Dahlias can bugger off.
And tulips, for that matter.
After spending way too much time trying to copy garden influencers and create a “container garden”, I have decided – for my purposes at least, that this is a waste of sodding time.
I spent too much on bulbs last autumn, getting all excited about them and uncharacteristically buying some at full price, then realising (on account of the inevitable planting window) when the sales are and then buying even more. I filled tub after tub with compost – mostly lugged from the heap at the bottom of hill, and then arranged numerous varieties of spring bulbs in layers to try to create magic in the spring. Yes, I succumbed to making a bulb lasagne! It was an effort – and I felt accomplished when the little nuggets were tucked snugly under the fresh soil, and it was exciting when they started to sprout a few months later, but it involved a disproportionate amount of effort, and was also a bit like watching paint dry.
And whilst the bulbs grew and threw up pretty flowers, or quite a lot of them at least, the overall effect was not one I want to repeat. Horrid black plastic tubs sitting on my ancient and scraggy patio just didn’t look good. And tulips simply do not last very long, with their one-flower-and-done nonsense.
No. I prefer something a little more long lasting. Lower maintenance. Good value for money. Or preferably, free.
And so, this autumn I am looking hard at my flowerbeds, seeking out ways to minimise gardening effort. I have dug up the silly bulbs from the ugly pots with the help of the chickens, and dried them out. I’m poking them into spaces in my flowerbeds, where hopefully they can stay, grow, spread and require very little input from me going forward. That’s my kind of gardening.
And in order to avoid buying plants, I’m collecting seedlings, moving things and taking cuttings. I’m trimming off dead bits and noticing what has coped and what hasn’t. The cooler, yet still warm temperatures have given everything that survived a second wind. My salvias are lovely, the asters have been delightful and even the bloody dahlias have started to do something, which is ABOUT F$CKING TIME.
Dahlias are nice. They came to my attention when Big Seymour found himself in a garden centre and, inspired by a pretty photo on a packet, purchased two gnarly, plastic-encased tubers. They were planted and largely ignored, rewarding us with abundant hordes of yellow flowers all through last year’s summer. Inspired, I sought out more tubers for this year and nurtured them according to online advice, through the winter and spring. Well, this was like pulling teeth, and then when something started to happen, slugs became an issue. Then the drought slowed down all dahlia productivity and only now, in October, am I seeing any evidence of my toil.
I shall not be repeating this endeavour.
The upshot of all of this is that I really need to be clever in the way I do my garden. Why waste time with putting bulbs in tubs only to have to move them the following year because they looked sh!t? And the whole “lift or don’t lift” tuber debate is one I shan’t be debating any more. No, dear reader, you will not find me b@ggering about lifting tubers. I shall be leaving them to their own devices. And I don’t do bedding plants – madness! When you change what’s in the ground according to fashion and hoick it out when it goes a bit leggy. No! Longevity is what I am after.
And anything I actually buy from now on needs to have at least half a chance of surviving for longer than one season. Bulbs can do that, especially if you let them naturalise. But in pots? With one week of bloom if you’re lucky? What on Earth was I thinking?
There have been some unexpected wins in the garden this year, and the biggest win of all was the one that took the least effort. Big Seymour finally got round to moving the bonfire pyre, and earlier in the year there lay a patch of bare earth where the ashen heap had stood for about three years. A HA! I thought. Having had next to no success with my seed sowing this year, I shall dispose of the remainder of my seed collection on that lovely patch of freshly turned soil, and so Mini Seymour and I took down the half full packets of what we had left and scattered them with gay abandon.
Well, wow! In the absence of any care and having been totally neglected in the heat, I have seen wonders before my eyes on that four metres squared of slopy, wild space. Sunflowers of all varieties, splendid cosmos, cornflowers in three colours, candytuft, larkspur, lobelia, leucanthemum and zinnia have all flourished down there, on their own. Without me. AND THEY ARE STILL GOING!
Now, as October looms, I’m noticing the things that have worked. Verbena is a godsend, Canterbury bells have been glorious since spring, and even though some people hate it, I love the fact that good old mint is happy in my garden. The mallow has survived, the lycesteria is excelling and the hollyhocks are coming on. Even my little white buddleia is about to flower again – ooh I do love a budleia. It’s my kind of plant – thrives on neglect, followed by a hacking. Oddly, the roses have been poor this year, and they’re supposed to like the heat. And the hydrangeas have given me headaches…
I shall not be deterred though! For gardening, like life, is often experimental. This year’s experiment will involve creating a permanent dahlia bed in which to chuck those gnarly old scrotes when I dig them up for the last time from where they have been so disappointing this year, and in their place I shall throw more of what I know will work (mainly verbena – you can’t have too much) and whatever else I might be able to find on the last-ditch sale table at the garden centre.
Alas no, I won’t be able to avoid buying plants completely. I almost see it as my duty – a rescue mission, if you will. I take after my mother in that respect, who would always return from the pound shop with a very sad-looking “rose” in a bag, only to discover it was something completely different. And possibly even notifiable.
I have also considered following in the steps of my Nanna , who, old as she was, would always find the stealth required to swipe a cutting from a bush or shrub she coveted, whether she was in a botanical garden or by the side of a busy road. I will never forget witnessing such horticultural bravado (I will not call it theft) and being in awe. And if your fingers are green, who can begrudge you a small sprig of something pretty..?
Nanna always was a genius with a geranium.
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