February 10, 2025 • 20 mins
Garden expert Nigel Thistledown, traces the fascinating evolution of British gardens from Roman times to the present day. Wearing his signature ivy-covered tweed jacket and speaking in a delightfully cheeky tone, Nigel guides readers through the historical rivalry between formal and informal garden styles, highlighting key figures like Capability Brown and Gertrude Jekyll. He weaves historical facts with personal anecdotes, including tales of his own garden adventures and an impromptu "garden-off" between his neighbors - Mrs. Pembroke (champion of formal gardens) and Mr. Fitzgerald (advocate of wild spaces). The piece is peppered with British humor and whimsical asides, including Nigel's conversations with his plants and his opinions on everything from medieval monks' herb gardens to modern sustainability trends.
This content was created in partnership and with the help of Artificial Intelligence AI
This content was created in partnership and with the help of Artificial Intelligence AI
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Well, darlings, gather round the potting shed and let me
regale you with a tail that's as rich as well
composted soil and twice as juicy. I'm Nigel Thistledown, And
if you're wondering about that peculiar rustling sound, it's just
the ivy that's made itself quite at home on my
trusty tweed jacket. They're rather like teenagers, you know, always
(00:21):
trying to make a fashion statement. And yes, that feather
in my hat was indeed a gift from a rather
opinionated magpie, though between you and me, I suspect she
was merely trying to declutter her nest. Now, the story
of British gardens is rather like a family saga, complete
with feuding cousins, dramatic makeovers, and enough scandal to make
(00:42):
a rose blush. It all began as most proper things do,
with the Romans. They arrived on our shores, took one
look at our wild hedgerows and declared, right, then, let's
put everything in straight lines. Typical Romans, always trying to
impose order on chaos. Though I must admit they did
give us the delightful concept of the pergola, which I've
(01:05):
always thought of as evening where for gardens. The Romans,
blessed their methodical souls, introduced us to the concept of
the villa garden, complete with court yards, fountains, and those
marvelous mosaic floors that always seemed to depict dolphins, though
why dolphins were considered appropriate garden decoration in rainy Britain
remains one of history's great mysteries. They brought us box
(01:28):
hedging roses, and the wonderfully practical concept of the hot house,
which they used to grow grapes for wine. I have
my own grape vine now, though its primary purpose seems
to be providing a comfortable hammock for the local cat population.
The medieval monks, blessed their industrious souls, took this Roman
fondness for order and ran with it, creating herb gardens
(01:50):
that were practically encyclopedias in soil. Though between you and me,
I suspect some of those medicinal herbs were responsible for
more than a few interesting visions during evening prayers. My
own herb garden, which I've modeled after these monastic designs,
has been known to produce some rather spectacular sneezing fits
during the annual parish council meetings. Purely coincidental, of course.
(02:15):
The monastery gardens were marvels of organization, divided into distinct areas,
the physic Garden for medicinal plants, the kitchen Garden for vegetables,
and the Infirmary Garden for the truly potent remedies. They
even had specialized areas for poisonous plants, which I've always
thought showed remarkable foresight, particularly when dealing with difficult members
(02:36):
of the congregation. I've recreated a small physic garden of
my own, though I must admit the labels love potion
and mother in law's tongue are more decorative than strictly accurate.
Speaking of medieval gardens, let's not forget the absolutely fascinating
concept of the paradise garden. Enclosed within high walls and
designed to represent Eden itself. These gardens were square, divided
(02:59):
into quarters by intersecting paths, with a fountain or well
at the center. The symbolism was rather heavy handed, but
then again, the medieval period wasn't known for its subtlety.
My own attempt at a paradise garden has been somewhat
compromised by the local squirrels, who seemed to have missed
the memo about maintaining paradisiacal decorum. The Tudor period brought
(03:22):
us the knot garden, an absolutely marvelous invention that proved
the British aristocracy had far too much time on their hands.
Imagine spending hours meticulously trimming box hedges into intricate patterns
just to impress your neighbors. Though I must confess my
own knot garden spelled out Hello until last summer's unfortunate
(03:42):
incident with a runaway lawn mower. Now it just says ho,
which has raised a few eyebrows at the garden club.
