Lord of the jungle: Luigi's garden blog

"Move your fat butt, Mario, this tree ain't big enough for the both of us"

"Hey, there's next door's Jack Russells. Up here, guys!" [Explosion of frenzied barking] "Hehehehe!"

"Looking good my man."

"If I do my cute look, do you think she'll give me extra food?"

"OK, time to get down."

"Wait, is it really that far?"

"OK, just take it easy. One paw at a time"

"Phew, that's better. I can see the ground now."

Hope springs eternal (especially if you are a plum tree)

One of the first plants my husband and I bought for our garden was a fan-trained plum, a Victoria, to be precise. My husband was always very keen on plants that provided food. If he'd had his way, I think our garden would have been one giant fruit cage.

We bought the plum tree complete with training frame from the RHS plant centre at Wisley. Having an urban garden, we wanted something that wouldn't take up too much room, so we intended to plant it against a south-facing fence. We were told it was on the "dwarf" rooting stock for plums and gages, which is called Pixie.
We took it home, planted it and waited impatiently for a crop of succulent plums. The first couple of years it didn't really do anything - in terms of either fruit or growth - which was fair enough. Then it started to take off. We got quite a few plums - but we also got lots of growth. The tree seemed determined to shake off its fan-shaped bonds and wriggle skywards. Every time we pruned it back, another huge leader would appear at the top of the main trunk, while the lateral branches would send out exploratory shoots in every direction. Usually in my eye.

Even more irritating, around this time I heard Bob Flowerdew, one of the Gardeners' Question Time panellists, talking about fruit trees and saying that you could never grow a plum as a fan-trained tree, even on a dwarf rootstock because ... they were too vigorous. Thanks, Bob! Perhaps you could pass that information on to the garden centre at Wisley. Likewise, I see that Pixie is now described as a semi-dwarf rootstock.

In 2008, Anna Pavord, the garden writer, came to see my garden to write a piece about it for The Independent Magazine. She gave me a copy of her book, The New Kitchen Garden. I showed her the plum. What did she suggest?

Chop it in half, she said. Cut it right down to about 3ft high, so you've still got the original lateral branches. That should, she said, encourage it to grow sideways rather than upwards. Of course, she added casually, it may kill it.

OK, Anna, I said, with a brave smile, I'll do just that. It only took me four years to summon up the nerve. But this winter, I took my courage - and my pruning saw - in both hands and enacted the Wandsworth Pruning Saw Massacre. I'm delighted to report that this spring, the tree is showing signs of life.

Urban gardeners like me always look longingly at the fruit trees in the nurseries. I love the idea of growing a little apple tree in a pot - 'May Queen' would be my choice - or perhaps an apricot. And maybe a standard gooseberry tucked among the pots of herbs. But would it really work? And would it work in a really small space, like a balcony?

So I was pleased to hear that Timber Press has just published Fruit Trees in Small Spaces, by Colby Eierman and I'll be very interested to see what ideas it has to offer.

Woohoo, spring is here!

According to my friend Geraint Smith, former science editor of the Evening Standard, today is not really the first day of spring. He argues that it is 1 March, St David's Day (he's Welsh, needless to say), and that the season of spring consists of the months of March, April and May. The date of 20 March marks the vernal equinox, he says, not the start of spring. A not unreasonable argument.

Whatever, we all know that there have been signs of spring in the garden for a few weeks now. My cherry tree is in blossom, the Clematis armandii is in full floriferous regalia and you can almost hear the sap rising.

(Of course, most of the C. armandii is growing along the top of the fence and up other people's trees. I've never known an armandii that wanted to flower in its own garden. If you're thinking of getting one, plant it next door!)

There is frogspawn in the pond (sorry about the quality of the picture)

The euphorbia is shaking out its fresh lime-green flowers in competition with the cherry blossom. There's sunshine. There's birdsong. And there's ... the sound of lawnmowers and leaf-blowers and pressure washers. Time to go back indoors.

Singing from the same hymn sheet

As many of you will know, I've spent much of this week singing in various performances and rehearsals. I enjoy singing in a choir - I find it very therapeutic. I think this is because it engages your whole brain.

You have to count, you have to think about pitch, you have to think about being expressive, you have to read the words and the music, you have to think about when to breathe - so there is absolutely no space left in which to stress out about whether you need to go to the supermarket, or whether you sent that email.
While I was musing about this on my way to work this morning, it also struck me that many of my fellow garden bloggers sing - or if they don't sing, they share a love of music. Was there a link, I wondered, between gardening and music? Or was it just that a lot of my garden blogging friends (those of a similar age to me) come from a generation when schools taught music properly, and communal singing (hymns at assembly and so on) was a daily occurrence?

Probably just coincidence, I decided. Then I thought about it a bit more. Hardly any of my colleagues - most of whom are at least 10 years younger than me - take part in any musical activity. I can think of only one who sings in a choir.

Yet among the bloggers I can think of quite a few - Sue Beesley, Alex Johnson, VP, for example. Nigel Colborn is a huge classical music fan.

