February 10, 2025 • 14 mins
This episode is an extensive gardening article narrated by the eccentric English gardening expert Nigel Thistledown. Written in his distinctly charming and whimsical voice, the piece guides readers through the art of maintaining a garden that flourishes throughout all four seasons. Nigel shares his personal experiences, including the memorable "Great Frost Incident" where he lost a prized camellia, along with practical advice about seasonal planting, soil preparation, and water management. His narrative is peppered with delightful anecdotes about reciting Shakespeare to hydrangeas, hosting lavender-scented tea parties in his greenhouse, and conversing with local wildlife. The article weaves together expert horticultural knowledge with Nigel's unique brand of humor and theatrical flair, all while explaining how to create and maintain a garden that remains vibrant and interesting year-round. His storytelling style makes complex gardening concepts accessible and entertaining, concluding with a warm invitation to continue following his gardening adventures through the Quiet Please podcast network.
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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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
My dearest garden enthusiasts and fellow admirers of nature's grand performance,
gather around, for I have quite the tale to tell
about creating a garden that dances through all four seasons
with the grace of a royal ballet. I'm Nigel Thistledown,
and if you'll pardon the rather stubborn piece of ivy
that's made itself quite at home on my lapel, I've
(00:21):
named it Herbert, and we've reached something of an understanding.
I'll share with you the secrets of maintaining a garden
that never sleeps, only changes costumes. You see, gardening through
the seasons is rather like directing a rather elaborate theatrical production,
where timing is everything, and occasionally your lead actor, I'm
looking at you, temperamental Rose Graham Thomas decides to throw
(00:44):
a bit of a dramatic fit. But that's precisely what
makes it all so terribly exciting, isn't it. Let us begin,
shall we with the grand opening act Spring Ah Spring,
the season where everything seems to wake up at once,
like a dormant tree of teenagers suddenly realizing they're late
for breakfast. It's absolutely crucial to have your early performers
(01:06):
ready to go, your snowdrops and crocuses, those plucky little
fellows who don't mind poking their heads up when there's
still a nip in the air. I always tell my snowdrops, now, then,
don't be shy. You're the opening number, darlings, and the
whole garden's counting on you. Speaking of counting on things,
I really must tell you about what I like to
call the Great frost Incident of twenty eighteen, a rather
(01:30):
dramatic episode involving my prized Camelia Japonica donation. Oh what
a beauty she was, and terribly proud of it too.
I'd spent years coaxing her into the perfect position, whispering
sweet nothings about proper soil pH and the importance of
good drainage. But did I listen to old missus Pembroke
next door when she warned about that cold snap coming. No,
(01:53):
I was far too busy trying to convince my Wisteria
that climbing the garden shed was beneath its dignity. It wasn't,
and still isn't. But one must maintain standards. Well. That
frost came in like an uninvited guest at a garden party,
and my poor Camellia, despite all her lovely pink blooms,
simply couldn't handle the drama of it all. The next
(02:15):
morning I found her flowers had turned that dreadful shade
of brown that every gardener dreads, rather like that time
I left a tea bag in my cup for three
hours while getting distracted by a particularly chatty robin. Since then,
I've become rather zealous about winter protection. Some might say obsessed,
but I prefer to think of it as enthusiastically prepared.
(02:37):
But let's move on to the main act of our
year round performance. Summer. This is when the garden truly
puts on its finest show, with roses strutting about like
divas and requiring just as much attention, I might add,
delphiniums reaching for the sky as though they're trying to
high five passing clouds, and my personal favorite, the ever
(02:57):
reliable geraniums spreading themselves about like cheerful gossip at a
village feed. Summer is when I host my famous greenhouse
tea parties, where the schoons are indeed always lavender infused.
