About twenty years ago I first came across gardening magazine Gardens Illustrated. Not long after, it was part of a broad range of other British gardening mags I analysed in depth for my final thesis from university. I’ve been a loyal reader since. But one thing I still remember from those first editions I came across is a one page column about lesser known woody plants recommended to gardeners by one Roy Lancaster. At the time I had no outside growing space (and would not for another ten years), so it seems strange this in particular stuck in my mind.

It might have been the enthusiasm for each plant with which it was written, it might have been the excitement of learning about new plants. But there were so very many fabulous plants new to me. Looking back, I guess the decisive thing about this column was that its author was described as a "plant hunter” if I remember correctly. Until then I had believed the days of plant hunters were long over. Plants had been discovered, named and introduced from all parts of the world and that was that. Plant hunting as a career was extinct. Apparently not so. How incredibly exciting!

Since then, I’ve come across Roy Lancaster’s name many a time (despite never having watched the BBC’s Gardeners’ World or listened to Gardeners’ Question Time) and discovered just what a luminary he is in the world of horticulture. Two weeks ago – hot off the press – I finally got my hands on the book I’ve been looking forward to ever since first learning about it: Roy Lancaster’s autobiography, My life with plants.

It is, in one sentence, exactly what it says on the tin. But it is much more. Since Roy Lancaster over the course of his career has met so many, if not most, of its influential figures, this book is also a snapshot of the world of British horticulture during the past half century. Not a concise history of it, but a snapshot of important players and the network existing between them, as well as a wealth of information of how things were done. Historians will love it one day as it is such a rich source to mine.

Starting with his childhood, he devotes roughly a chapter each to the various stages in his career. From apprenticeship with the Parks Department in his native Bolton to National Service in Malaya; from studies at the Cambridge University Botanic Gardens to his eighteen years at the world famous Hillier nursery and arboretum; from first going freelance to getting involved with the BBC. Naturally, there are also chapters about his travels as a plant hunter and finally about the rare plants he grows in his own garden.

Truth be told, I would have loved more on the plant hunting! But he has covered much of that elsewhere, notably in his weighty tome Travels in China: A Plantsman’s Paradise and its companion A Plantsman in Nepal. One day, hopefully, I'll get around to finish reading those books... (They are still in the 1.50 metre tall stack of books next to my bed, it's just a matter of finding the time. :-) )

I was lucky enough to hear Roy Lancaster talk about his life a year ago at Kew. If I feel one tiny disappointment about the book, it’s that his lively voice and facial expressions, the beaming smile and twinkle in the eye, the sheer exuberance which captured his audience does not so readily translate onto the page. You can't blame the author for that though – a written account of course is a different thing to a live talk.

Still, Lancaster’s narrative style is much like that of a grandfather telling stories about his youth: full of detail which along the way enlightens about a society and way of life the younger generations never got to know for themselves. A grandfather whom you really enjoy listening to because his tales are studded with amusing anecdotes throughout. Many, of course, are plant related – but by no means all as when he talks about his early love of steam trains.

                             Anecdotes and listings of plants spotted all over the world

I loved being told, for instance, that as a boy he used to press plants between newspapers under the living room carpet (!). I too spent many hours pressing plants between blotting paper as a child. Unlike Roy Lancaster’s, however, they were not destined for something as educational as a herbarium: I would later assemble them into “pictures” on notecards which I’d then gift to family members as birthday or Christmas presents. Lancaster seems to have been far more serious-minded

Something that struck me as perhaps typically male is his seemingly life-long enthusiasm for using and making lists, finding and ticking off plants in the wild. A habit like trainspotting. Myself, I dearly love wild plants and will always keep an eye open and of course enjoy finding plants that are rare. But I would never dream of going somewhere with a local flora in hand, seeing whether I could find them all, too, or travel to a particular location to track down one specific species. But then I’m not a botanist.

And yes, you probably have to be a bit of a plant nut to fully enjoy the book, at least it helps. Still, even those who aren’t will find plenty of interest - and you could always skim the passages describing which plants Lancaster spied when and where. Anyway, what else would you expect from one of the most eminent plantspeople of our age?

                                Snippets of information galore: Alternative tobacco, anyone?

What really surprised me though was how committed and confident he must have been from early on in order to write letters and send specimens of plants he had collected to various experts and institutions. Whether corresponding with Kew as an apprentice or with the Singapore Botanical Gardens whilst being stationed on Malaya during his army years: I don’t think I would have had the courage to do so. Or indeed have thought of it and taken the initiative, especially at such a relatively young age.

