The magic of marvellous Marrakech

I've been away for the past few days, in Morocco, staying just outside Marrakech in the most wonderful hotel called Tigmi. I'm supposed to be writing a travel piece about the trip for The Independent, but I'm starting to wonder what I'll say. It's difficult to sound original when everyone I know seems to have been to Marrakech already.

Not only that, but I am the biggest sucker in the world when it comes to haggling. I only need to take one look at the hurt expression on the vendor's face as he explains about his starving children and aged parents, and I pay up without another quibble.

How do I avoid the usual clichés? How did I manage to come back with a carpet, when I am a veteran of North African carpet shops and have always sworn I would never succumb? How did I manage to spend so much money? I can only ascribe it to a kind of magical charm that this city exerts over all who visit.

OK, so the clichés. Driving south from Marrakech to the small village of Tagadert, you leave the new developments of hotels and golf courses behind and head into countryside that looks as if it hasn't changed since Biblical times. There are shepherds abiding in the fields and in the distance a figure on a donkey makes its way across the hillside.

The taxi lurches down a road that is so unmade the cast of an entire nativity play could fall into one of the potholes and never be seen again. Can there possibly be a hotel at the end of it or will we find a building site full of rubble and scaffolding? No, here is Tigmi, offering a cool green welcome after the dusty journey from the airport.

Marrakech itself doesn't disappoint. It's like a film set for one of those Agatha Christie movies with an A-list cast. October is a terrific time to visit as the weather is hot but bearable and the kaleidoscope of colour - the red of the city walls, the carpets in the souk, the endless rows of babouches (slippers), scarves, bags and pottery shimmer beneath a blue sky like a cinematographer's dream.

It's a city of flowers too - the first thing that hits you (after the warm sunshine) is the smell of roses as you enter the airport. Roses, which are planted along many of the roadsides, seem to flower all year round in Marrakech, apparently disease-free. There are other plants too - palms, bananas, bougainvillea, and succulents such as cacti and aloes that bask in the dry heat.
The main square, the Djemaa el-Fna, is famous for its snake charmers and musicians, who provide a non-stop cabaret from early evening onwards amid a smoky melee of stalls selling mint tea, soup and barbecue. Here's a huckster trying to persuade two tourists to be photographed with his monkey. Don't you just love the monkey's expression?

Needless to say, my mother and I found ourselves drawn to the plant stalls, below, but didn't find any bargains. Prices in Morocco seems to be pretty similar to the UK. The tall bougainvilleas on this stall were 250 Moroccan dirhams, about £20.

The most famous of the city's gardens is the Jardin Majorelle, built in the 1920s and subsequently bought by Yves Saint Laurent. It features the bright blue - Majorelle blue - that everyone associates with Morocco. Did we visit? No, we didn't. Time was short and I'd heard reports of huge coach parties and slight disappointment. Instead we visited the gardens of La Mamounia hotel, taking advantage of the Open Sesame effect a journalist's pass bestows.

La Mamounia is the smartest hotel in Marrakech. Newly reopened after a three-year refit, it has a strict dress code and while it doesn't actually discourage casual visitors from stopping for lunch or a drink, it doesn't actively encourage them either. The security guards with walkie-talkies at the gates see to that, while once you reach the entrance, what seem like eight (but is probably 12) footmen dressed in white Moroccan dress leap to open the doors into the imposing foyer.

La Mamounia's main claim to fame is that it was one of Churchill's favourite places to stay. It is the most sensational place - as if Death on the Nile had been produced by Gianni Versace - but away from the leopard print and leather-padded cocktail bars and plush restaurants, the gardens offer a green respite from wall-to-wall sophistication, with allées leading between trees and lawns, and pavilions dotted around.

I think it's these sort of contrasts that make Marrakech so vibrant. One minute you're haggling in the souk over a scarf, the next you can be in the tranquil gardens of a palace.