My own recipe, thank you very much, and the conversation
flows as freely as the earl Gray. It's during these
gatherings that I often share my somewhat unconventional gardening methods. Yes,
(03:21):
I do recite Shakespeare to my high drangers, and I
stand by my claim that it improves their blooms. A
Midsummer Night's Dream seems to be their particular favorite, though
the blue ones prefer the comedies, while the pink ones
have a distinct leaning toward the tragedies. The trick to
maintaining summer interest is to think in layers, rather like
(03:42):
dressing for an English winter. You never quite know what
weather you're going to get, so best to be prepared
for everything. I plant tall architectural specimens at the back.
My digitalist Purpuria collection has been known to stop traffic. Literally.
Poor mister Jenkins was so distracted by their height last
June that he drove his bicycle straight into my hedge
(04:03):
with medium height perennials in the middle and shorter, more
sociable plants at the front. As summer begins to take
its final bow, autumn sweeps on to the stage with
all the flourish of a seasoned performer. This is when
my garden reveals some of its cleverer tricks. The ones
I spent months planning while pretending to listen to my
sister's lengthy stories about her prize winning marrows. The Japanese
(04:27):
maples begin their colour change rather like a slow motion
fireworks display, and the asters or symphiotricum if we're being
botanically correct, though they do get terribly up aty if
you use their full name, burst into bloom like tiny
purple and pink stars. I must confess to a bit
of theatrical garden design here. I've planted my autumn performers
(04:49):
in such a way that they catch the low afternoon sun,
creating what I like to call the Golden hour garden.
It's rather like having nature's own spotlight system, though can
considerably more reliable than the lighting at our local amateur
dramatic society. The miscanthus grasses sway in the breeze, their
silvery plumes catching the light like so many diamond tiaras.
(05:11):
While the seed heads have spent summer blooms add their
own architectural interest. Now winter are winter. This is when
many gardeners pull up the drawbridge and retreat indoors. But
I consider it the garden's most subtle and sophisticated performance.
It's all about structure, you see, like the bones of
a well written play. My collection of evergreens, each with
(05:34):
their own personality, I assure you, keeps the garden looking
alive even in the depths of December. The holly, which
I've lovingly shaped into what I insist is a perfect sphere,
but my neighbour claims looks more like a lopsided rugby ball,
provides both structure and berries, though the blackbirds usually make
short work of those during their annual Christmas feast. Winter
(05:56):
is also when my rather extensive collection of Witch Hazel's
comes in their own hamamelis ex intermedia Jelana is particularly spectacular,
her coppery orange flowers appearing like tiny ribbons of flame
against the gray winter sky. I once caught the postman
standing transfixed before it for a good ten minutes, though
(06:17):
he later claimed he was simply reading a particularly engaging
electricity bill. The key to winter interest lies not just
in what you plant, but in how you plant it.
Bark texture becomes suddenly fascinating when there are no leaves
to distract from it. My ace agrisium paper bark maple
stands like a piece of living sculpture, its cinnamon colored
(06:38):
bark peeling away in delicate curls. I've positioned it where
the low winter sun catches it just so, creating what
I like to think of as nature's own art installation,
though considerably more reliable than that rather questionable piece my
cousin Henrietta insisted on displaying at last year's village art show.