Also, back with the book now, there is much that gardeners will recognize, usually hidden in mere asides. Like when he mentions feeding the nasty grubs of wine weevil to a friendly Robin and falling in love with the genus Primula. But with Lancaster, these observations of plants in the garden are then accompanied by memories of seeing them grow wild in their natural home by their thousands! There are nuggets, too, concerning other plant hunters - current and of days gone by. I never knew, for example, that Primula florindae with its sulphur-yellow drooping flowers was named after Frank Kingdon-Ward’s first wife – “blonde and long-legged Florinda”.

And anyone who’s ever attempted the same will readily understand his delight to see seed brought back from afar grow and get established, perhaps even flower, at home. Mine aren’t new or even rare finds, but that doesn’t mean they give me any less pleasure: the Kowhai (Sophora tetraptera) and Southern rata (Metrosideros umbellata) from New Zealand, the Swiss cheese plants (Monstera deliciosa) from fruit bought at a Madeira market (which eventually, due to their size, we had to give away), the Bomarea (caldasii, I believe) from a trackside near the El Altar mountains in Ecuador and others like them.

My own interest in plant hunting and faraway shores, by the way, was awakened by my favourite book – quoted in this blog before – about a naturalist and his ten year-old daughter’s travels to Madagascar. I first learned of Marco Polo from its pages and jungle descriptions and the little girl’s quest for a Madagascan orchid in particular fired my imagination. But growing up behind The Wall, for an East German there was next to no chance to travel abroad and so I just dreamed. The orchid mentioned in the book meanwhile must have been Angraecum sesquipedale, Darwin’s orchid: its flowers’ long spur led Darwin to surmise that a moth with a particularly long proboscis existed - which later was indeed found to be true.

To sum up then: Roy Lancaster’s autobiography is a fascinating read. Most people who are into plants will not only find much to learn but have memories of their own triggered. Having gone through a horticultural apprenticeship myself years ago, mine mainly bubbled up whilst reading the account of his early horticultural education. The mention of countless clay pots to be cleaned with cold water during his years at Bolton, for instance, had me shivering again as I remembered why to this day I have a hearty dislike for heathers. But that’s a story for some other blogpost perhaps…

We’ve had some surprisingly mild and sunny days recently. So I jumped at the chance of working outside while it was actually pleasant to do so. An acquaintance of mine runs an East London pub with a lovely beer garden. Even many local mums go there with their little ones in summer – just to have lunch. Whilst they eat, their babies crawl around on picnic blankets spread on the patch of grass and toddlers inspect bumble bees that alight on the herbs and flowers in the adjoining beds and planters. It wasn’t always thus: just a couple of years ago this spot was a carpark.  When my acquaintance took it on, he converted the stretch of tarmac into the garden it is now.

For a while, I used to work there a day a week - looking after and "developing" the planting. This year, he had asked whether I could come again for a spring "deep-clean". So these mild days were the perfect opportunity to do so. Turns out the garden hasn't been touched since last September. At least that's what I've been told. They must have done something though, as the patch of grass was reasonably short. But the beds and planters were covered in a thick layer of last year's leaves, not to mention the debris that comes with any piece of land bordering a busy thoroughfare: stray plastic bags, empty cigarette packets, sodden bits of paper and a rainbow of sweet wrappers. Nothing was cut back either.

Well, it never ceases to amaze me what a difference to a garden a mere clean-up makes. Not the rip-out-brambles-by-the-tractor-load-and-get-rid-of-the-dumped-TV-sets-and-fridges kind of clean-ups. Just a normal clearing away of dead plant matter, some cutting back...
Thanks to inventions like the vacuum cleaner, the traditional ritual of "spring-cleaning" does not make much of a difference anymore to most homes. You can now keep dirt at bay in winter, too. Spring-cleaning indoors these days often is more a clear out, a matter of getting rid of unnecessary or unwanted stuff. Or giving an outlet to that urge to start afresh - like nature does around you - by redecorating your interiors. But outside, spring-cleaning still has meaning.

Of course, most gardeners will have done a lot of tidying up in autumn already. Even those who love bold skeletons of plants to remain over winter, hoping to see them transformed by hoar frost or snow into something magical. But for many, myself included, there always is still a fair bit to be done before the garden gets going again in earnest.  And if you are lucky with the weather, there is little more satisfying than a few hours spent in this way. Yes, a fine autumn day of “putting the garden to bed” is similarly gratifying. But it lacks the rush of excitement: ahead are the long, dark and often dank days of winter.

                   The joys of spring-cleaning in the garden: time travels, amongst other things

In spring though, a new garden year is ahead of us - everything is full of promise, everything seems possible. And what a joy to find new growth stirring under those dead old leaves already. At the pub garden this week, I especially loved finding the pretty and plump new rosettes (not in a botanical sense!) of ice plants (Hylotelephium spectabile) and the developing new leaves of Siberian bugloss (Brunnera macrophylla) and Geranium.

