IN THE BEGINNING
I suppose the first time I started to be interested in the plant world was
during a brief but eventful excursion to the country. It was in the middle of
World War Two, I was ten, I wasn’t an evacuee, it happened when my dad was given
a job in Buckinghamshire, he was exempt from joining up, as he was on War work,
I always wondered what war work meant when I was a kid. I now know he was one of
those guys who performed essential work on aerodromes and the like. Dad had
managed to rent half a farm cottage, off a local farmers son called Bram, this
way we managed to miss some of the blitz, but didn’t managed to escape the
doodle bugs, when we come back to Woodford in Essex. (Doodle Bug: a remote
control plane packed with explosives) They caused a massive amount of damage to
London and the surrounding areas, which were followed by something even worse,
called the V2 (A rocket propelled bomb)
When you’re that age the days seemed twenty-four hours long, and the summers
back then were always sunny. It’s a trick of course, reality steps in the older
you get. I remember bringing bits and pieces of plants, and seed home to that
farm cottage in Saunderton, and growing them in anything that I could find that
held soil. Most times they died, probably because, soil was all they were
growing in, or as I called it in those days dirt, but as my determination
increased, and my knowledge of plant life evolved, so my interest in the subject
grew. I knew at an early age that plants needed nourishment, the example was
there before my eyes, and also in the deeds I had to perform. As the cottage had
no main drainage, the contents of a galvanized bucket had to dispose of every
day, guess whose job it was? Yep, yours truly. I soon learnt the meaning of crop
rotation, because the site where holes were dug for this human waste, change
ever year, as did the crop. We grew Brussels sprouts as big as cabbages, and the
size of our onions had to be seen to be believed. Every drop of water apart from
that which come from up above, had to be wound up from the well, some fifty feet
below. The sides were lined with brick, I remember thinking, don’t men work
hard, and how did they accomplish this symmetrical, yet vertical tunnel. I can
still hear the sound of that well bucket, hitting the water at fifty miles an
hour.
I always found it ironic that, of all the many life forms, on this magnificent
planet of ours, plants are one kind that remains static. True they have means of
spreading throughout the globe, by dispersing their seed. Mankind has also
spread various green foreigners all over our small island, to the detriment of
some of the native species, but for the most part, once plants have put down
roots, most plants stay put. What tales some of our oldest Oaks could tell, but
imagine, standing in one place all your life, how boring, but plants do it,
either in a group or on their own. The finest examples of the group thing are
grasses, from the fantastic giants of Africa to the meadowlands of England. All
are eaten, either by grazing animals or mankind, in the way of cereal crops.
Besides supporting animals and us, they are host to every creepy crawly of the
insect world, it is a wonder they survive at all, but survive they do. Let’s go
back to one of the most beautiful trees we have, the traditional English Oak. A
one hundred year old tree is a baby, compared to some that are growing in
Windsor Great Park, which are one thousand years old. These trees can be home to
countless creatures, there are microscopic bacteria, lichens and mosses, a
multitude of insects of course, and a list as long as your arm of rodents and
birds. Oh, I almost forgot the fungi, without these, all dead and dying matter
would become a smelly mess.
With all this going around in my head, I become involved with gardening, or as I
like to put it the art of growing things. Naturally most things we grow today
are hybrids of one form or another, created by man, for mans enjoyment and
taste. Most flowers of the modern world would never survive the rigours of the
wild, and most would be unable to support their own weight. We have bred them
according to our desires and not natures rules of survival. I have always
enjoyed growing the hobbyist type of plants, Fuchsias, Roses, Gladiola, Sweet
peas, Chrysanthemums and Dahlias. I find no pleasure in growing a small
insignificant plant that I could find in the country, for my part that is for
the botanist. My pleasure is growing something to as near perfection as I can,
true it is false, and man made, but still very rewarding to me, and other people
who see what I’ve grown. Since getting involved with the cancer charity Tenovus,
I realise how much enjoyment people find in browsing round my patch. Sure, I
have those that scoff, people who can’t see the point of growing plants in such
a fashion, some can’t abide the regimental rows of dahlias, each assigned to
their own particular spot, and each destined to produce their crop of blooms on
a given date. I try and understand their revulsion, but I’m programmed to enjoy
my hobby at my level. Since my quest to create new and special dahlias, the
excitement has intensified, so much so, that sometimes, I can hardly contain
myself.