Of course, maintaining a garden performs year round requires more
(07:02):
than just clever planting. It demands a certain amount of
what I like to call strategic neglect. This is entirely
different from actual neglect, you understand, which is what happened
to poor mister Willoughby's garden when he became rather too
invested in his model train hobby. Strategic neglect involves knowing
when to step back and let nature take its course,
(07:24):
and when to step in with secateurs blazing metaphorically speaking,
of course, I learned my lesson about running with garden
tools after the great topiary incident of twenty sixteen, which
we sha'n't discuss. Soil preparation is crucial though I do
wish someone had explained this to me before I spent
three years wondering why my acidic loving plants kept throwing
(07:45):
spectacular tantrums in my alkaline clay. Now I amend my
soil with all the care and attention of a master
chef preparing a soouflet, though with considerably more compost and
rather less cheese. Each autumn. I work in liberal amounts
of organic matter, which I collect throughout the year in
what my neighbours kindly refer to as that mountain behind
(08:08):
the greenhouse, but what I prefer to call my biomass
enhancement facility. Water management is another crucial element in maintaining
a year round garden. I've installed a rather elaborate system
of water buds connected by what looks like a scale
model of the London underground, but actually works rather well,
even if it did take me three weekends and two
(08:29):
very patient friends to set up. The plants seem to
prefer rain water to tap water, though I suspect this
has more to do with their inherent snobbery than any
actual horticultural benefit. Speaking of benefits, I've found that maintaining
a garden through all four seasons has rather unexpected advantages
beyond the obvious esthetic pleasures. For one thing, it provides
(08:51):
year round habitat for wildlife. Though I do wish the
local badger population would be a bit more discriminating in
their bulb hunting expeditions. I've tried reasoning with them, but
they seem remarkably unmoved by my arguments about the cost
of specialty tulips. The garden also serves as a rather
effective calendar. I always know its time to start my
(09:12):
spring preparations when the witch hazel begins to fade, just
as I know autumn is truly underway when the toad
flax starts its annual attempt to colonize the gravel path.
I've learned to read these signs with all the attention
of a fortune teller reading tea leaves, though with considerably
more accuracy and far fewer dramatic predictions about tall, dark strangers.
(09:34):
One of the most important lessons I've learned in creating
a year round garden is the value of patience, particularly
when it comes to establishing those slow growing but ultimately
spectacular specimens. My Wisteria senensis took three years before it
deigned to produce its first flower, during which time I
read it poetry, played it classical music, and even in
(09:55):
a moment of desperation, tried threatening it with replacement by
a Virginia creeper. When it finally did bloom, the display
was so magnificent that even Missus Pembroke, who generally regards
my gardening methods with deep suspicion, was moved to grudging admiration.
Of course, not everything in the garden goes according to plan.
There was the time I attempted to create a color
(10:17):
themed border that would transition smoothly through the seasons, only
to have a rogue self seeding Verbina benariensis throw the
whole scheme into gorgeous chaos. Or the year I carefully
planned a succession of white flowers for evening viewing, only
to discover that the local moth population found it so
irresistible that evening garden parties became rather more exciting than intended.
(10:40):
But these little surprises a part of what makes gardening
such a perpetually engaging pursuit. Every season brings its own
challenges and rewards. From the first snowdrop pushing through frozen soil,
to the last seed head standing proud against a December sky.
The trick is to embrace these changes, to work with
them rather than against them, and to maintain a sense
(11:01):
of humor when things don't quite go as planned. I've
found that the most successful year round gardens are those
that don't try to fight against the natural rhythm of
the seasons, but rather enhance and celebrate them. This might
mean excepting that there will be times when the garden
is less colorful but no less interesting. Winter, for instance,
when frost traces silver patterns on seed heads and low
(11:23):
sun casts long shadows across carefully planned structural elements. It's
also important to remember that a year round garden doesn't
mean every part of the garden needs to be performing
at all times. Rather like a well orchestrated symphony, different
sections take their turn in the spotlight, while others rest
and prepare for their moment. This approach not only creates
(11:44):
a more sustainable and manageable garden, but also gives each
season its own distinct character and charm. As I sit
here in my greenhouse, watching the rain create rivulets on
the glass and listening to the contented humming of my
heating system, a rather in genius set up involving solar
panels and what my electrician kindly refers to as creative wiring.
