About johnshortlandwriter

John the Writer: It is as natural for me to write as it is for me to eat or drink (sometimes I forget to do both when the ink is flowing). For years I would write – then shuffle the words until satisfied - then shred it. The act of writing was enough. One day I thought that seemed just a tiny bit silly so saved them on the computer and Life in the English Cotswolds was born. That was in 2009 and to my surprise people like you came along and liked what you saw. Since then, over 180,000 of you have visited, commented and become ‘friends’. Thank you! 2012 saw the very first Chipping Norton Literary Festival take place with which I was closely involved for several years. It was there that I was approached to write my book, Why Can’t my Garden Look Like That?, published a year later by How To Books, an imprint of Constable & Robinson and now part of Little, Brown. Over the years, my blog has expanded to cover many topics ranging from travel to family history and much else. This has brought a new audience with it for which I am both delighted and grateful. John the Gardener: The earliest image of me gardening is one of me as a child of about four using – well that’s too strong a word for it – a rake. Gardening is in my blood for every member of my family have been keen amateur gardeners (I am the only one doing it for a living). Whether it was aunts, grandparents or my father, everywhere I went they were in the garden tending flowers and vegetables or in the greenhouse potting up seedlings. Indoors, around the table, the talk was all about plants. Despite that, I started off my working life (apart from a short stint on a remote Exmoor farm) in the rag trade – selling men’s and women’s fashions. All the time, the great outdoors beckoned so it was off to horticultural college as a mature student before becoming Head Gardener to several large, country estates. That was twenty years ago now and every day I realise that not only did I make a great career move but just how lucky I am. Another sideways step brought me to where I am now – designing gardens, showing others how to garden and looking after gardens. And, of course, writing about it. John the Countryman: I have lived in the country all my life. As a child I spent my time exploring the lanes, woodlands and orchards of the Chilterns, that range of glorious, chalk hills cloaked with beech trees. Each spring they become carpeted with tens of thousands of bluebells. It was here, as a small boy, that I learnt about the wild plants and animals that share our world, a magical place. In more recent times I moved to the Cotswolds – only 50 miles away yet a completely different range of hills both geologically and in character. Here, there are wide open views and skyscapes, dry stone walls and rushing streams and some of the prettiest towns and villages in Britain. I now live in a tiny stone cottage beside the winding river in the photo above, all tucked way in a secret valley. Bliss. Horses and dogs play an important part in my life too. More bliss. John the Explorer: The description is a tad exaggerated but I have had my moments. I guess that spending a night in a hostel for down and outs in the Rocky Mountains (how did I mistake it for a hotel and why didn’t I leave, I often ask myself), being stuck in a blizzard in an Indian reservation at 3 am in the morning in the far north of Canada or getting caught up in an attempted coup in Sudan probably allows me some claim to the title. Recent years have seen my exploring closer to home, in considerably more comfort and a lot less scary. Well, in principle, it is. I spend a lot of time on Exmoor, my spiritual home of over 45 years, and Ireland is another place that I visit frequently. Strangely, things still don’t always seem to go quite to plan …

Heading for the Sky

Posted on August 31, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

The west coast of Ireland is renowned for its beauty for the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean, with nothing to slow them down from the shores of America, have created inlets and pools, islands and crumbling rock face. It is a wild place with mile after empty mile of high cliffs, sandy coves and sheltered bays. Like the shadows that play on the surface of the water, the weather is forever changing as rain and sun alternate produce the contrast of lush green against granite outcrops. All along this coast there are ruins of the old crofts, now long deserted as the population left to find work and comfort elsewhere. Those that remained moved into more modern homes that look as if they have been dropped into the landscape for they sit at all angles, some looking out to sea, some with their backs firmly set to it as if hunkered down waiting for the next battering storm.

One of the most picturesque towns on the coast is Clifden in Connemara whose population swells threefold during the busy summer months to 6000 or so. The region described as Connemara is undefined, being part of County Galway, but is generally accepted to be the remote, westernmost area, where mountain, bog and sea all jostle for space and attention. This remoteness has helped to save the Irish lannguage and Connemara has the highest percentage of Gaelic speakers in Ireland.