Tudor gardens were extraordinary displays of power and wealth, with
their raised terraces, elaborate parterres, and those wonderful viewing galleries
from which the owner could look down upon their creation
like some horticultural deity. Hampton Court Palaces gardens under Henry
(04:05):
the eighth were particularly spectacular, though I can't help but
think that all that showing off might have been compensating
for something. The Tudors also gave us the first recorded
topiary gardens. In England, proving that the urge to turn
shrubs into animals is a deeply rooted human instinct. The
Elizabethan period saw the introduction of the mount garden, artificial
(04:27):
hills from which one could survey one's domain. These were
often spiral paths leading to a viewing platform, rather like
a green helter skelter for the well to do. I
attempted to create my own mount using the spoil from
my pond excavation, but it turned out less commanding viewpoint
and more slightly confused mole hill. Still, the local children
(04:49):
seemed to enjoy rolling down it, so I consider it
a qualified success. But it was during the Stuart period
that things really got interesting. The French influence swept in
like a perfume breeze, bringing with it the formal garden
style that would make Andre Lenotre famous. Symmetry became the watchword,
with gardens laid out like architectural drawings come to life.
(05:11):
Everything had to be perfectly balanced, as if nature herself
had suddenly developed obsessive, compulsive tendencies. Hampton Court Palace's gardens
are a prime example, though I always think they look
like they're desperately in need of a good slouch. The
French formal style was all about control and perspective, with
long avenues stretching to the horizon and parterres so intricate
(05:34):
they looked like Persian carpets rendered in box and gravel.
Water features became increasingly elaborate, with fountains that would put
a Las Vegas casino to shame. My own attempt at
a formal water feature consists of a rather ambitious garden
hose arrangement that occasionally achieves the desired effect, though more
often than not it simply provides an impromptu shower for
(05:56):
unsuspecting visitors. Then along came the eighteenth century, and with
it the legendary capability Brown. Now there was a man
who never met a landscape he couldn't improve. He'd look
at a perfectly innocent piece of land and declare it
had capabilities, hence the nickname. Brown transformed the English landscape
with his naturalistic style, creating sweeping vistas, serpentine lakes, and
(06:20):
artfully placed clumps of trees. He was essentially the first
landscape architect to master the art of making something look
completely natural while being entirely artificial. Rather like my aunt
Gertrude's bridge work. Brown's genius lay in his ability to
create landscapes that looked as if they had always been there,
even though they required moving mountains quite literally in some cases.
(06:44):
To achieve. He would damn valleys to create lakes, plant
thousands of trees, and move entire villages if they spoiled
his view. It was landscape gardening on an epic scale,
rather like rearranging furniture, except the furniture weighed several tons
and occasionally contained sheep. The great Man's influence can still
(07:04):
be seen at places like Blenheim Palace and Stowe, where
the landscape flows like a great green river around the house.
His style was so successful that it became known simply
as the English landscape garden. Though I've always thought the
Brown bounce had a certain ring to it, my own
attempts to recreate his flowing landscapes have been somewhat limited
(07:25):
by the size of my garden, though I did manage
to create a rather convincing ha ha, even if it
was entirely accidental and mainly serves to trap unwary postmen.
But not every one was enchanted by Brown's natural style.
The picturesque movement, led by Uverdale Price and Richard Payne Knight,
and yes, those of their real names. The eighteenth century
(07:48):
was particularly unkind to children. In the naming department argued
for a more dramatic wild approach. They wanted gardens that
looked like paintings by Claude Lauras had come to life,
complete with romantic ruins and untamed wilderness. It was all
very dramatic and romantic, rather like my attempts to grow
prize winning pumpkins, full of grand ambitions but ultimately requiring
(08:10):
a great deal of careful staging. The picturesque advocates were
particularly fond of artificial ruins, which always struck me as
a rather peculiar concept. Imagine deliberately building something to look
like it's falling down. It's rather like intentionally leaving your
socks undarned. Nevertheless, I must admit there's something charming about
(08:31):
these carefully crafted pieces of architectural decay. I've created my
own version, with a pile of old flower pots arranged
artistically behind the greenhouse, though visitors seem unconvinced by my
claims that it's a statement piece. The Victorian era brought
yet another revolution in garden style, along with an explosion
of plant collecting that bordered on botanical kleptomania. Suddenly having
(08:54):
a rare specimen from the furthest corners of the Empire
became the height of horticultural fashion. Plant hunters risked life
and limb to bring back exotic species, though I suspect
some of them were just using plant collecting as an
excuse for extended holidays. I myself have been known to
return from weekend garden shows with suspicious bulges in my pockets,
(09:16):
though I maintained that any similarities between my new acquisitions
and those in the show gardens are purely coincidental. The
Victorians were particularly fond of bedding plants, creating elaborate displays
that changed with the seasons. These carpet bedding schemes could
be absolutely extraordinary, with intricate patterns created using thousands of plants.