(12:06):
I can't help but feel a deep satisfaction in having
created a garden that never truly sleeps. Even now, in
the depths of winter, I can see the promise of
spring in the swelling buds of the hellebores, the sturdy
shoots of early bulbs pushing through the soil, and the
delicate catkins forming on the garrier elliptica. Gardening through the
seasons is in many ways like conducting a never ending
(12:29):
conversation with nature. Sometimes it's a spirited debate, Occasionally it
escalates into what one might call a horticultural argument, but
more often than not, it's a delightful exchange of ideas
and energy. The key is to listen as much as
you speak, to observe as much as you act, and
to always keep a spare pair of gardening gloves handy,
(12:50):
preferably somewhere you can actually find them, unlike mine, which
seem to have developed a remarkable talent for disappearing just
when they're most needed. And so, my dear friends, as
the sun sets on another day in this ever changing
canvas we call a garden. I leave you with this thought,
A truly year round garden is not just a collection
of plants, but a living, breathing entity that reflects the
(13:13):
eternal dance of the seasons. It's a place where every
day brings something new to discover, where every season has
its own special magic, and where, if you're very lucky,
you might just find yourself in conversation with a particularly
opinionated magpie about the best way to stake delphiniums now.
If you'll excuse me, I believe I hear my hydrangers
(13:34):
requesting an encore performance of much Ado about nothing. And
one must never keep one's audience waiting, after all, as
any gardener worth their compost will tell you, timing is
everything in both Shakespeare and horticulture. Well, my dear listeners,
I'm afraid that's all the time we have for today's
horticultural adventures. I do hope you've enjoyed this little jaunt
(13:56):
through the seasons with your rather ivy covered host. I
must say, Herbert the Ivy seems to have invited a
few friends to join him on my lapel during our chat.
How terribly social of him. This has been brought to
you by Quiet Pleas podcast networks, where we believe the
best stories grow wild and free, much like my beloved
cottage garden, though perhaps with slightly better boundaries than my
(14:19):
enthusiastic sweet peas. For more content like this, please go
to Quiet Please dot a, I, thank you, and do
remember to subscribe. It's rather like dead heading roses. You know,
the more attention you give, the more beautiful blooms you'll
receive in return. Until next time, this is Nigel Thistledown
bidding you farewell from my ever evolving garden, where there's
(14:41):
always room for one more plant and one more story
My dearest garden enthusiasts and fellow admirers of nature's grand performance,
gather around, for I have quite the tale to tell
about creating a garden that dances through all four seasons
with the grace of a royal ballet. I'm Nigel Thistledown,
and if you'll pardon the rather stubborn piece of ivy
that's made itself quite at home on my lapel, I've
(00:21):
named it Herbert, and we've reached something of an understanding.
I'll share with you the secrets of maintaining a garden
that never sleeps, only changes costumes. You see, gardening through
the seasons is rather like directing a rather elaborate theatrical production,
where timing is everything, and occasionally your lead actor, I'm
looking at you, temperamental Rose Graham Thomas decides to throw
(00:44):
a bit of a dramatic fit. But that's precisely what
makes it all so terribly exciting, isn't it. Let us begin,
shall we with the grand opening act Spring Ah Spring,
the season where everything seems to wake up at once,
like a dormant tree of teenagers suddenly realizing they're late
for breakfast. It's absolutely crucial to have your early performers
(01:06):
ready to go, your snowdrops and crocuses, those plucky little
fellows who don't mind poking their heads up when there's
still a nip in the air. I always tell my snowdrops, now, then,
don't be shy. You're the opening number, darlings, and the
whole garden's counting on you. Speaking of counting on things,
I really must tell you about what I like to
call the Great frost Incident of twenty eighteen, a rather
(01:30):
dramatic episode involving my prized Camelia Japonica donation. Oh what
a beauty she was, and terribly proud of it too.
I'd spent years coaxing her into the perfect position, whispering
sweet nothings about proper soil pH and the importance of
good drainage. But did I listen to old missus Pembroke
next door when she warned about that cold snap coming. No,
(01:53):
I was far too busy trying to convince my Wisteria
that climbing the garden shed was beneath its dignity. It wasn't,
and still isn't. But one must maintain standards. Well. That
frost came in like an uninvited guest at a garden party,
and my poor Camellia, despite all her lovely pink blooms,
simply couldn't handle the drama of it all. The next
(02:15):
morning I found her flowers had turned that dreadful shade
of brown that every gardener dreads, rather like that time
I left a tea bag in my cup for three
hours while getting distracted by a particularly chatty robin. Since then,
I've become rather zealous about winter protection. Some might say obsessed,
but I prefer to think of it as enthusiastically prepared.