We – my partner, myself and some friends – had come to stay high on the cliffs outside Clifden specifically to visit the annual Connemara Pony Show, where the native ponies are put through their paces over three days. I have written of this in my last post (click here) and also mentioned how we came expecting rain and cool temperatures only to be blessed with such hot weather that we actually swam in the sea. The fine weather meant that we were treated to some spectacular sunsets.

There are two roads that lead west out of Clifden, the Beach road and the Sky road. The first only goes a short distance but the Sky Road is an 11km loop that is a popular destination for both tourist and local alike on a clear evening.

As the light begins to fade there is little to prepare you for the spectacle that will come later. A greying of the sky with just the merest hint of colour as if an artist has slashed the palest of pink washes in a quick ‘Z’ shaped stroke.

As the sky darkens further it would appear that the sunsets we have been promised will not materialise. The sea changes in appearance at this point and becomes almost glassy or mirror like. The dark line stretching across the water in the photo below is made by fishing nets stretched across the bay, invisible at any other time of day. Trees, too, standing on the edge of the water cast their reflection in the stillness.

A shaft of light suddenly appears along the horizon, lightening up the landscape once again only to be hidden by a bank of seafog rolling in, determined to spoil our evening display, leaving just a hint of gold cloud rising above it. But, just as quickly it disappears again to reveal the sun disappearing over the horizon beyond the islands.

We stay until the sun disappears completely and drive on imagining that the show is over but nothing has prepared us for this last finale seen as the road rounds a bend. The combination of cloud, light and darkness, of navy blue, black and pink, mirror imaged in the still water is quite breath taking. It seems unreal, as if it should be the backdrop to a Wagnerian opera; we stand on the sand speechless for no words are adequate.

I had to share the sunset with others but waking early the next morning I stepped outside to be greeted by an almost equally spectacular dawn. And what phenomenon created this vertical shaft of colour coming straight up from the sea?

Ireland’s Connemara Ponies

Posted on August 19, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

Rugged and beautiful, Connemara is situated on Ireland’s west coast. It’s a wild place: a rock strewn landscape softened by the lush green of field and bog; of purple heather interwoven with the golden flowers of gorse; of towering scarlet and purple fuchsia hedges; of blue sea and empty, sandy beaches and of vast skies. On a warm, summer’s day there can be no more benign a place yet when the gales and driving rain arrive, you are reminded that there is nothing but open Atlantic until you reach the shores of America. It is here that the Connemara pony, as enigmatic as the land that produced it – gentle but tough – developed.

The origins of the ponies are lost in time. Some believe that they date back to the Vikings, others that the local breed crossbred with shipwrecked Spanish Armada horses. What is known with certainty is that during the 19th century they were crossbred with Hackneys, Thoroughbreds and Arabians until by the early 1900’s the pony bloodlines were being lost. In 1923 the Connemara Pony Breeders Society was set up to preserve the breed, the result being that the Connemara is now thriving with societies, clubs and shows worldwide.

The most important of all of these shows – and rightly so – is the one of its birthplace, the Connemara Pony Festival at Clifden, held each year during August. It is to the Festival that I was lucky enough to be invited last week.

My interest in horses, I have to admit, is somewhat limited. I ride and (even if I say so myself) am quite good at it, despite only learning ten years ago but I do find the prospect of sitting watching horses for three days going around a ring rather daunting. But this is Ireland and the craic is as good as you would expect it to be – here you can wander in and out of the showground, the locals are happy to chat to you about anything and everything and the setting is superb: a small showground in the centre of a pretty, brightly coloured town bounded by a dark brown, peaty watered river and backed by mountains. And of course, there is Guinness! A bonus was the weather – hot and sunny, every day.

I stayed and watched some of the jumping competitions before my attention waned. The standard of the riding was very mixed but fun was had by all and it was interesting to see how the children just climbed back on board and carried on without, it seems, a second thought. Perhaps that is why so many of the top jockeys are Irish ….

However, when it comes to ‘loose’ jumping, I can stay all day. To watch the ponies move without the restraints of rider and tack, I find fascinating. Here, the atmosphere is very much more relaxed and the banter never ending.

After a long day, what better way can there be than to end it with a stroll through the town, visiting a bar or two along the way? Clifden is also a stronghold of traditional Irish music and from every open doorway the sound of the fiddle eminates. Traditional music has been a lifelong interest of mine and I have had all the elements of a terrific day out – horses, Guinness, Ireland, song and warmth. I walk back to my house, twenty-five minutes outside the town, set high up on the cliffs, as the sun begins to set. The perfect end to a perfect day.