(09:38):
It was rather like painting with living colors, though personally,
I've always thought some of the more elaborate designs looked
like someone had dropped a giant kaleidoscope on the lawn.
This brings us to the incomparable Gertrude Jekyl, who revolutionized
garden design with her artistic approach to color and planting.
Jekyl treated gardens as living canvas, creating spectacle secular borders
(10:01):
that flowed from one shade to another like a botanical symphony.
She understood that gardens should be experienced as a journey,
not just a view from the drawing room window. My
own borders attempt to follow her principles, though they occasionally
end up looking less like a carefully orchestrated colour progression
and more like a paint shop explosion. Jekyl's genius lay
(10:23):
in her understanding of how to combine plants, not just
for their colors, but for their texture and form as well.
She would layer plants like an artist building up a painting,
with tall architectural plants at the back, billowing middle height
plants in the center, and delicate edge plants spilling over
the border. It's a technique I've tried to master, though
(10:44):
my borders have a tendency to develop what I like
to call independent thinking plants that decide their assigned position
in the grand scheme of things is merely a suggestion
rather than a requirement. The Arts and Crafts movement brought
yet another delightful twist to our horse to cultural history.
Led by William Morris and his cohorts, these garden designers
(11:05):
believed in combining the formal with the informal in a
way that celebrated both traditional craftsmanship and the natural world.
Rather like trying to convince a group of Morris dancers
to perform at a ballet recital, theoretically challenging but surprisingly
delightful when it works. Their gardens were characterized by strong
architectural elements, softened by generous plantings of hardy perennials and
(11:29):
traditional cottage garden flowers. They gave us the mixed border,
which I've always thought of as democracy in action. Every
plant gets its moment in the spotlight, though some do
tend to campaign rather more aggressively than others. My own
mixed borders operate on what I like to call the
parliamentary system. Lots of loud debates, but somehow everything gets
(11:51):
sorted out in the end. The twentieth century ushered in
the era of the suburban garden, when suddenly everyone had
a bit of earth to call their own. This democratization
of gardening led to some fascinating developments, not least the
rise of the lawn as a status symbol. The perfect
lawn became the holy grail of suburban gardening, though personally
(12:13):
I've always found the obsession with grass uniformity rather puzzling.
My own lawn maintains what I call a diverse community policy,
welcoming clover, daisies and the occasional dandelion as valuable members
of society. The suburban garden also gave rise to that
most British of institutions, the garden shed. Far more than
(12:35):
just a storage space, the shed became a sanctuary, a workshop,
and occasionally a hiding place from one's more energetic relatives.
My own she shed has evolved into something of a
social club for local wildlife. The mice have established a
book club in one corner. They're particularly fond of nibbling
on seed catalogs, and a family of wrens has set
(12:55):
up what I can only describe as a rather exclusive
gymnasium in the rafters. Now, let's talk about the revolution
in sustainable gardening practices, shall we. The growing awareness of
environmental issues has led to some fascinating developments in how
we approach gardening, peat free composts, water conservation and wildlife
friendly practices are no longer considered alternative. They're becoming the norm. Though,
(13:20):
I must say explaining to missus Pembroke that the holes
in her prize hosts are actually a sign of a
healthy ecosystem rather than a personal attack by the local
slug population remains a diplomatic challenge. I've embraced these sustainable
practices wholeheartedly, though my water collection system did cause some
raised eyebrows during last summer's garden party. Who knew that
(13:42):
connecting seventeen rain barrels in series could create such an
impressive water feature. The cascade effect during a sudden downpour
was quite spectacular, even if it did send the Vicker's
hat sailing down the garden like a rather jaunty gondola.
Climate change has forced us to rethink any traditional planting schemes.
Mediterranean plants are becoming increasingly common in British gardens, which
(14:06):
would have been unthinkable in my grandmother's day. She believed
anything that couldn't survive a proper British winter wasn't worth growing,
though she did make an exception for her beloved tea roses,
which she used to wrap in newspaper every autumn, like
precious China. Speaking of changes, the pandemic years brought about
a remarkable renaissance in gardening interest. Suddenly everyone wanted to
(14:29):
grow their own vegetables, leading to what I like to
call the Great courgette glut of twenty twenty. I found
myself giving impromptu gardening lessons over the garden fence. Though
social distancing did make demonstrating proper pruning technique rather challenging,
I developed quite an impressive reach with my secateurs. The
(14:49):
rise of community gardens has been particularly heartening to witness.
