Flowering passions

Of old roses, poppies and the perils of procrastination

Madame Hardy, a Damask rose with an apple green eye (1832)

Welcome to new and returning subscribers, it is lovely to have you here. This month, as we tip into June, the zenith of summer after a drowning May, I have been drifting back to my first garden. This is a slight diversion, and a more personal post, on looking back and late blooming.

---

In my late twenties, I moved from Brixton, where I had a pocket handkerchief of a garden, to an end of terraced house in Norwich. I had always longed for a garden of my own and when I saw this neglected cottage one day in early May, with a patch of lily of the valley at the garden gate, I knew that this was the one. Although the house and garden had been empty for some while, and were in a very poor state, there were traces of a garden that had been loved and worked.

At the front were two wide borders and an earth path to the front door. Amongst the weeds I found a peony, bearded irises, a lipstick pink flowering currant, bachelor’s buttons… All were there, waiting to be woken up.

The back garden was 30ft by 100ft, again with a central earth path leading to a tiny, homemade shed, two thirds of the way down. It was bordered by old apple trees, a pear tree, a sprawling walnut tree and a greengage that spread its branches across the shed roof. Much of the garden had been a vegetable patch and cabbage and broccoli plants had sprouted and seeded into acid yellow triffids. Everyone else saw mess, but I saw paradise.

A snap of the garden in Norwich in late May

I would go to sleep dreaming of what I could grow. Two small greenhouses were bought and were filled with treasures, grown from seed from The Cottage Garden Society. Other gardeners gave me cuttings and I went to every open garden and fair collecting small specimens to bring home and propagate. And slowly each bed filled.

Papaver Atlanticum on a day of softer rain

Brick paths replaced earth ones, the borders were edged with terracotta roofing tiles half buried ( which became the perfect home for snails…) and a circular pond was made, with a bridge leading to that little shed.

It was inevitable that this garden would also become my art. The shed was restored and insulated and became my studio, looking up towards the mass of flowers that I would paint from the window.

Thirty years on, I can close my eyes, walk again down the path and see the blaze of self-seeded opium poppies. I would be up at first light to catch their opening and I remember a huge bumble bee landing on my finger, to rest awhile from rummaging amongst the yolk yellow stamens, while I was sat at my easel. June was the month in which it peaked.

I have never been especially keen on the flowers of July and August, all my favourites bloom now and especially old varieties of roses. Though they have been soaked and battered by the recent storms, their brief blooming is worth the risk. I had many of these in Norwich: Leda, Rosa Gallica and Mundi, Ferdinand Pichard, Tuscany Superb. Many were bought at a closing sale of the garden nursery at Blickling Hall, for a couple of pounds each, and several are with me still as they travelled from Norwich to Diss.

Tuscany Superb, a gallica rose, (1837)

When I left Norwich, I confess I grieved for the loss of the garden. I have a few early paintings that I have kept, some of which are shown here, though most were sold at the time and I have little record of them now other than a few fragile slides. But I remember each one as though I had painted them yesterday. I painted then without any thought of the outcome or whether they would sell. I painted for the sheer joy of it.

Poppies, from an upstairs window, on a rainy June day

A poppy, with Rosa Leda, from my studio window

December Sprouts

On moving to Diss, I retrained as a teacher and spent the next twenty years always meaning, and often wanting, to return to my painting, but it was always pushed aside. Teaching was all consuming, but that wasn’t the reason I didn’t continue, it was because I was fearful that if I started again, I wouldn’t be able to do it anymore. The longer I left it, the harder it became to resume. Finally, the realisation that I had lost my way came, and I handed in my notice. I had procrastinated long enough.

I suppose it is the surge of June, and seeing those flowers again, that has made me dwell on my painting then and consider what has changed and made me think about how I want to carry on. While the weather these last few weeks has precluded me from sketching outdoors, I’ve been in my studio experimenting with different printing techniques and materials, trying to find a way back again. When I returned to painting, I had to rethink my subject and my approach. I made many faltering starts. I couldn’t settle on what I wanted to paint and I kept exploring new avenues and approaches. I didn’t trust my own impulses and, because I needed to pay my own way, I often leaned towards choices that I thought would sell, rather than what I felt. I have come to realise that this failure to commit to what I really wanted to do, was rooted in a fear of failure.

There was also the nagging thought that I had left it too late. In my twenties and thirties, I was able to focus on my work with few other demands, but now, as many my age will appreciate, the constant concern of ageing parents and my own infuriating health issues, have squeezed that time. My need to paint again feels more pressing , but also there is the needling voice that tells me I am being foolish in pursuing something so late.

I have been rereading the writer Mary Wesley, whose rich and life-filled novels were written from the age of 70, and what a triumph they were. Did she feel it was too late when she began? Surely what is worse than beginning late, is never beginning at all, or allowing that voice to fizzle out unheard. Is it better to feel time pressing at your heels, or to enjoy and explore what you want to do, as though you have the expanse of time ahead? A combination of both would be ideal, but it is a tricky act to juggle. To pursue what you want, you need to allow yourself the luxury of failure and taking risks. Every thing you do needn’t work, but it will be a step forward to one that does.

I won’t be alone in allowing time to drift by, pushing aside that fragile dream, in favour of what we feel we ought to be doing. I do hope that if you have, this will give you a sharp nudge.

The courage to fail is the same courage you need to succeed, so welcome failure. If you are not failing, you’re not trying, so keep failing. - Philippa Perry

When I began this Substack just over six months ago, I had little thought where it would lead, and certainly not here! Thank you, as always for your company and supporting what I do. I would love to hear your comments on whatever might have sparked a thought.

If you have enjoyed this post, please press “the heart” to help my posts to be seen and consider subscribing. Although my posts are free, paid subscriptions are open and as a small token of thanks, such subscribers will receive 20% off work in my website shop.

I look forward to seeing you again in a couple of weeks.

I couldn’t resist including these, found in a hunt for garden photos, rare photos of me and dear friend Jonathan, taken about 30 years ago in the Norwich garden…oh, that I could grow delphiniums like that now!

Something to listen to

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett This sensitive reading by Carole Boyd ( who plays the marvellous Linda Snell in “The Archers”), was listened to on the way to work while I was still teaching, and was an entrancing way to rediscover this book. Who can ever forget her descriptions of a garden coming to life after years of slumber?

Something to read

Tom’s Midnight Garden by Philippa Pearce I discovered this when it was read aloud by my Primary School teacher, Mrs Greene, and what a gift she gave us. She used to read to the class at the end of each Friday afternoon and I remember gazing at her entranced as the clock chimed thirteen…

Dear Friend, Dear Gardener - by Beth Chatto and Christopher Lloyd

It is almost impossible to choose a favourite garden book, but here you get two glorious writers for the price of one. These affectionate letters are full of enthusiasm and they share their knowledge and experience so lightly. Do share your favourite garden writer or book in the comments, I would love to hear of your choices.

Something to watch

I was reminded too this month of “Flowering Passions”, presented by another consummate garden writer, Anna Pavord. I wish I could see it all again, as she talked to gardeners with a deep love of their chosen plants. You can see a snippet of the great Christopher Lloyd who speaks here of the gardener’s eternal dilemma, “But where am I going to put it?” There are two other clips I discovered, one on Powis and another on narcissi.