This seems an opportunity to talk of my own horse, Barney. A giant of a horse (who, by coincidence, also came over from Ireland), gentle, wicked and a lot of fun, he helped teach me to ride by ensuring, I like to think, that the saddle was safely underneath me when I landed after a jump. After months of treatment for lameness, he was ‘put down’ – a very sad day. However, I now have Bart who compared to Barney goes like a Ferrari. An ex-eventing horse, he is beautifully schooled and very disciplined, it has taken me a while to feel comfortable with his power and speed. More of all this on a later post – below is an image of him and Ernie, our other horse, as a taster!

Dropping In Unexpectedly

Posted on July 31, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

We are sociable animals here in the secret valley and nothing pleases us more than when friends call in unexpectedly as they pass by. It doesn’t matter whether there is just one or twentyone, we can always find enough in the store cupboards to water, and feed them too if needbe. More often than not, they are on their way somewhere so a cup of tea, or something a little stronger, is all that is required.

Not the secret valley but still in the Cotswolds. If you click on the photo to enlarge it you can see that the river Windrush has as many twists and turns in it as our little river

Most of the time visitors arrive by car or on foot for the lane that brings you into the valley is as inviting and sinuous as the little winding river itself: it takes you across cornfields, through trees which create, at this time of year, a leafy tunnel before entering a fold in the hills lined with an avenue of cherry and lime trees. It is here that you get your first glimpse of the river and beyond the meanders the lane turns sharply over the bridge taking you a few more yards to the door of our home.

The villages of Lower and Upper Oddington – you can clearly see the lines of the old ‘ridge and furrow’ field plough marks that can date back a thousand years or more

The secret valley, as I have mentioned before, is a landscape in miniature. Everything is small – the road, the hills, the views, the river, even the stone built bridge you can pass over without noticing it. If it all sounds very idyllic that is because it is.

A couple of weeks ago we had some very unexpected guests although we could hear them arriving for quite a while before they finally did so. It was the unmistakeable sound of a hot air balloon losing height. Hidden by trees we could not see who was landing but went off to investigate – She-dog leading the way – and to assist if required. The multicoloured stripes told us it belonged to Charles Teall who lives some miles away and who had once taken me for a flight, although on that occasion we had not landed on our doorstep – for details of that flight click here.

Charles’ wife, Liz, incidentally, is a very talented potter and we have some very nice pieces of her work. She, like myself, is interested in traditional folk music but, unlike me, she can sing and play the whistle and tabor; she also belonged until recently to a local Morris dancers side. Have a look at her work by clicking here.

By the time we reached it, the balloon had already landed. It never fails to surprise me just how large it is and just how small the basket is.

She-dog is normally fairly cautious and we thought that she would be nervous of the balloon. As always, she proved us wrong and felt it important to inspect every part of the balloon: below, the folding meets her approval. Talking of approval, those of you that follow She-dog’s exploits may have been wondering what is the latest on puppy news: there isn’t any. On the last two occasions she has refused to co-operate. She obviously felt that once was quite enough!

I am always surprised how neatly everything folds away and into such a small space. There is always a mobile support team to assist where necessary so our help wasn’t required. Once packed we were able to catch up with the latest news over a drink and reminisce about our trip flying over the Cotswolds. The aerial shots were all taken on that day.

The counties of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire, which form the greater part of the region known as the Cotswolds, have some of the best surviving examples of ridge and furrow. To find out how these were created, click here.

The Day I Became a Mother!

Posted on July 14, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

I have kept poultry since childhood ever since returning with my parents from a farm on Exmoor with a box containing half a dozen bantams smuggled into the back of their car. When one laid an egg en route and started cackling, my mother was furious. Fortunately we were too far into our journey for them to be taken back. In time, she became equally fond of them and even allowed them to wander into the house to be given scraps of food.

The original bantams were farmyard mongrels but since I came to live in the secret valley I have kept Lavender Pekins. These are allowed to wander the fields, even though they become supper for the fox, for there is nothing more delightful than to see happy hens striding down to the river or up the valley and (hopefully) back again.