These spaces have become more than just places to grow vegetables,
their social hubs, outdoor classes, rooms, and occasionally unofficial therapy centers.
My own involvement with the local community garden has led
to some rather interesting innovations, including what we now call
(15:11):
the conversation corner, where gardeners can rest and chat while
pretending to weed. The strawberry patch. Technology has even made
its way into our gardens, though I must say I
draw the line at apse that claim to translate plant emotions.
I prefer the traditional method of communication with my plants.
A mixture of shakespeare gentle encouragement and the occasional stern
(15:33):
word when necessary. Though I did recently acquire a smart
irrigation system which has developed what I can only describe
as a rather mischievous personality. It seems to take particular
delight in activating just as visitors are bending down to
smell the roses. The future of British gardening looks both
exciting and challenging. We're seeing a wonderful blend of traditional
(15:56):
techniques with modern innovations, rather like my attempt to combine
classical topery with solar powered fairy lights, which I might
add has created quite a talking point in the neighbourhood,
particularly among the local bat population, who seem to find
it endlessly entertaining. Garden design itself is evolving, with a
growing emphasis on creating spaces that serve multiple purposes beauty, biodiversity,
(16:22):
food production and social interaction. My own garden has become
something of an experimental laboratory for these new approaches, though
I do sometimes wonder if combining a wildlife pond with
an outdoor dining area was entirely wise. The ducks have
developed rather sophisticated tastes and now expect to be included
in all alfresco dinner parties. The traditional rivalry between formal
(16:44):
and informal styles continues to evolve in fascinating ways. Modern
gardens often combine elements of both approaches, creating spaces that
are at once structured and wild. Rather like my attempt
to organize a garden party during a particularly vigorous growing season,
there was a formal seating plan, but the sweet peas
had their own ideas about table arrangements. Young gardeners are
(17:08):
bringing fresh perspectives to traditional practices, which I find absolutely invigorating.
They're less concerned with following rigid rules and more interested
in creating sustainable, wildlife friendly spaces that reflect their personalities.
Though I must admit some of their color combinations do
make me reach for my smelling salts, but then again,
(17:30):
who am I to judge? My own color scheme has
been described as enthusiastically eclectic by more diplomatic visitors. The
rise of unusual edibles and forest gardening principles is particularly exciting.
We're seeing gardens that combine ornamental and productive plants in
ways that would have scandalized Victorian gardeners. My own experiments
(17:51):
with edible flowers have led to some interesting dinner party conversations,
particularly after I forgot to label the nasturtium bed as
decorative garnish rather than help yourself to salad. As For
the future, I predict will see even more innovation in
how we use our garden spaces. Vertical gardening is already
transforming urban spaces, though my own attempts at creating a
(18:15):
living wall resulted in what I now refer to as
the cascade effect. Apparently gravity remains unconvinced by even the
most innovative gardening techniques. The influence of international design is
becoming more evident in British gardens, though we do tend
to adapt foreign styles to suit our rather particular climate
and sensibilities. My own Japanese inspired meditation garden has developed
(18:39):
what I like to call an Anglo Eastern fusion style,
particularly since the local birds discovered that the carefully raked
gravel makes an excellent bath. But perhaps the most heartening
trend is the growing recognition that gardens, whatever their size
or style, play a crucial role in supporting our mental
well being. Their places of solace c aativity and connection
(19:01):
with nature, with others and with ourselves. My own garden
has been my therapist, my gym, my social club, and
occasionally my hiding place when the local garden club becomes
a bit too enthusiastic about their annual competition. As I
look to the future of British gardening, I remain optimistic. Yes,
we face challenges, changing climate, shrinking spaces, time pressures, but
(19:25):
gardeners are nothing if not adaptable. We've been reinventing ourselves
since those first romans decided straight lines were the answer
to everything, and I don't see that changing anytime soon.
Rustling of tweed Jacket, Well, my dear garden enthusiasts, I'm
afraid it's time for me to bid you farewell and
attend to my evening ritual of reading poetry to the paeonies.
