DIARY
DAVID WELCH Not many people can say that their Office in the middle of London looks out on a stable with working horses in it, but I look after the Royal Parks and the clatter of our Police horses caught my ear this morning. They help at the Changing of the Guard and on other occasions, but mostly we employ them for policing the parks. They have advantages: the riders can see further and be seen from further away; they can cover more ground than police on foot; and they move faster. This morning the shire horses we use for carting were out as well. Heavy horses like these were developed for pulling Ploughs, barrows, carts and wagons. For this they needed patient, enduring strength, din- ner-plate feet to grip the ground and placid, gentle, affectionate natures. They were brought to handsome perfection over the course of centuries as they were adapted for their role. It might be thought that their era is over and that they should go too, banished to the same loving preservation as other beautiful things but no more than that. Yet they are valuable even today: for pulling a log out of a wood; hauling a load over ground covered with delicate vegetation; and for carting, especially if the hauls are short and the stops frequent. A pair of heavy hors- es can pull four tons on the flat. The driver Can start them off by a mere word, and halt them in the same way. Nothing is quite so agreeable as two large horses and a cart. Their amiability is in sharp contrast to the noise and smell of a motor lorry; their hooves make a cheerful rhythmical clatter on the road, and the iron-shod wheels of the Cart grate with a continuous burr, like the drone of a bagpipe. It is true that they are not fume-free, but each one produces manure to the value of £75 a year — a bonus that is not to be sniffed at. Cart-horses are more fun than a flower bed, give unequalled stimulus to sales of lump-sugar, win smiles from adults, waves from children, sell film to tourists, bring tears of nostalgia to pension- ers, and stir thoughts of Young's bitter to Londoners, Shipstone's ale to older Midlan- ders, and milk to the citizens of Edinburgh.
Pigeons, geese, seagulls, dogs and green- fl. y have something in common: they defecate In Parks. Dogs leave a particular remem- brancer and we ask their owners to clean up after them. Canada geese defecate once every four minutes, in volumes that would give a good-sized poodle pause for thought. °ur seagulls and pigeons are reincarnated hornb-aimers, and the principal by-product Of the greenfly is road rage. A big plane tree can accommodate two million greenfly; each one exudes a sticky syrup which drips onto any motor-car parked beneath it. Black fun- gus, which darts in to feed on the honeydew, Spreads quickly and transforms the colour of the car in hours by coating the surface with a sooty mould. Motorists feel aggrieved and look for a park-keeper to chat to about the experience. Robert Burns in 'Tam o'Shanter' speaks of Tam's beldame 'nursing her wrath to keep it warm' — some keep warm sponta- neously. We need more frost, as without it there will be more greenfly than ever in the spring. Gardeners who so successfully prayed for rain three months ago should now inter- cede on matters of temperature.
Iam often asked about horticulture — indeed, it is my calling. Last weekend I field- ed the question, 'What is there to do outside in the garden, just now?' Nothing,' I replied. 'Trimming, clipping, pruning, digging and manuring can all wait, and most pests are still asleep and can be left undisturbed.' This was badly received. Joseph Conrad observed in Nostromo that 'action is consolatory. It is the enemy of thought', and not much has changed in human nature since then. The conversation continued: 'I get fed up when I've got nothing to do. I'm as busy as a bee normally.' Bees aren't as busy as we think they are, they just can't buzz any slower' (`Kin' Hubbard, Comments of Abe Martin). And heavy ground is still very wet; working on it will mash it, turn it into mud and inflict enduring damage. If you want to be horticul- turally active, read The Spectator garden col- umn and see what someone else has been up to, buy a house plant, get a book, look at a catalogue, reminisce. 'But I like working.' If your morals make you weary, be sure that they are wrong.' (Robert Louis Stevenson in Across the Plain). 'I daren't neglect my chores. It would cause such a row.' 'Many would be cowards if they had courage li A.
'That was impeachable, how was it for you?' enough.' (Thomas Fuller in Gnomologie). Be brave. Sit still.
Today I was asked the name of the patron saint of gardeners, and I replied that it was St Agnes. The idea was to inaugurate St Agnes Day lectures about horticulture and conservation. Her day is 21 January, so it is too late for this year, but in any case the more satisfactory figure is Robin Hood, who could serve at any time. Few people have been so environmentally friendly. He lived in a wood, stored his goods in a hollow tree, wielded a stick when assaulting strangers, and even at his most aggressive used only a bow and arrow. Today he would ride a bike to his allotment, give surplus cabbages to his neighbour, vote in council elections and, like Alexander Pope, enquire, 'Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?' when confronted by an insecticide salesman. He would be a natu- ral employee for a politically correct garden contractor. When I was young, Oak Apple Day was celebrated in our village. Wise chil- dren found an oak tree, broke off a twig and wore it conspicuously. Thus equipped, they went to the nearest patch of nettles, picked a stem and used it to sting anyone (smaller) who had not found an oak tree or who had forgotten the date. As an aid to elementary plant identification and diary management, the technique has never been bettered. Today, developers have removed forest trees and replaced them with dwarfish flowering cherries, so it is now hard work to find even one oak tree in a forest. Nettles have been eliminated by tidy-minded gardeners and crop-conscious farmers. These losses affect other things. No fewer than 19 species of butterfly feed, as caterpillars, on the leaves and shoots of nettles, and oak trees are an even better larder for insects and the birds which eat them. Wild flowers, once the glory of the countryside, have been corralled in out-of-the-way corners, or bumped off alto- gether. With them have gone the creatures they fed. The Countryside Commission is now trying to get farmers to leave uncultivat- ed strips of ground at the edges of their fields, so that once again native plants and animals can find a home. In the parks we are doing much the same — everyone should try if they have the chance. Life is richer if there are wild flowers and butterflies and animals and birds about.
And when ye reap the harvest of thy land, thou shalt not reap the corners of thy field, neither shalt thou gather the gleanings of thy harvest ... thou shalt leave them for the poor and for the stranger.
Got it in one, Leviticus. Nothing more to be said about it, really.
The author is the chief executive of the Royal Parks.
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