(02:37):
But let's move on to the main act of our
year round performance. Summer. This is when the garden truly
puts on its finest show, with roses strutting about like
divas and requiring just as much attention, I might add,
delphiniums reaching for the sky as though they're trying to
high five passing clouds, and my personal favorite, the ever
(02:57):
reliable geraniums spreading themselves about like cheerful gossip at a
village feed. Summer is when I host my famous greenhouse
tea parties, where the schoons are indeed always lavender infused.
My own recipe, thank you very much, and the conversation
flows as freely as the earl Gray. It's during these
gatherings that I often share my somewhat unconventional gardening methods. Yes,
(03:21):
I do recite Shakespeare to my high drangers, and I
stand by my claim that it improves their blooms. A
Midsummer Night's Dream seems to be their particular favorite, though
the blue ones prefer the comedies, while the pink ones
have a distinct leaning toward the tragedies. The trick to
maintaining summer interest is to think in layers, rather like
(03:42):
dressing for an English winter. You never quite know what
weather you're going to get, so best to be prepared
for everything. I plant tall architectural specimens at the back.
My digitalist Purpuria collection has been known to stop traffic. Literally.
Poor mister Jenkins was so distracted by their height last
June that he drove his bicycle straight into my hedge
(04:03):
with medium height perennials in the middle and shorter, more
sociable plants at the front. As summer begins to take
its final bow, autumn sweeps on to the stage with
all the flourish of a seasoned performer. This is when
my garden reveals some of its cleverer tricks. The ones
I spent months planning while pretending to listen to my
sister's lengthy stories about her prize winning marrows. The Japanese
(04:27):
maples begin their colour change rather like a slow motion
fireworks display, and the asters or symphiotricum if we're being
botanically correct, though they do get terribly up aty if
you use their full name, burst into bloom like tiny
purple and pink stars. I must confess to a bit
of theatrical garden design here. I've planted my autumn performers
(04:49):
in such a way that they catch the low afternoon sun,
creating what I like to call the Golden hour garden.
It's rather like having nature's own spotlight system, though can
considerably more reliable than the lighting at our local amateur
dramatic society. The miscanthus grasses sway in the breeze, their
silvery plumes catching the light like so many diamond tiaras.
(05:11):
While the seed heads have spent summer blooms add their
own architectural interest. Now winter are winter. This is when
many gardeners pull up the drawbridge and retreat indoors. But
I consider it the garden's most subtle and sophisticated performance.
It's all about structure, you see, like the bones of
a well written play. My collection of evergreens, each with
(05:34):
their own personality, I assure you, keeps the garden looking
alive even in the depths of December. The holly, which
I've lovingly shaped into what I insist is a perfect sphere,
but my neighbour claims looks more like a lopsided rugby ball,
provides both structure and berries, though the blackbirds usually make
short work of those during their annual Christmas feast. Winter
(05:56):
is also when my rather extensive collection of Witch Hazel's
comes in their own hamamelis ex intermedia Jelana is particularly spectacular,
her coppery orange flowers appearing like tiny ribbons of flame
against the gray winter sky. I once caught the postman
standing transfixed before it for a good ten minutes, though
(06:17):
he later claimed he was simply reading a particularly engaging
electricity bill. The key to winter interest lies not just
in what you plant, but in how you plant it.