Bantams – or Cochins, as they are called in Canada and the USA – are ideal as garden birds for they do very little damage unlike their full sized relatives. We keep those too but they are – with difficulty – kept firmly beyond the fence. I have written about the bantams in an earlier post and this can be seen by clicking here.

The other day I came across a couple of abandoned bantam eggs put them into a basket, kept them warm and waited to see what happened.

What a result! An hour later it was dry and fluffy ….. and making even more noise!

"The Most Beautiful English Village"

Posted on June 23, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

The tiny village of Bibury has long been recognised as one of the prettiest places in the Cotswolds and is much visited by tourists. It is everything you might magine an old English village to be; so much so that some visitors, according to local gossip, not realising that it isn’t a theme park creation, walk into people’s homes to have a look around.

Ancient cottages in mellow Cotswold stone, a crystal clear, trout-filled river running alongside the main street, an old mill and a great pub offering food and accomodation all make Bibury “the most beautiful English village” as William Morris, the Arts and Crafts textile designer described it when he visited during the 1800’s.

The old cottages are so perfect and their setting so tranquil that they appear to have created an ethos amongst their owners: each house and garden has to be more well maintained than their neighbours. The only weeds I saw there were across the river in the marsh and, of course, not only were they growing where they belong – in a wild setting – but there were only the most attractive ones such as Yellow Flags, the bog irises and the flat, white heads of the hogweeds.

No English village is complete without its church and pub and Bibury has both. The church of St Mary’s dates back to the 12th century and is well worth seeking out for it is tucked away down one of Bibury’s few side streets.

If the church tries to remain hidden, no such claim can be made for The Swan, one of the landmark buildings situated on the bend where the road crosses the River Coln. The creeper covered pub/hotel is a good place to watch the world go by although, rarely does a car go by without its occupants stopping to explore the village. This is quite a problem for there are so many visitors and cars that to experience the tranquility of the place, or to get photographs such as those on this blog, you either need to stay overnight or to visit the village early in the day. Looking at the online reviews for the Swan, I was amused to see that the only gripes were complaints about old furniture, no street lighting and no wifi or mobile phone signals – surely, some of the very best reasons for visiting!

It can almost be guaranteed that every calander of the Cotswolds will have a photograph of Arlington Row – probably on it’s front cover. Set back away from the road, it is reached by a footbridge: a terrace of former 16th century weavers cottages which, in turn, were converted from a 13th century wool store. The importance of wool in creating the wealth of the Cotswolds and its churches, including the development of the Cotswold breed of sheep, now endangered, has been described in earlier posts on this blog (click here). For more on the Cotswold sheep and the work of the Rare Breeds Survival Trust to preserve them, click here.

Arlington Row’s importance in history of vernacular architecture was recognised by the Royal Society of Arts in 1929 when they purchased and restored it. A plaque, commemorating this is set into a nearby wall.

Exploring Arlington Row gives visitors an opportunity to see just how higgledy-piggledy the construction of old house are. The old stone walls and mismatched rooflines and windows are juxtaposed seemingly at random – a modern planning departments nightmare.

Despite, the large numbers of tourists (for we all like to believe that we fall out of that category and will be the only persons there), Bibury is well worth making the effort to visit. It is situated close to Cirencester, one of the most important Roman towns in the UK, with its wealth of history and it is also within easy reach of Oxford. If I had to choose only one place to take a visitor to see, I think that Bibury would be highly placed on the list.

Let me know – especially overseas readers, please – which would be the one place that epitomises old rural living in your country.

The River Pageant

Posted on June 9, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

In 1717, a musical pageant was held on the River Thames for King George I and was captured on the famous canvas by Canaletto. This was not the first time that there had been royal river pageants but it was this painting that was the inspiration for the Diamond Jubilee River Pageant for Queen Elizabeth.

A major feature of the pageant was again music but the number of boats on the river was to outrival all the previous pageants of the past. Over 1000 boats took part, breaking not just the record for London but becoming the largest ever in the world. The oldest boat dated back to 1740 and one, the Amazon, had taken part in the celebrations to mark Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee(the present Queen’s great-great grandmother) in 1897.

Central to the parade was the Royal Barge that carried the royal party.