Using no tools but my hand to clear the narrow borders, I found myself transported back in time. Earth worms, curled-up wood lice, tiny slugs and - most importantly - the empty shells of garden snails. Oh what treasures! I've never lost the fascination with shells I felt as a child. Suddenly I was a three-year-old again, trailing after my parents as they in turn had spring-cleaned the first garden in my life. Like a robin or blackbird waiting for a tasty morsel, I followed their raking to discover all kinds of previously hidden delights. The pretty shells of the garden banded snail were a particular favourite. Since the soil in that first garden was similarly heavy as the London clay here, I'm sure unconsciously its smell must have helped my time travels.

Back on my own little plot, I was spurred into action recently by the birds. It was a grey, rather chilly and very blustery Sunday and I had looked forward to a day inside, curled up with a book if the children would let me. Given a chance, I much prefer being a "fair weather gardener"... From the window I watched our little Red Robin and to my delight discovered that he'd found a partner: beyond doubt, there were two of them! How wonderful, maybe they'd nest again in our garden! (They did for the first time last year.) I really ought to cut back the Virginia creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia) so I would not disturb them whilst they were nesting: our bird box is bang in the middle of its vines.

My eyes followed the robins as they pecked here and there, hopping between the plants and onto the flowerpots. Then to the birdfeeder. Then into the Pittosporum, our only "tree". Both feeder and Pittosporum are very close to the boundary wall which on this section is covered with ivy. Perhaps they'd raise their first brood there, I thought. Because well-hidden as the bird box is once the Virginia creeper has come into leaf, right now it lacks any protection - visual or otherwise. In fact, the bare branches of the creeper could serve as a ladder for any predator keen to reach the nest. And there has been a tabby from the neighbourhood around ours recently! A super-cute, most elegant little cat, still young, but a cat nonetheless.

But back to the robins. Sure enough, they started exploring the ivy. But no sooner had they begun to do so when all hell broke loose! An almighty clamour and scolding commenced. You could not see its source, but the distinct call betrayed it: a wren told the robins - in no uncertain terms, I guess - that it had been there first, that this was his territory. It made such a racket, the whole avian neighbourhood arrived. Like a crowd of people gathering when a brawl breaks out, all our usual birds came to see what was going on: first the great tits, quickly followed by the blue tits, then the blackbirds, then the doves. The robins stayed, too, of course, seemingly dumbstruck.

They all sat around and seemed to wonder what the matter had happened. They did not join in with an angry choir as they all would have if a cat or a jay was to be driven away. No, they just sat there, quietly and seemingly curious. Only the blackbird would sound a few gentle qwut-qwuts, as if to appease its angry neighbour. But the furious little wren was not to be calmed. With a decibel level you wouldn't think possible from this tiniest of birds it kept fuming, raging and complaining until finally, after several minutes, its mate arrived. That's when it occurred to me they might be breeding already.

Oh dear! The ivy definitely needed a trim. Not much, but a bit of a trim nonetheless. For otherwise it would - over the course of summer - swamp that precious bit of open soil right and left of our tree. Plants there, if not outright strangled, would receive neither light nor rain as  the ivy formed kind of an awning above them from the top of the wall. I had left it till now because I thought insects would appreciate the nectar from its flowers during the winter months. What to do? Quickly, albeit reluctantly, I got out of bed and dressed. The stepladder was grabbed and manoeuvred out of doors. Not into the garden though.

                   Cutting back the ivy was a family effort - now the birds may do as they please

Luckily, the most important bit to cut back was on the top of the wall hence I put the ladder up on the pavement, on the other, public side of it. This way, the wrens hopefully wouldn't see me and hence not be frightened. Plus, the paving made for a much firmer and securer stand than the soil. Then the rest of the family was roped in to help: my man obligingly sawed off the thickest branches, those I wouldn't manage with secateurs. (I had only asked for the saw but he wouldn't let me...) And the children were coaxed to stuff the chopped-off trails into a big bag. It was so blustery, any bits not caught and bagged immediately had to be hunted after down the road!

Whilst I was dangling over the wall to reach as far down as possible either side of the tree, I suddenly felt very wobbly indeed. My darling offspring, rather than hold the stepladder on top of which I stood almost on tiptoe, had decided to climb after me... Not the best idea, especially in high winds.

Anyway, we got the job done and without encouraging further wrath from the wren. And yes, I made sure I cut back everything else that needed it - like the Virginia creeper - on the day, too. From inside the garden. And whilst not what I had planned for the day, it felt good to get it done and over with. As an added perk, I was closely watched and nicely entertained by the robins. The children meanwhile decided to build a den elsewhere and pad it with the hacked-off ivy.
Though I regularly see a wren now, I still don't know whether they really are nesting in our garden. Obviously, I didn't go searching the ivy-clad wall. But even if not, at least I got the spring-cleaning done!