Ah yes, the souk. We cheated and had a guide, courtesy of Best of Morocco who were hosting my visit. Most Moroccans, and especially the ones who are selling you things, speak a bit of English and they all speak French (and Arabic, of course). Language isn't a problem - it's the hassle of fending off over-eager salesmen. The minute you show an interest in anything, they want to sell you two, "for very good price". The idea of window-shopping is a completely alien concept.

Allegedly, the guides take you to their friends' stalls where one presumes they get a commission, but since we wanted to buy stuff anyway (I even had a long shopping list), this was fine by us. And it's certainly true that we wouldn't have had the energy to get round the whole souk if we hadn't been with Ahmed. Cruising along in his wake was so much easier than fighting our way through by ourselves.

Souks are traditionally split up into sections; one for leather, one for silver, one for carpets and so on. The carpets are made in the villages, but walking round the souk, you can see tanners at work and watch the metal-workers beat out their brass patterns with a kind of atonal syncopation.

Here's a traditional medicine shop, with its animal and snake skins hanging up outside. Goodness only knows what they use them for.

Mint tea, traditionally served by the carpet sellers as they unroll rug after gorgeous rug in front of you. Each one is different, and the Berber techniques that you see in Morocco involve knotting, weaving and embroidery, or sometimes even a mixture of all three.

I've sat through a few of these mint tea routines in Tunisia, where the colours and designs are much more traditional and I've always found them a bit headache-inducing. In Marrakech, we were shown a wonderful selection of both traditional and contemporary designs, in the most gorgeous colours.

The shop here is the Artisanat du Sud, owned by Hossni Ait Rammania (half-hidden by the carpet) and his brother Khalid. I'd never be able to find it again - I'd have to get hold of Ahmed. As the salesmen hold up the rug, you either say: "Nakh-am [yes]" or "Laa [no]". It was very difficult to say laa.

The weather gods' revenge

I might have known that the weather gods would read my blog. No sooner had I burbled on about the lovely weather we were having, when the temperature dropped. I think it was my punishment for describing September as Indian summer when, as Lia Leendertz so rightly pointed out, it isn't really an Indian summer until October.

We still haven't had much rain though, apart from a downpour yesterday evening. There's nothing worse than grey, cold weather, is there? Cold and sunny is lovely, and so is hot and sunny. I don't even mind the wet - at least the garden is getting a soaking. But watering when it's grey, cold and windy is a truly miserable, shivery affair.

So I thought I'd cheer myself up by posting this picture of the garden this autumn and comparing it with 2007, which is when the picture at the top of my blog was taken. All in all, I think things are looking better.

I used to think my diseased cannas looked all right. They grew, they flowered: what more do you want? But having replaced them with new plants, I can see that the new foliage is far superior to the virus-ridden leaves I had before. I'm sure even the orange of the flowers is more intense.

Gary commented the other day that he wanted to give cannas a go next year. I'd say go for it, Gary. Make sure you buy really good plants in the first place (don't buy anything that seems to have brown streaks or damage on the leaves). You can grow them from rhizomes, of course, but it will take longer for them to bulk up. I have mine in pots because it's easier to move them into a dry place in winter (such as the shed or a garage). Cut them down to soil level (a bread knife is good) after the first frosts and bring them out again once the weather warms up a bit in late spring.

The hardy geraniums in front of the canna (and the pot of variegated pelargonium) don't look as bushy, but that's deliberate. It's a blue variety (not sure which, as it was a pass-along plant) that flowers only once, in late spring, and I've been surreptitiously ripping chunks out, ready to replace it with a variety that will flower all summer long. I did think of G. 'Blue Sunrise', which I love, but I don't think it's quite sunny enough there, so I might try something else.

This photograph was taken later in the year than the one at the top of my blog, so the crocosmia (the orange patch between the two cannas) have long since disappeared. And can you see how the little fluffy euphorbia has wriggled along the border from one side of the box ball to the other? It hasn't really moved, of course, just died down in one place and seeded itself in another. It's Euphorbia cyparissias 'Orange Man', which I love for its texture, and it self-seeds all over the place.

