Gardens
Present time
Ursula Buchan
If gardening had not existed, we should certainly have had to invent it. How else could we grapple with those eternal ques- tions, like what to do with a Sunday after- noon in November or, even more important, what to choose to give our rela- tions and friends for Christmas? Garden- ing, or its associated hardware at least, can prove our salvation in early December, giv- ing us the leisure to concentrate on the truly everlasting aspects of Christmas, safe in the knowledge that we have carried out the least important, and most time-con- suming, of all Christmas duties.
All the world loves a gadget. As every parent knows, the most enjoyable presents to buy for children are those which promise fun or intrigue. We never grow out of that. The garden centres and mail-order cata- logues are stuffed with knick-knacks — ter- racotta labels, ornamental pot 'feet' and cane tops, radar frogs which croak at you alarmingly as you walk by, house-plant waterers in the shape of hollowed-out king- fishers, each devised to make the most mundane horticultural arena slightly less dull. There are any number of handy-look- ing little tools for digging weeds from paving, sharpening knives, wrapping out- side taps, cleaning boots, sowing seeds, all holding out the possibility of a slightly easi- er, or certainly more agreeable, gardening life. The ubiquity of these 'gift ideas' is proof of their popularity.
In the end, however, all this is froth and bubble. If you really want to give your sis- ter-in-law something for which she will be truly grateful, and remember you with kindness every time she uses it, then I am afraid that you are going to have to spend some serious money. The most useful and acceptable gardening presents are undoubtedly those which will set you back a bit: a pair of swivel-handled Felco seca- teurs, for example, a garden vacuum clean- er (yes, I mean it), a trolley truck, a family of stainless steel tools, a potting bench, a 'quiet' shredder, a weather station or a 'transonic' device to discourage cats and badgers. If you are after something more aesthetic, there are any number of pigs made out of willow, hammocks, verdigris cranes, armillary spheres or Versailles tubs on the market. If you persist in giving her a T-shirt with 'Gone to Seed' stamped on it, and she reads this, she will quickly take the point.
For some reason, none of my enormous family (except for my garden-minded father and my ungarden-minded, but thoughtful, father-in law) ever gives me anything vaguely horticultural for Christ- mas, unless I specifically ask for it, and even then only after a lot of fuss and cries of 'how boring'. I suppose they think that I have everything, which is very far from being the truth. In any event, just because I have a pocket knife, it does not mean that I could not use another one. After all, I have more than one pocket. They must think I am like the man who was asked if he would like a book for Christmas, and replied, 'No, thank you, I already have one.'
As with books, so with plants. I have more than an acre of garden, not every inch of which is crammed to bursting with something delicious. But even if it were, I am a gardener and, ipso facto, always pre- pared to fit one more plant in. How I should like (wouldn't you?) for someone to give me a plant that they admired and grew, and had bothered to consider whether I might like it as well.
As a nation, we probably don't go in enough for giving plants at Christmas (except for bright, jolly indoor cyclamen and blood-red, baleful poinsettias, of course), either because it doesn't seem the right time to be planting outside (although it is perfect for anything bare-rooted) or because we think that even gardeners have other things on their minds in late Decem- ber than digging holes in the garden. That may be true, but the beauty of ordering plants now is that they will arrive some time after the New Year, when Christmas is a distant memory, and we are all in need of cheering up.
If this idea appeals to you, I suggest that you concentrate your thoughts on relatively expensive, but straightforward, plants, such as most hellebores, unusual snowdrops, orchids, new roses, or camellias, the sort of plants the receiver might not feel they could justify buying themselves. Then ring, write or e-mail for the catalogue of an appropriate mail-order nursery listed in the RHS Plantfinder 1999-2000, choose your plants, send off an order, and alert the recipient at Christmas with a card. One day in late winter or early spring, when he or she has quite forgotten all about it, an interesting parcel will arrive, full of latent but potent promise for the garden, not just for this year but for many years to come. You could hardly claim that for bath-salts, could you?
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