The barge sailed past many of the iconic images of London – The Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, St Paul’s Cathedral which can also be seen in the Canaletto painting. Crowds lined the banks of the river and also the bridges – they can just about be seen through the torrential rain that fell for most of the day. Despite that nearly one and a quarter million people came to see the pageant and wish the Queen well. The boats sailing in front of St Paul’s are bearing all the flags of the Commonwealth countries.

All along the banks, tributes were made to the Queen ranging from military salutes to one from War Horse on the roof of the National Theatre.

Every church bell along the river answered the peal from the barge leading the procession. The floating belfry was carrying a specially comissioned set of eight bells – these were later hung in the Church of St James at Garlickhythe.

The fire boats also gave their salutes wetting already soaked participants even more ……

And Tower Bridge raised its bascules to their highest point in acknowledgement …..

Despite the grey, dreary weather the river – it is rarely given its full title of the River Thames – was a spectacle of colour, of bells ringing, of music coming from one of several orchestral barges and the sound of the crowds cheering, clapping and singing the national anthem, “God Save the Queen”.

Once the Royal party had passed through Tower Bridge, the pageant came to an end. It concluded with the choral barge singing patriotic songs with great fervour despite the choir being drenched to the skin. Never had the words of “Rule Brittania” seemed more pertinant: “Rule Brittania, Brittania rule the waves ……”

For more details of the procession or to read about the individual boats that took part, visit the official website of the river pageant: http://www.thamesdiamondjubileepageant.org/ . Much of the information above has been taken from their very informative site.

The Gloriana (above) is the first Royal rowbarge to have been made in over 100 years. Covered in gold leaf it lived up to its name. Pphotographs can be found on an online article of the Daily Mail – and more information – by clicking here.

Around the World with Queen Elizabeth

Posted on May 31, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

Last October my partner and I were surprised and delighted to receive an invitation from the Duke of Edinburgh to a reception at Windsor Castle. It seemed unreal passing through the State Entrance, walking up the Grand Staircase to the magnificently restored St. George’s Hall and spending several hours being able to explore the historic rooms at leisure. To read more about that evening, click here.

This weekend, the whole country is in a Royal frenzy as there is a four day holiday break from routine to celebrate the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. Everywhere, there is red, white and blue bunting and Union flags flying in preparation for street parties, village dances and fetes. For many of us, the Queen represents more than just our Country, partly because, having been there for sixty years, the majority of us have no memory or knowledge of any other monarch. She has always been there, always consistent and that is quite a comfort when the news is full of political and monetary chaos throughout the world.

Windsor Castle is not just a grand, old building; it is also a much loved home to the Royal Family, so it was only natural that it would play a lead role in the Jubilee celebrations. “Around the World in 60 Years” was an extravaganza that celebrated not just the Queen’s achievement (Queen Victoria, the present Queen’s great-great-grandmother is the only other monarch that reigned for over 60 years) but also
a record of the many countries that she has visited during that time. When we had the opportunity to be at Windsor for this once-in-a-lifetime treat we leapt at the chance.

The performance, which took place in the private grounds of the castle, began with the entrance of the Household Cavalry and King’s Troop, which is always guaranteed to whip up a fervour of patriotism. Behind the arena, the stage was a massive recreation of the facade of Buckingham Palace.

The arrival of the Queen and Prince Philip brought everyone to their feet. The British don’t display their patriotism openly very frequently but when the band played the National Anthem, “God Save the Queen”, there were many – men and women – whose voices faltered over the words “long to reign over us”…. For me, the raising of the Royal Standard above the mock Buckingham Palace, which is only ever flown in the presence of the Queen, was my emotional downfall, for I am always aware how fortunate I am to live in a free democracy: one half of my family did not and perished because of it. My friends tease me, saying that now my family have lived here for 100 years, I will soon be a ‘proper’ Englishman!

Over 550 horses and 1000 people took part in the Pageant. Performers from every continent and the numerous countries the Queen has visited, displayed their horsemanship, danced or sang.

North America was represented by cowboys, by native Americans and by the Canadian Mounties. The Mounties are always very popular with the British and played a leading role in the Pageant. They also mounted guard at (the real) Buckingham Palace, a great honour (click here).

Two hundred men and women from the Omani Royal Cavalry were a colourful addition, wearing their green, burgundy and gold colours and riding barefoot.