(19:47):
They're particularly partial to Wordsworth, you know. Thank you ever
so much for joining me on this rambling journey through
the history of British gardens. I do hope you've enjoyed
our little chat as much as my prize winning dahlias
in joy their weekly gossip sessions. This has been Nigel
Thistledown for the Quiet Please Podcast Network For more content
(20:07):
like this, please go to quiet Please dot a. I,
thank you, and remember A garden without whimsy is like
tea without biscuits. Technically possible, but why would you ever
want that
Well, darlings, gather round the potting shed and let me
regale you with a tail that's as rich as well
composted soil and twice as juicy. I'm Nigel Thistledown, And
if you're wondering about that peculiar rustling sound, it's just
the ivy that's made itself quite at home on my
trusty tweed jacket. They're rather like teenagers, you know, always
(00:21):
trying to make a fashion statement. And yes, that feather
in my hat was indeed a gift from a rather
opinionated magpie, though between you and me, I suspect she
was merely trying to declutter her nest. Now, the story
of British gardens is rather like a family saga, complete
with feuding cousins, dramatic makeovers, and enough scandal to make
(00:42):
a rose blush. It all began as most proper things do,
with the Romans. They arrived on our shores, took one
look at our wild hedgerows and declared, right, then, let's
put everything in straight lines. Typical Romans, always trying to
impose order on chaos. Though I must admit they did
give us the delightful concept of the pergola, which I've
(01:05):
always thought of as evening where for gardens. The Romans,
blessed their methodical souls, introduced us to the concept of
the villa garden, complete with court yards, fountains, and those
marvelous mosaic floors that always seemed to depict dolphins, though
why dolphins were considered appropriate garden decoration in rainy Britain
remains one of history's great mysteries. They brought us box
(01:28):
hedging roses, and the wonderfully practical concept of the hot house,
which they used to grow grapes for wine. I have
my own grape vine now, though its primary purpose seems
to be providing a comfortable hammock for the local cat population.
The medieval monks, blessed their industrious souls, took this Roman
fondness for order and ran with it, creating herb gardens
(01:50):
that were practically encyclopedias in soil. Though between you and me,
I suspect some of those medicinal herbs were responsible for
more than a few interesting visions during evening prayers. My
own herb garden, which I've modeled after these monastic designs,
has been known to produce some rather spectacular sneezing fits
during the annual parish council meetings. Purely coincidental, of course.
(02:15):
The monastery gardens were marvels of organization, divided into distinct areas,
the physic Garden for medicinal plants, the kitchen Garden for vegetables,
and the Infirmary Garden for the truly potent remedies. They
even had specialized areas for poisonous plants, which I've always
thought showed remarkable foresight, particularly when dealing with difficult members
(02:36):
of the congregation. I've recreated a small physic garden of
my own, though I must admit the labels love potion
and mother in law's tongue are more decorative than strictly accurate.
Speaking of medieval gardens, let's not forget the absolutely fascinating
concept of the paradise garden. Enclosed within high walls and
designed to represent Eden itself. These gardens were square, divided
(02:59):
into quarters by intersecting paths, with a fountain or well
at the center. The symbolism was rather heavy handed, but
then again, the medieval period wasn't known for its subtlety.
My own attempt at a paradise garden has been somewhat
compromised by the local squirrels, who seemed to have missed
the memo about maintaining paradisiacal decorum. The Tudor period brought
(03:22):
us the knot garden, an absolutely marvelous invention that proved
the British aristocracy had far too much time on their hands.
Imagine spending hours meticulously trimming box hedges into intricate patterns
just to impress your neighbors. Though I must confess my
own knot garden spelled out Hello until last summer's unfortunate
(03:42):
incident with a runaway lawn mower. Now it just says ho,
which has raised a few eyebrows at the garden club.
Tudor gardens were extraordinary displays of power and wealth, with
their raised terraces, elaborate parterres, and those wonderful viewing galleries
from which the owner could look down upon their creation
like some horticultural deity. Hampton Court Palaces gardens under Henry
(04:05):
the eighth were particularly spectacular, though I can't help but
think that all that showing off might have been compensating
for something. The Tudors also gave us the first recorded
topiary gardens. In England, proving that the urge to turn
shrubs into animals is a deeply rooted human instinct. The
Elizabethan period saw the introduction of the mount garden, artificial
(04:27):
hills from which one could survey one's domain. These were
often spiral paths leading to a viewing platform, rather like
a green helter skelter for the well to do. I
attempted to create my own mount using the spoil from
my pond excavation, but it turned out less commanding viewpoint
and more slightly confused mole hill. Still, the local children
(04:49):
seemed to enjoy rolling down it, so I consider it
a qualified success. But it was during the Stuart period
that things really got interesting. The French influence swept in
like a perfume breeze, bringing with it the formal garden
style that would make Andre Lenotre famous. Symmetry became the watchword,
with gardens laid out like architectural drawings come to life.