Bark texture becomes suddenly fascinating when there are no leaves
to distract from it. My ace agrisium paper bark maple
stands like a piece of living sculpture, its cinnamon colored
(06:38):
bark peeling away in delicate curls. I've positioned it where
the low winter sun catches it just so, creating what
I like to think of as nature's own art installation,
though considerably more reliable than that rather questionable piece my
cousin Henrietta insisted on displaying at last year's village art show.
Of course, maintaining a garden performs year round requires more
(07:02):
than just clever planting. It demands a certain amount of
what I like to call strategic neglect. This is entirely
different from actual neglect, you understand, which is what happened
to poor mister Willoughby's garden when he became rather too
invested in his model train hobby. Strategic neglect involves knowing
when to step back and let nature take its course,
(07:24):
and when to step in with secateurs blazing metaphorically speaking,
of course, I learned my lesson about running with garden
tools after the great topiary incident of twenty sixteen, which
we sha'n't discuss. Soil preparation is crucial though I do
wish someone had explained this to me before I spent
three years wondering why my acidic loving plants kept throwing
(07:45):
spectacular tantrums in my alkaline clay. Now I amend my
soil with all the care and attention of a master
chef preparing a soouflet, though with considerably more compost and
rather less cheese. Each autumn. I work in liberal amounts
of organic matter, which I collect throughout the year in
what my neighbours kindly refer to as that mountain behind
(08:08):
the greenhouse, but what I prefer to call my biomass
enhancement facility. Water management is another crucial element in maintaining
a year round garden. I've installed a rather elaborate system
of water buds connected by what looks like a scale
model of the London underground, but actually works rather well,
even if it did take me three weekends and two
(08:29):
very patient friends to set up. The plants seem to
prefer rain water to tap water, though I suspect this
has more to do with their inherent snobbery than any
actual horticultural benefit. Speaking of benefits, I've found that maintaining
a garden through all four seasons has rather unexpected advantages
beyond the obvious esthetic pleasures. For one thing, it provides
(08:51):
year round habitat for wildlife. Though I do wish the
local badger population would be a bit more discriminating in
their bulb hunting expeditions. I've tried reasoning with them, but
they seem remarkably unmoved by my arguments about the cost
of specialty tulips. The garden also serves as a rather
effective calendar. I always know its time to start my
(09:12):
spring preparations when the witch hazel begins to fade, just
as I know autumn is truly underway when the toad
flax starts its annual attempt to colonize the gravel path.
I've learned to read these signs with all the attention
of a fortune teller reading tea leaves, though with considerably
more accuracy and far fewer dramatic predictions about tall, dark strangers.
(09:34):
One of the most important lessons I've learned in creating
a year round garden is the value of patience, particularly
when it comes to establishing those slow growing but ultimately
spectacular specimens. My Wisteria senensis took three years before it
deigned to produce its first flower, during which time I
read it poetry, played it classical music, and even in
(09:55):
a moment of desperation, tried threatening it with replacement by
a Virginia creeper. When it finally did bloom, the display
was so magnificent that even Missus Pembroke, who generally regards
my gardening methods with deep suspicion, was moved to grudging admiration.
Of course, not everything in the garden goes according to plan.
There was the time I attempted to create a color
(10:17):
themed border that would transition smoothly through the seasons, only
to have a rogue self seeding Verbina benariensis throw the
whole scheme into gorgeous chaos. Or the year I carefully
planned a succession of white flowers for evening viewing, only
to discover that the local moth population found it so
irresistible that evening garden parties became rather more exciting than intended.
(10:40):
But these little surprises a part of what makes gardening
such a perpetually engaging pursuit. Every season brings its own
challenges and rewards. From the first snowdrop pushing through frozen soil,
to the last seed head standing proud against a December sky.