Towards the end of the evening all of the Queen’s own horses were paraded – or in the case of her racehorses, galloped – through the arena. Even her ponies from Balmoral in Scotland were brought to Windsor.

The finale was the most incredible sight as all 550 horses and the performers came into the arena together along with the Royal State Coach.

We were one of the last to leave the arena and as we sat we were noticed by the Cook Islanders who performed a ‘haku’ especially for us. It was very exciting to have our own private performance and made our evening even more memorable.

And just when the evening could hardly be even more magical, we stepped outside to see the castle lit up in a dark sky. Breathtaking!

My photographic skills couldn’t cope with the extraordinary horsemanship of the Cossack riders – to see them rehearsing for their performance, click on the link here.

The Diamond Jubilee Pageant “Around the World in 60 Years” is to be shown this coming Sunday on television: ITV 6.30pm – 8.30pm.

Still Falls The Rain

Posted on May 12, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

The title of this post is taken from the poem by Edith Sitwell, that most eccentric of twentieth century English poets. I am using it for its literal sense, for the rain just won’t stop falling, whereas Sitwell wrote Still Falls The Rain as her response to the London Blitz in the 1940’s.

It has not been an easy gardening year. We were bracing ourselves for the coldest and snowiest winter ever, for after two years of freezing temperatures and snow at greater depths than for a decade or more, we were warned of worse to come ….. it didn’t. Instead we had a relatively mild time of it but with virtually no rain whatsoever. Then came March: temperatures in the 70’s and day after day of unbroken sunshine and the garden couldn’t work out what to do next. Some plants flowered earlier than normal whereas others refused to break out of their winter dormancy. And still no rain; the little river that winds its way through the header of this blog and the secret valley ran lower than midsummer and by the old sheepwash it was almost possible to walk across it in hiking boots.

Then came April and the day water shortages and a hosepipe ban were announced. All the hose reels were wound up to be stored away and we worried about how we were to keep the parched ground alive.

We did not need to worry for, reminiscent of the day in the 1980’s when Michael Fish, the weather forecaster said “What hurricane? We don’t have them in this country….” (the next morning half of England’s trees had been flattened), the rain started to fall. And it hasn’t stopped falling. We have the occasional sunny interlude when you could almost think it is spring but, for the most part, the skies remain leaden and heavy. Day after depressing day it is dark and gloomy with a cold northerly wind blowing and the rain lashes against the window panes.

The ground, so hard from months of drought, could not absorb the deluge and the water, so desperately needed, runs down the lanes and over the fields and banks into the river. Our pretty little tinkling stream has become a torrent and the sheepwash island, coloured golden with its Kingcups in full bloom, has disappeared from view completely. Opposite the sheepwash on the other side of the lane, the water is running off the hill and new springs have appeared where they haven’t been seen in years.

The secret valley is flooding and looks more like how it should have appeared in winter. The sheep and their lambs have been moved to safer pastures and the pastoral scene of a few weeks ago has all but gone. Gales have accompanied the worst of the downpours creating their own havoc and the old willow pollards, heavy with top growth are splitting and falling. The damage, although it looks devestating, will not affect them too much for they will regrow once the broken timber has been cleared, for this is nature’s own way of pollarding them.

In the meantime, we watch the flood water rise all around us. Our little stone cottage, built in the 1850’s, sits safe, high above the river, which snakes around two sides of the building.

As for gardening, weeds continue to grow for they have adapted to the extremes of the English climate over millenia. The nurtured plants of the flower border struggle and produce some oddities. The tulips that usually look bedraggled after just one shower, have remained resilient and daffodils that have normally finished weeks ago are still in bloom, thanks to the cool conditions. The wet weather has also benefitted the cowslips and the bluebells and they seem even more intense in colour if, in the case of bluebells, that is possible. A quick look around the secret valley at the trees also shows contradiction: some are in full leaf and others – almost 50% of them – are still to show their leaves so have a wintry look about them.

