was a chance to step behind the scenes of the circus, I'm delighted to say that the beasts were treated well by the ringmaster - Jane was calm and very friendly, and took the time to explain to us over coffee how she was finding it all from her perspective as a new designer (enjoyable but exhausting hours for many weeks away from home). Normally I'd like to write something on what I liked about the design, which was essentially a beautiful concoction of entirely edible plants, but frankly the focus of the day was to get my head down and get stuck in. Anyway, I'm delighted to say it was awarded a silver gilt medal.

For me, it would be ridiculous to give too much of an opinion on whether or not I'd ever go in for show gardens as part of a future career, having worked just one day. However, I know that I fell in love with horticulture for the long-term good it does, for a beauty which may change seasonally but is never lost, and for homeliness. "Even from the heights of splendour, we bounce back and hurry for the latitudes of home", wrote Annie Dillard. Show gardens may be something I'll steer clear of generally, but I know what a privilege it has been to come along for a day and have even a small part in something so special. I'll never look at them quite the same way again.

The first published piece!

          In the same way that every family & home sees good times and bad times, so too does every garden. In recent years many gardens have had to prune back staff numbers to balance their books, and thus the initiative of the RHS to create opportunities with apprenticeships and studentships is to be really celebrated. I’ve been invited to speak on several occasions about my apprenticeship, at school outreach events and fundraising evenings. I wondered whether the RHS would also like me to express my view and appreciation of the apprenticeship in their monthly publication ‘The Garden’. Of course, being one of the top twenty-five biggest magazines in the country, to have anything of mine in its pages would be incredibly exciting - but equally I assumed something of its stature would not be interested or could use someone better for the job. What a lovely surprise it was, then, to have an email from Michelle Housden of the editorial team informing me that they liked the idea! I think it may have come as a surprise to the team at Hyde Hall too - opening the latest issue over their lunches in the mess room, and seeing one of their own in the comment section!

"Coming to the completion of my apprenticeship at RHS Garden Hyde Hall, I know for certain this has been the brightest beginning anyone could ever wish for.

The intention of the scheme is to gradually immerse apprentices into the horticultural environment until they can stand on their own two feet as real gardeners. The first challenge is adjusting to the rhythm and steady pace of work. The three-hundred-and-sixty acres of Hyde Hall require year-round dedication, and give ample cause for activity from eight every morning until four every afternoon, light or dark and rain or shine. It offers an honest picture of gardening life, not to mention an unrivalled chance to appreciate the true cycle of a year. There are far more than four seasons here, but endless waves of colour and interest which individually peak and fade.

                Naturally, the next challenge is to familiarise oneself with the garden’s fantastic array of plants, and the tasks for their care and maintenance. So much within Hyde Hall’s gardens enthrall, and can spark an apprentice’s education. Spending a day each week at a local college also upholds one’s focus, especially with the occasional exam thrown in. However, as with any apprenticeship much also depends on the character of the experienced professional. Their ability to inspire and to lead is essential. Although each horticulturalist at Hyde Hall has a a different personality and a different part of the gardens to call their own, they all show such patience and take time everyday to explain what is happening in their area. I’ve never had a question ignored or unanswered, and the horticulturalists invariably work twice as hard as the students around them. It means I understand what I need to do each day, and feel a drive to support the garden and the team by working as hard as I can.

                Although the success of the apprenticeship can be measured by exams passed and years completed, leaps in confidence and opportunities to actually teach others have been the real milestones for me. I explained annuals, biennials and perennials to a new college student last week, and my mother now prunes out dead, damaged and diseased stems from her roses following her son’s first ever tutorial. Of course, there are still countless things I’m yet to learn which lie ahead - but what a brilliant, welcoming first step into horticulture the RHS apprenticeship has been."