(05:11):
Everything had to be perfectly balanced, as if nature herself
had suddenly developed obsessive, compulsive tendencies. Hampton Court Palace's gardens
are a prime example, though I always think they look
like they're desperately in need of a good slouch. The
French formal style was all about control and perspective, with
long avenues stretching to the horizon and parterres so intricate
(05:34):
they looked like Persian carpets rendered in box and gravel.
Water features became increasingly elaborate, with fountains that would put
a Las Vegas casino to shame. My own attempt at
a formal water feature consists of a rather ambitious garden
hose arrangement that occasionally achieves the desired effect, though more
often than not it simply provides an impromptu shower for
(05:56):
unsuspecting visitors. Then along came the eighteenth century, and with
it the legendary capability Brown. Now there was a man
who never met a landscape he couldn't improve. He'd look
at a perfectly innocent piece of land and declare it
had capabilities, hence the nickname. Brown transformed the English landscape
with his naturalistic style, creating sweeping vistas, serpentine lakes, and
(06:20):
artfully placed clumps of trees. He was essentially the first
landscape architect to master the art of making something look
completely natural while being entirely artificial. Rather like my aunt
Gertrude's bridge work. Brown's genius lay in his ability to
create landscapes that looked as if they had always been there,
even though they required moving mountains quite literally in some cases.
(06:44):
To achieve. He would damn valleys to create lakes, plant
thousands of trees, and move entire villages if they spoiled
his view. It was landscape gardening on an epic scale,
rather like rearranging furniture, except the furniture weighed several tons
and occasionally contained sheep. The great Man's influence can still
(07:04):
be seen at places like Blenheim Palace and Stowe, where
the landscape flows like a great green river around the house.
His style was so successful that it became known simply
as the English landscape garden. Though I've always thought the
Brown bounce had a certain ring to it, my own
attempts to recreate his flowing landscapes have been somewhat limited
(07:25):
by the size of my garden, though I did manage
to create a rather convincing ha ha, even if it
was entirely accidental and mainly serves to trap unwary postmen.
But not every one was enchanted by Brown's natural style.
The picturesque movement, led by Uverdale Price and Richard Payne Knight,
and yes, those of their real names. The eighteenth century
(07:48):
was particularly unkind to children. In the naming department argued
for a more dramatic wild approach. They wanted gardens that
looked like paintings by Claude Lauras had come to life,
complete with romantic ruins and untamed wilderness. It was all
very dramatic and romantic, rather like my attempts to grow
prize winning pumpkins, full of grand ambitions but ultimately requiring
(08:10):
a great deal of careful staging. The picturesque advocates were
particularly fond of artificial ruins, which always struck me as
a rather peculiar concept. Imagine deliberately building something to look
like it's falling down. It's rather like intentionally leaving your
socks undarned. Nevertheless, I must admit there's something charming about
(08:31):
these carefully crafted pieces of architectural decay. I've created my
own version, with a pile of old flower pots arranged
artistically behind the greenhouse, though visitors seem unconvinced by my
claims that it's a statement piece. The Victorian era brought
yet another revolution in garden style, along with an explosion
of plant collecting that bordered on botanical kleptomania. Suddenly having
(08:54):
a rare specimen from the furthest corners of the Empire
became the height of horticultural fashion. Plant hunters risked life
and limb to bring back exotic species, though I suspect
some of them were just using plant collecting as an
excuse for extended holidays. I myself have been known to
return from weekend garden shows with suspicious bulges in my pockets,
(09:16):
though I maintained that any similarities between my new acquisitions
and those in the show gardens are purely coincidental. The
Victorians were particularly fond of bedding plants, creating elaborate displays
that changed with the seasons. These carpet bedding schemes could
be absolutely extraordinary, with intricate patterns created using thousands of plants.
(09:38):
It was rather like painting with living colors, though personally,
I've always thought some of the more elaborate designs looked
like someone had dropped a giant kaleidoscope on the lawn.