Tulip ‘Peppermint Stick’

It has been a dry and sunny day today and tomorrow is also supposed to be quite pleasant. The forecast is for more rain to come and the cool conditions to continue at least until the beginning of June. And when I wake up on Monday and hear the rain hitting the bedroom windows, as forecast, my first awareness will be to hear in my mind the haunting voice of Edith Sitwell saying “Still falls the rain, still falls the rain ……”

To listen to Edith Sitwell reciting Still Falls The Rain click on the link below:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b6_2x948EEw

Hedgerow Update 1

Posted on May 2, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

When I wrote my initial post on the ancient hedgerow that leads uphill out of the secret valley I intended to update it on a monthly basis (click here). What a failed idea that has proved to be! For March 10th was as hot a day as any summer’s and that, coupled with a very dry winter, created the worst drought for many years. The day that I had intended to walk the hedge (and also the day that a hose pipe ban was announced) the heavens opened and we have had torrential rain ever since. I have been soaked to the skin most days because of work – I had no intention of a second soaking whilst carrying out hedge surveying upon my return home.

A break in the clouds, however, allowed me to sprint up the lane snapping away with the camera moments before the next deluge. No time to marvel at the way nature responds to climate or to look carefully to see what species of plants might be new to my eyes. The only wildlife I saw was a solitary snail, pale lemon in colour and rather pretty – if you can describe a snail as such – which dropped off it’s grass blade perch the moment I got the camera in focus. I’m sure I heard it giggling in the undergrowth.
Here is what I did see.

Cowslips
Cowslips (Primula veris) are a great favourite of mine bringing back memories of early school for ours had a play area that was carpeted with them. Years ago no-one worried about picking great bunches of them or digging some up for the garden which we all did yet the numbers there didn’t seem to diminish. However, overpicking (or perhaps spraying roadside verges) meant that the cowslip became a scarce plant. Happily, they are now seen sporadically along the Cotswold lanes although not on my old school playground which became a high density housing estate in the ’80’s. Along our hedge, cowslips appear in small numbers which, hopefully, will increase over the years. Further up the valley a field grazed only by sheep and never sprayed is a yellow carpet at this time of year and on warm, still days, the faint smell of honey wafts around transporting me back more years than I care to admit to.

Cowslip meadow in the secret valley

Primroses

The last few primroses are still in bloom, quite late for this time of year and no doubt, like some of the daffodils, lasting longer because of the cool, damp weather. Primula vulgaris, their botanical name, sounds like a misnomer for their is nothing vulgar about them, for every part of a primrose is pretty, whether it is the palest lemon of their petals, the deeper yellow throat or the fresh green of their leaves. Even the ribbing and lines of their veins create attractive patternss and textures. Vulgaris does, of course, mean common – there is nothing common about them in appearance either!

The hot March had an odd effect on plants. Some revelled in it, throwing caution to the wind and paraded their summer finery early, whereas others seemed to remember the old saying about not casting a clout ’til May is out. Proven right, when cold returned in April, they now seem reluctant to even expose a leaf and, as a result, the hedgerow is bright green in places, yet bare and wintry looking in others.

Field Maple

Field Maple is a classic old hedgerow plant. Left to grow untouched it makes a medium sized tree of, to my mind, simple but great beauty. However, it is usually trimmed to make a reasonably dense, twiggy barrier. Like all maples the flowers and leaves emerge together but I had never noticed before the rich mahogany colour of the leaf buds. Acer campestre.

Ground Ivy

A plant so common and so small as to be overlooked, Ground Ivy (not related to ivy but to mint)has to be viewed on hands and knees to see its quiet beauty: tiny, mauve, hooded trumpets darkening at the throat. According to my old herbals it was used for all sorts of ailments from the uterus to inflamed eyes and everything in between. Glechoma hederacea, in a greyish variegated form is often used in hanging baskets where it is seen trailing in ugly, thick ribbons. Leave it where it belongs – trailing over the ground at the foot of a hedgerow. Perhaps it should be used in the garden in this way?

Jack-by-the-Hedge

Jack-by-the-Hedge or Garlic Mustard is a common plant and quite a useful addition to early spring salads for its shredded leaves have a mild garlic taste. In the photo above it grows along with stinging nettles and the fine leaves of Cleavers or Goose-grass. It is the food plant of the Orange Tip Butterfly which is quite regularly seen throughout the secret valley, although scarce so far this spring due to weather conditions. Occasionally they fly into the house and require rescuing – not always as easy as in this photo!