Other prolific self-seeders in the garden include Erigeron karvinskianus, the Mexican daisy; Libertia grandiflora (the spiky strappy thing next to the box); all the euphorbias, especially E. mellifera which seems to have a determination to reproduce itself that is nothing short of Biblical, and nasturtiums.

This year, a whole bunch of nasturtiums decided to self-seed under the fig tree, which comes into leaf relatively late. Imagine their horror when it finally unfolded its long green leathery fingers. You could almost hear them asking who switched the lights out. Better luck next year, chaps!

Blotanical UK Blog 2009: a very big thank you

I'd like to say thank you to everyone who voted for me in the 2009 Blotanical awards. Simply to be shortlisted for UK Blog was quite a thrill - to be voted best blog is just unbelievable.

I didn't realise I'd won until I started getting messages from blogging friends congratulating me. Even when I saw the official announcement, I could scarcely believe it. I couldn't even sit down to write this yesterday evening; I was too busy wandering around in a daze.

Being part of Blotanical has helped me through some really tough times. I wish my husband, Craig, could have been here to see me win this award. He always encouraged me in whatever I did and he would have been thrilled. So I'd like to dedicate it to him - and to all the husbands, wives, partners and families who patiently put up with us obsessing about our gardens all day (and then coming inside and writing about them all evening!).

Happy new autumn!

Maybe it's because my birthday is in the autumn, or perhaps it's just that school and college begin at the end of summer, but I always feel that this is really the start of a new year.

We've had bit of an Indian summer here in the south-east, which has seemed like a glorious new year's eve party - the sort of party where you look at your watch at some point and are amazed to discover it's 2.40am. Can it really be nearly October? Can it really be that late? It seems as if the garden has only just got going.

I love this time of year. The garden opening has come and gone, and there's nothing to do (weather permitting) except sit back and enjoy things. There's nothing to plant (too dry). There's nothing to mow (ditto). All that's required is a bit of gentle deadheading until the first frosts and gales of winter arrive and I have to wrap, and chop, and sweep.

It's such a luxury to have nothing much to do in the garden. It's amazing how much more keen one is to be out there when all you have to do is wander round and have the chance to really look at things.

My cannas are finally in full bloom. Like supermodels arriving two hours late for a photoshoot, they should really have been on show in time for the garden opening. But just like supermodels, they are so beautiful, I forgive them their lack of punctuality and stand back in admiration instead.

Foliage colour takes on a new depth in September sunshine. This is Pelargonium 'Occold Shield', which has bright yellow-green foliage blotched with bronze, and orangey-red flowers. To be honest, I'd be quite happy just with the leaves.

I wasn't very keen on Geranium 'Rozanne' the first year I grew it. I couldn't really see what all the fuss was about. This year, however, 'Rozanne' has really earned her keep, flowering from early summer and still going strong.

Here's the loquat, Eriobotrya japonica. What's so spectacular about this? The fragrance, which I have no way of replicating here, unfortunately. You'll just have to imagine a garden filled with the scent of frangipani.

This is Sedum spectabile 'Indian Chief'. To be honest, it's a bit pinker than I was expecting. It was described as a 'fiery red, ageing to rust and copper'. I knew it was too good to be true.

Oh. My. Goodness. Thank you, Blotanical!

To my utter and complete amazement, I have been shortlisted by Blotanical for the Best UK Blog. I'm - well, I'm thrilled. I've got stiff competition from The Galloping Gardener, An Artist's Garden, Blogging from Blackpitts and Veg Plotting and I can tell you, I'm hard-put to choose which one of those I'm going to vote for. One difficulty is that I think of them all as old friends - indeed, I've met VP and James, and Karen at Artist's Garden was one of the people who inspired me to keep going with my own blog.