For me, gardening is like music. I even use the same language to describe it - I like to think of planting schemes as having rhythm, form and texture. Take a look at Anne Wareham's garden at Veddw - to me, those hedges really rock. Or this landform by Charles Jencks. Or anything by Fernando Caruncho. (NB: this piece of film starts with a noisy advert.)

They remind me of a piece of Bach; it's the same marriage of order and beauty. Is it precisely that which appeals to my fellow gardeners and music-makers? Oddly enough, if you go to Fernando Caruncho's website, the first thing that greets you is a piece of Baroque piano music.

Being a lazy gardener with no design training, I often take refuge in the leitmotif approach, where the same combination of plants is repeated.

Plants are like an orchestra - there are the sonorous bass notes of deep green glossy evergreens, and the brilliant trumpet blasts of plants such as cannas and lilies. And a garden can physically make a noise, of course - the rustle of leaves, the creak of tree trunks, the humming, buzzing, tuneful chorus of insects and birds.

Gardening also reminds me of conducting - that challenge of getting everyone to come in at the right time, and at the right speed, is just like getting things to flower or fruit when you want them too. (And very often there's a lot of back-breaking work, which results in an all-too brief performance.)

What do you think? Are you a singer and a sower? Do you orchestrate your garden?

One thing, and another, and some pretty pictures

I was going to post about our trip to the Everglades which for me was one of the highlights of our trip to Florida, but I think I might wait until I've got the energy to do it justice.

I've spent most of the past few days singing in various rehearsals and concerts, with - as a sort of grand finale - a guest appearance at the school careers evening tonight, talking to 16-year-olds about journalism as a career. So I am in desperate need of a lie-down and a cup of tea. (No change there, then.)

However, my friend Heike came round on Monday to photograph Mario and Luigi - the hilarious results of which I hope to show you soon. Heike is a photographer and she's just started marketing a range of greetings cards, which include some fabulous flower images. Since Mother's Day, and Easter and so on, is all on the horizon, I thought you might like to see them.

She's selling through eBay (if you're based in the UK) and Etsy (for American customers) and you can have a look by clicking here and here. I love the parrot tulips shown here - they light a up a cold rainy March day like a fire. Heike also specialises in cats and dogs - hence the pictures of Mario and Luigi. Today, a pair of naughty little fridge raiders, tomorrow, who knows? Feline supermodels, smirking at me from the cover of Vogue, perhaps?

A stroll down Ocean Drive

So, Miami Beach. What a place. It's like an assault on the brain, especially for a pair of sun-starved Brits, wan of face and weary of winter. It seems ludicrous, in hindsight, that I was so stressed about what the weather would be like. My daughter and I were greeted by blue skies and more or less non-stop sunshine - the kind that wraps you in warmth the minute you emerge from the air-conditioned hotel.

Not a day went by when we didn't sit by the pool. And rarely a day went by without me wandering off to take some pictures, only to find that, ten blocks and two hours later, distracted by some piece of architecture or an elegant shop (Hey! A miniature Art Deco Barneys on Collins Avenue!), I was still in my swimsuit and sundress. It only takes a few rays to turn me into a slob.
If you've ever read A Tale of Two Cities, you'll be familiar with Charles Dickens' famous introduction. Since it is his bicentenary this year, I shall bore you with it here:
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way."
That pretty much sums up Miami Beach. There is elegance and there is tawdriness, there is beauty and there is sleaze. There is wealth and ostentatious display and there is poverty and squalor.

There is a distinguished history of community action and conservation, and yet a rather chaotic approach to issues such as traffic management and street furniture. There is an astonishing mix of cultures and yet a very traditional American sense of sun, sea and surf celebration.

In short (as Dickens himself was fond of saying), it is like very many other big cities, but with blue skies and palm trees. It's very like London in lots of ways - the person next to you won't automatically be an English speaker, for example. I had to polish up my phrasebook Spanish muy rapido.

We were staying in a hotel in South Beach, on Washington Avenue, so we were only two blocks from Ocean Drive, where the surf meets - well, surf and turf. Ocean Drive is where people go to see and be seen. It's mainly lined with restaurants, so unless you want to slalom your way through breakfasting tourists and beseeching waiters, it's best to walk on the ocean side, a strip of green called Lummus Park. Beyond that is the beach.

The colours want to make you laugh out loud from sheer pleasure, but I refrained. I saw a notice, below, that stated that Excessive, Unreasonable, Unusual and Unnecessary Noise (their capitals) was Not Permitted.

I liked the way this couple's baseball caps pick up the yellow of the Art Deco building in the middle of the picture. I couldn't get a very good shot, however, because they started giving me strange looks. They obviously thought I was indulging in Excessive, Unreasonable, Unusual and Unnecessary Photography.

I had to photograph this clock too, to remind myself that it really was February.


And the architecture lived up to its reputation. To think they nearly pulled all this down!

But I did snort with laughter when I saw this bar sign, below. It obviously doesn't mean the same thing in the US of A. Or maybe it does! This is Miami, after all.