“But people can see!”
They actually can’t. That’s why I planted
the yew hedge: so I can pee on the roses while
talking to neighbours and passers-by, who can
see me only from the chest up, and thus have
no idea what I’m doing. That’s called “mindful
gardening”, that is.
So I leave Esther sunning herself in the
front and head out back to the annoyingly
north-facing back garden – as soon as I’ve got
the money I will have my house dismantled,
brick by brick, and rebuilt at the back, by the
compost, to give my little patch the sunshine
that could make it one of the truly great
gardens, to be mentioned in the same breath
as Sissinghurst, Wisley or Babylon – where,
now, the tulips and daffs are starting to nudge
up between the flagging snowdrops.
The lawn is a little soggy – some manual
aeration will be needed – but holding its own
for the moment. There has been a hint of
growth in the last week and if it stays dry,
there will be mowing soon. Like in Anna
Karenina. There are the broad, pale leaves
of the 100 alliums Esther commanded a few
years ago, because she had seen some in a
magazine, but which she refuses to come
out and look at, only noticing them from the
house when they are in full bloom and asking
me, “What are those horrid things at the back
that look like purple tennis balls?”
Also just beginning to emerge are the tips
of “her” peonies – another project ordained
by holy writ and executed by me, lovingly fed
and mulched so that the single flower of ten
years ago has multiplied to 12 or 14 splendid
magenta heads. For all she cares.
Here are the camellias, one white, one red,
full of bud because I remembered to water them
(okay, pee on them) through the autumn, and
ready to flower in a month or so, in giant pots
because they like the confinement. When they
do, Esther will think they are the first roses
and, if she can be bothered, put her nose to
them and complain they have no scent.Giles
We are now into the part of the year when- lockdown or no lockdown – I spend most
of my time thinking about the garden. Or
gardens. For we have myriad: one at the front
and one at the back. In front, facing south,
is the Grande Terrasse with its small yew
enclosure (or “hedge”) that protects us from
the road. There is the arbutus that I planted
with my father when I moved in 20 years ago,
to remind me of the two we had in front of the
house in Cricklewood, where I grew up. There
are lavender and rosemary, which love the sun
and lend a Provençal feel, plus assorted shrub
roses and the wisteria that was 11 years old when
I put it in and now, in its early thirties, is one of
the wonders of NW5, exploding magnificently
into bloom in the second week of April,
with its flowers, like a million lilac monkeys,
hanging low across the brow of the house and
giving it the romantic air of an Oxford college,
just in time for our wedding anniversary.
Not that the woman I married that day
gives the remotest damn. About the wisteria or
anything else that grows in the ground. She has
no notion that the reason it blooms so well is
because I prune it ruthlessly twice a year and...
“Boring! Don’t care!” she cries, as she sits,
dappled by its shade on a sunny morning,
while I feed the roses.
“You’re not feeding them; you’re pissing
on them! It’s disgusting.”
Oh, the ignorance. She’ll sit on the terrace
I laid, in the shade of the trees I planted,
amid the scent of the plants I’ve pruned.
She’ll do that. But of horticulture, she knows
nothing and cares less. Urine is famously
the best thing for roses, all year round. True,
most gardeners dilute it 10:1 in a bucket of
water, but I’ve found that it works best neat,
delivered first-hand, six times a day. Especially
pleasurable to apply after a boozy dinner on
a warm evening.
I planted the hedge so I can pee on
the roses while talking to passers-by
STAYING IN WITH THE CORENS
GILES & ESTHER’S LOCKDOWN 3 LIFE
The shrubs have wintered well. The cotinus
will soon be a blast of burgundy fire, the
ceanothus next to it a soothing aqua blue.
The huge Clematis armandii will flower and
bring the scent of marzipan... Oh, look, here
comes Esther now with the “home” section
of the paper, perhaps she’s been reading about
how, thanks to lockdown, simply everyone is
into gardening now.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says. “We will be
in the garden much more than usual because
of lockdown, especially the kids...”
Yes?
“It’ll take a bit of a beating...”
So?
“I think it’s time we tarmacked it.”Esther
My mum once told me that I would “get”
gardening when I was older, but I’m 40 now
and I still don’t get it. I keep several plants alive
in the living room only because I understand
that indoor plants are fashionable, but
gardening? It’s just more housework, isn’t
it? Only it’s outside and it wrecks your hands
and it all looks, I dunno, boring.
Giles is obsessed with our rickety Victorian
midget gardens – both front and back. Maybe
it’s because he’s old enough now, at 51. He stalks
them like a laird surveying his pine forest and
lavishes thousands of pounds on them, which
would be better spent, to my mind, on cute
macramé hanging baskets for those indoor
trailing plants I’ve seen on Instagram.
But spending time and money on our
outside space isn’t enough for him: he wants
me to be obsessed with the garden too. Or
perhaps he wants praise for his creation – it’s
unclear. Whatever the motive, it’s annoying.
A few years ago, he went through a
maddening phase of pausing at our doorstep
every time we came home to say sentimentally,
TOM JACKSON “Isn’t the front garden nice?” and I would say,
52 The Times Magazine