If you've never heard of Blotanical, let me explain. It's a kind of society of blogs from all over the world, organised by Stuart Robinson of Gardening Tips'n'Ideas. Stuart is based in Busselton, Western Australia, and if anyone deserves an award or a medal or a knighthood, it is he. There are now more than 1,000 blogs listed, but you don't have to have a blog in order to join. If you're a keen gardener, but don't fancy the idea of writing about it, you can sign up to become a member, which means you can comment and message and have access to this rich resource.

Society is a good word for Blotanical because it is like a global extended family of friends and neighbours. You can find out what it is like to garden in completely different climates, from the deserts of Arizona and Nevada to the monsoon belt of Asia, and from the frozen north of Canada and Scandinavia to the upside down seasons (or so they seem to us in the northern hemisphere anyway) of South Africa and Australasia.

You can have a conversation about grasses with a friend in Tennessee or join in the Diwali celebrations with a thousand marigolds in Mumbai. It's a fantastic source of advice, support, friendship and, very often, hoots of laughter.

I really value the virtual friends I've made. Many of them have been shortlisted in the finals too, so if you're a Blotanical member, go and check out the nominations NOW. You can vote here.

We are family

It was my day off on Tuesday, and I spent it with my mother, my sister, my two cousins and my aunt. This was very jolly, of course, but there was a serious purpose behind our reunion. We were going to plant flowers on my grandmother's grave.

My grandmother died 20 years ago, but her grave has been a bit of an issue. She is buried in a family plot, which had been bought by her parents and left to her. Unfortunately, she did not leave it to my mother or uncle in her will, so technically it still belonged to her.

My mother only discovered this when she wanted to add an inscription for my uncle. He died in 1993, but my aunt (his widow) now felt the time was right to scatter some of his ashes on the grave. However, the cemetery officials told the stonemason they were authorised only to deal with the owner, which made life a bit difficult.

Not all churchyards and cemeteries are the same. In some cemeteries, you "rent" a space for a limited time. My sister told me that friends of hers had decorated a relative's grave in a local churchyard, only to be told that it contravened the terms of the "lease" and they had to change it.

In the case of my grandmother's grave, there are no restrictions at all as regards decoration, plantings or anything else. However, the plot is now full, and the only interments that can be made from now on are ashes. There is plenty of space for inscriptions, though, and I know my mother would like her ashes to be buried there when the time comes.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, my mother now has a certificate to say that she is the owner of the plot, the inscriptions are now in place, the marble has been cleaned and some lovely new crumbly topsoil installed. So after a delicious lunch of my sister's homemade (homegrown) courgette soup and a glass or two of pink Prosecco, we set off, trowels in hand.

My aunt had brought some cyclamen in varying shades of pink, and my mother had brought a spreading juniper. We all agreed my grandmother would have loved the cyclamen (she had a bit of a thing for cyclamen-pink lipstick) and that the juniper was just the right shade of air-force blue. (My uncle used to be in the RAF.)

My aunt scattering some of my uncle's ashes. I think the rest will probably go in the woods where they used to walk.

The finishing touch was a bagful of muscari bulbs in white and blue, which my aunt has asked me to augment in early spring with some English primroses.

As we worked away, the sun came out and it ended up being a lovely afternoon. I think both my aunt and my mother were worried that each might find the occasion a bit overwhelming but in fact, I think they both enjoyed it. It was poignant, of course, but in a good way.

As for us daughters, we loved seeing each other again. I don't see nearly enough of my cousins and even though the occasion was quite a solemn one, we still managed the odd fit of giggles as if we were all six years old once more.

I think the moral of this story is that it is worth thinking about all these things in advance, and perhaps setting out in detail what you want to happen. It may seem a morbid idea, but it can save a lot of heartache and hassle later on. And I also think that, rather than something that should never be mentioned, it can be quite comforting for people to talk it over and know what's going to happen, and where they are going to go. I know that's the case with my mother.

The finished result. My cousin took this picture...

... so I took this one so she could be in the group