This brings us to the incomparable Gertrude Jekyl, who revolutionized
garden design with her artistic approach to color and planting.
Jekyl treated gardens as living canvas, creating spectacle secular borders
(10:01):
that flowed from one shade to another like a botanical symphony.
She understood that gardens should be experienced as a journey,
not just a view from the drawing room window. My
own borders attempt to follow her principles, though they occasionally
end up looking less like a carefully orchestrated colour progression
and more like a paint shop explosion. Jekyl's genius lay
(10:23):
in her understanding of how to combine plants, not just
for their colors, but for their texture and form as well.
She would layer plants like an artist building up a painting,
with tall architectural plants at the back, billowing middle height
plants in the center, and delicate edge plants spilling over
the border. It's a technique I've tried to master, though
(10:44):
my borders have a tendency to develop what I like
to call independent thinking plants that decide their assigned position
in the grand scheme of things is merely a suggestion
rather than a requirement. The Arts and Crafts movement brought
yet another delightful twist to our horse to cultural history.
Led by William Morris and his cohorts, these garden designers
(11:05):
believed in combining the formal with the informal in a
way that celebrated both traditional craftsmanship and the natural world.
Rather like trying to convince a group of Morris dancers
to perform at a ballet recital, theoretically challenging but surprisingly
delightful when it works. Their gardens were characterized by strong
architectural elements, softened by generous plantings of hardy perennials and
(11:29):
traditional cottage garden flowers. They gave us the mixed border,
which I've always thought of as democracy in action. Every
plant gets its moment in the spotlight, though some do
tend to campaign rather more aggressively than others. My own
mixed borders operate on what I like to call the
parliamentary system. Lots of loud debates, but somehow everything gets
(11:51):
sorted out in the end. The twentieth century ushered in
the era of the suburban garden, when suddenly everyone had
a bit of earth to call their own. This democratization
of gardening led to some fascinating developments, not least the
rise of the lawn as a status symbol. The perfect
lawn became the holy grail of suburban gardening, though personally
(12:13):
I've always found the obsession with grass uniformity rather puzzling.
My own lawn maintains what I call a diverse community policy,
welcoming clover, daisies and the occasional dandelion as valuable members
of society. The suburban garden also gave rise to that
most British of institutions, the garden shed. Far more than
(12:35):
just a storage space, the shed became a sanctuary, a workshop,
and occasionally a hiding place from one's more energetic relatives.
My own she shed has evolved into something of a
social club for local wildlife. The mice have established a
book club in one corner. They're particularly fond of nibbling
on seed catalogs, and a family of wrens has set
(12:55):
up what I can only describe as a rather exclusive
gymnasium in the rafters. Now, let's talk about the revolution
in sustainable gardening practices, shall we. The growing awareness of
environmental issues has led to some fascinating developments in how
we approach gardening, peat free composts, water conservation and wildlife
friendly practices are no longer considered alternative. They're becoming the norm. Though,
(13:20):
I must say explaining to missus Pembroke that the holes
in her prize hosts are actually a sign of a
healthy ecosystem rather than a personal attack by the local
slug population remains a diplomatic challenge. I've embraced these sustainable
practices wholeheartedly, though my water collection system did cause some
raised eyebrows during last summer's garden party. Who knew that
(13:42):
connecting seventeen rain barrels in series could create such an
impressive water feature. The cascade effect during a sudden downpour
was quite spectacular, even if it did send the Vicker's
hat sailing down the garden like a rather jaunty gondola.
Climate change has forced us to rethink any traditional planting schemes.
Mediterranean plants are becoming increasingly common in British gardens, which
(14:06):
would have been unthinkable in my grandmother's day. She believed
anything that couldn't survive a proper British winter wasn't worth growing,
though she did make an exception for her beloved tea roses,
which she used to wrap in newspaper every autumn, like
precious China. Speaking of changes, the pandemic years brought about
a remarkable renaissance in gardening interest. Suddenly everyone wanted to
(14:29):
grow their own vegetables, leading to what I like to
call the Great courgette glut of twenty twenty. I found
myself giving impromptu gardening lessons over the garden fence. Though
social distancing did make demonstrating proper pruning technique rather challenging,
I developed quite an impressive reach with my secateurs. The
(14:49):
rise of community gardens has been particularly heartening to witness.
These spaces have become more than just places to grow vegetables,
their social hubs, outdoor classes, rooms, and occasionally unofficial therapy centers.