Orange Tip Butterfly – only the male is coloured orange

Bluebells with White Dead-Nettle

Bluebells, Hyacinthoides non-scriptus, are another of the ancient woodland indicators (click here for more details of this term) and they flower the whole length of the hedgerow. In the Chiltern Hills, the area where I spent most of my life, the beechwoods are renowned for their Bluebell carpets (photo below). Here, they grow more sparsely, with the occasional white flowered sport growing amongst them. In the photo above, it is the white flowered dead-nettle they mingle with. The dead-nettle, Lamium album, is not related to the true nettle and has no sting, just an unpleasant smell when the leaves are crushed. In the garden it is a nuisance with a white, running root, quite thick and brittle unlike the stinging nettle’s yellow, fibrous root system – a useful way to tell them apart if uncertain, apart from the sting, of course.

A bluebell wood in the Chiltern Hills in Spring

Burdock leaves
The large leaves of Burdock, Arctium minus, are already forming rosettes. It will be a while before they send up their spikes of lilac flowers, reminiscent of those of the thistle and even longer before the troublesome round seedheads, the burs, stick to clothing and She-dog.

The secret valley in flood

It was at this point that the heavens opened once again giving me just time to take a snap of the little winding river. It’s clear, sparkling waters have been transformed by rain to a swirling, brown muddy spate that has now burst its banks spreading out across the valley.

Pruning Mahonia

Posted on April 17, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

One of the biggest concerns for many people, even experienced gardeners is how and when to prune. The quicker growing the plant (Wisteria is a good example), or the more spiny it is, the less likely it is to be given the chop – the first is intimidating by size, the latter by pain.

A close relative of that most vicious of shrubs, the Berberis, is Mahonia and the garden cultivars, Charity and Winter Sun, brighten up many a dark corner with their spikes of yellow, lily-of-the-valley scented flowers on a cold winter’s day. There they grow untroubled by pest or disease becoming ever taller, lankier and ending up just plain, downright ugly. All of this can be prevented by pruning with the additional bonus of having flower spikes at nose height.

The Mahonia in the photo below has not been left to grow tall but been given a regular clipping with shears to form a ball shaped shrub: this often happens to plants that have to be kept under control resulting in a garden full of ‘blobby’ shapes. For a Mahonia that, by nature, wants to be upright, this is an especially hideous way to end up. The shrub to the fore is Sarcococca, the Winter Box, also clipped to a ball shape, a style that does suit that particular plant although, in my opinion, it is more attractive when allowed to grow naturally.

By April, the elongated flowerheads (raceme) will have faded to be replaced by bluish berries. This is the sign that pruning time has arrived. Mahonias are very tough, coping with temperatures as low as -20 degrees Centigrade and I have pruned them in frosty weather without loss. It is always best, however, to do any pruning task when the weather is more clement.

The difficulty with seeing inside a shrub that is growing as densely as this particular Mahonia is easily resolved by simply cutting off a few of the top clusters of leaves anywhere. Once you can see what you are doing life is much more straightforward and those first random pruning cuts can be rectified later. In the photo below a branch has been revealed to show how the leaves join the main stem. The newer growth at the top is a much paler green than the darker, older wood but both have leaves growing from it.

The pruning cut can be made anywhere between the leaves – I tend to be quite drastic and only leave one or two leaves in place. It can be seen that I have cut this stem hard back into the older, darker wood – new growth will shoot from this point giving flowers again by the following winter.

Gradually, the shrub opens up to expose many branches of varying ages. The older they are the more gnarled and twisted they have become. Once these are readily visible it is possible to cut some of the oldest growth much harder still: this thins out the plant allowing more light and air to reach its centre.

Although no growth is visible below the cut, dormant buds will break and create new branches. Again, these will flower the following winter but, of course, at a much lower height than before.

The end result is a shrub that has had much of its centre removed or lowered. In this particular example, I have left more of the outer growth in place as this gives a more attractive appearance through the summer. Next Spring this outer growth will be pruned more severely exposing the newer growth inside which can be pruned much more lightly. By the Spring of 2014 this mahonia will have been transormed back to its natural shape, a mass of healthy stems, leaves and flowers.

It was only when I returned to the bonfire that I appreciated the beautiful pale jade tones of the underleaf, not normally noticeable. Another feature of Mahonia is the bright yellow colour of the cut stem – one that it shares with its Berberis cousins and, like them, the root system is also coloured yellow, a useful way of identifying what root system belongs to it when digging in a crowded shrubbery.