The trick is to embrace these changes, to work with
them rather than against them, and to maintain a sense
(11:01):
of humor when things don't quite go as planned. I've
found that the most successful year round gardens are those
that don't try to fight against the natural rhythm of
the seasons, but rather enhance and celebrate them. This might
mean excepting that there will be times when the garden
is less colorful but no less interesting. Winter, for instance,
when frost traces silver patterns on seed heads and low
(11:23):
sun casts long shadows across carefully planned structural elements. It's
also important to remember that a year round garden doesn't
mean every part of the garden needs to be performing
at all times. Rather like a well orchestrated symphony, different
sections take their turn in the spotlight, while others rest
and prepare for their moment. This approach not only creates
(11:44):
a more sustainable and manageable garden, but also gives each
season its own distinct character and charm. As I sit
here in my greenhouse, watching the rain create rivulets on
the glass and listening to the contented humming of my
heating system, a rather in genius set up involving solar
panels and what my electrician kindly refers to as creative wiring.
(12:06):
I can't help but feel a deep satisfaction in having
created a garden that never truly sleeps. Even now, in
the depths of winter, I can see the promise of
spring in the swelling buds of the hellebores, the sturdy
shoots of early bulbs pushing through the soil, and the
delicate catkins forming on the garrier elliptica. Gardening through the
seasons is in many ways like conducting a never ending
(12:29):
conversation with nature. Sometimes it's a spirited debate, Occasionally it
escalates into what one might call a horticultural argument, but
more often than not, it's a delightful exchange of ideas
and energy. The key is to listen as much as
you speak, to observe as much as you act, and
to always keep a spare pair of gardening gloves handy,
(12:50):
preferably somewhere you can actually find them, unlike mine, which
seem to have developed a remarkable talent for disappearing just
when they're most needed. And so, my dear friends, as
the sun sets on another day in this ever changing
canvas we call a garden. I leave you with this thought,
A truly year round garden is not just a collection
of plants, but a living, breathing entity that reflects the
(13:13):
eternal dance of the seasons. It's a place where every
day brings something new to discover, where every season has
its own special magic, and where, if you're very lucky,
you might just find yourself in conversation with a particularly
opinionated magpie about the best way to stake delphiniums now.
If you'll excuse me, I believe I hear my hydrangers
(13:34):
requesting an encore performance of much Ado about nothing. And
one must never keep one's audience waiting, after all, as
any gardener worth their compost will tell you, timing is
everything in both Shakespeare and horticulture. Well, my dear listeners,
I'm afraid that's all the time we have for today's
horticultural adventures. I do hope you've enjoyed this little jaunt
(13:56):
through the seasons with your rather ivy covered host. I
must say, Herbert the Ivy seems to have invited a
few friends to join him on my lapel during our chat.
How terribly social of him. This has been brought to
you by Quiet Pleas podcast networks, where we believe the
best stories grow wild and free, much like my beloved
cottage garden, though perhaps with slightly better boundaries than my
(14:19):
enthusiastic sweet peas. For more content like this, please go
to Quiet Please dot a, I, thank you, and do
remember to subscribe. It's rather like dead heading roses. You know,
the more attention you give, the more beautiful blooms you'll
receive in return. Until next time, this is Nigel Thistledown
bidding you farewell from my ever evolving garden, where there's
(14:41):
always room for one more plant and one more story
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Cardiac Cowboys
The heart was always off-limits to surgeons. Cutting into it spelled instant death for the patient. That is, until a ragtag group of doctors scattered across the Midwest and Texas decided to throw out the rule book. Working in makeshift laboratories and home garages, using medical devices made from scavenged machine parts and beer tubes, these men and women invented the field of open heart surgery. Odds are, someone you know is alive because of them. So why has history left them behind? Presented by Chris Pine, CARDIAC COWBOYS tells the gripping true story behind the birth of heart surgery, and the young, Greatest Generation doctors who made it happen. For years, they competed and feuded, racing to be the first, the best, and the most prolific. Some appeared on the cover of Time Magazine, operated on kings and advised presidents. Others ended up disgraced, penniless, and convicted of felonies. Together, they ignited a revolution in medicine, and changed the world.
The Joe Rogan Experience
The official podcast of comedian Joe Rogan.