My own involvement with the local community garden has led
to some rather interesting innovations, including what we now call
(15:11):
the conversation corner, where gardeners can rest and chat while
pretending to weed. The strawberry patch. Technology has even made
its way into our gardens, though I must say I
draw the line at apse that claim to translate plant emotions.
I prefer the traditional method of communication with my plants.
A mixture of shakespeare gentle encouragement and the occasional stern
(15:33):
word when necessary. Though I did recently acquire a smart
irrigation system which has developed what I can only describe
as a rather mischievous personality. It seems to take particular
delight in activating just as visitors are bending down to
smell the roses. The future of British gardening looks both
exciting and challenging. We're seeing a wonderful blend of traditional
(15:56):
techniques with modern innovations, rather like my attempt to combine
classical topery with solar powered fairy lights, which I might
add has created quite a talking point in the neighbourhood,
particularly among the local bat population, who seem to find
it endlessly entertaining. Garden design itself is evolving, with a
growing emphasis on creating spaces that serve multiple purposes beauty, biodiversity,
(16:22):
food production and social interaction. My own garden has become
something of an experimental laboratory for these new approaches, though
I do sometimes wonder if combining a wildlife pond with
an outdoor dining area was entirely wise. The ducks have
developed rather sophisticated tastes and now expect to be included
in all alfresco dinner parties. The traditional rivalry between formal
(16:44):
and informal styles continues to evolve in fascinating ways. Modern
gardens often combine elements of both approaches, creating spaces that
are at once structured and wild. Rather like my attempt
to organize a garden party during a particularly vigorous growing season,
there was a formal seating plan, but the sweet peas
had their own ideas about table arrangements. Young gardeners are
(17:08):
bringing fresh perspectives to traditional practices, which I find absolutely invigorating.
They're less concerned with following rigid rules and more interested
in creating sustainable, wildlife friendly spaces that reflect their personalities.
Though I must admit some of their color combinations do
make me reach for my smelling salts, but then again,
(17:30):
who am I to judge? My own color scheme has
been described as enthusiastically eclectic by more diplomatic visitors. The
rise of unusual edibles and forest gardening principles is particularly exciting.
We're seeing gardens that combine ornamental and productive plants in
ways that would have scandalized Victorian gardeners. My own experiments
(17:51):
with edible flowers have led to some interesting dinner party conversations,
particularly after I forgot to label the nasturtium bed as
decorative garnish rather than help yourself to salad. As For
the future, I predict will see even more innovation in
how we use our garden spaces. Vertical gardening is already
transforming urban spaces, though my own attempts at creating a
(18:15):
living wall resulted in what I now refer to as
the cascade effect. Apparently gravity remains unconvinced by even the
most innovative gardening techniques. The influence of international design is
becoming more evident in British gardens, though we do tend
to adapt foreign styles to suit our rather particular climate
and sensibilities. My own Japanese inspired meditation garden has developed
(18:39):
what I like to call an Anglo Eastern fusion style,
particularly since the local birds discovered that the carefully raked
gravel makes an excellent bath. But perhaps the most heartening
trend is the growing recognition that gardens, whatever their size
or style, play a crucial role in supporting our mental
well being. Their places of solace c aativity and connection
(19:01):
with nature, with others and with ourselves. My own garden
has been my therapist, my gym, my social club, and
occasionally my hiding place when the local garden club becomes
a bit too enthusiastic about their annual competition. As I
look to the future of British gardening, I remain optimistic. Yes,
we face challenges, changing climate, shrinking spaces, time pressures, but
(19:25):
gardeners are nothing if not adaptable. We've been reinventing ourselves
since those first romans decided straight lines were the answer
to everything, and I don't see that changing anytime soon.
Rustling of tweed Jacket, Well, my dear garden enthusiasts, I'm
afraid it's time for me to bid you farewell and
attend to my evening ritual of reading poetry to the paeonies.
(19:47):
They're particularly partial to Wordsworth, you know. Thank you ever
so much for joining me on this rambling journey through
the history of British gardens. I do hope you've enjoyed
our little chat as much as my prize winning dahlias
in joy their weekly gossip sessions. This has been Nigel
Thistledown for the Quiet Please Podcast Network For more content
(20:07):
like this, please go to quiet Please dot a. I,
thank you, and remember A garden without whimsy is like
tea without biscuits. Technically possible, but why would you ever
want that
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