A history of my garden

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We have lived here for 41 years. Even if I say it quickly, I find it hard to believe. We moved from a small rented flat on Tyneside. OH and I both had demanding full-time jobs so it was fortuitous that almost at the same time my grandmother – a long-time, devoted (compulsive!) gardener – should have moved into a small rented flat without a garden. The deal was struck : she would take over our plot.

The house we had moved into had been owned by only two families since it was built in 1908, and the family we bought it from had acquired it before WW1.

This was not the view we then had from the bottom of the garden. These towering sycamores were not yet seedlings. The whole area was derelict, after the huge, cathedral-like engine shed which dominated “the triangle” – formed by the parting of the defunct Preston line and the Manchester line – was demolished a few years after we moved in. The area was covered with asphalt, broken bricks and bits of debris from the building. We could see right across to the far side, where the railway line to Manchester runs ; we could see the trains, and the boys, when little, enjoyed waving to them.

It was fascinating observing plant succession at close hand as the area gradually gave way to plants like willowherb and evening primrose, then to scrub and finally to birch trees which more or less covered it.

When we moved in, the garden was a plain rectangle – large lawn (knee-high, because the house had been empty for 6 months) with a narrow border on three sides. The previous owner had apparently enjoyed growing dahlias. They had never been lifted, because at that time the winters here had been almost entirely frost-free for years. Eventually, they disappeared – probably because frosty winters returned.

The soil was very sandy and poor. If you look on the geological map of the area, it is designated “blown sand”. Very little was planted apart from the few dahlias. Granny decided the important thing was to get something – anything – to grow, and gradually build up the soil. Every autumn, she would buy 20 bags of mushroom compost, which was tipped onto the pavement outside the house. We would then all work to transport it in wheelbarrows down the side of the house and into the back garden.

Gradually, the garden developed. Granny never did anything major without asking me first, but quite honestly, the garden was the least of my concerns – especially as she was taking care of it so well. I would see to watering in the evenings, if there were new plants or containers, and I also enjoyed escaping outside after work and doing a bit of weeding. Generally, though, if Granny suggested something, I said “Yes” and “It’s your garden really”.

When the children came along, things moved on. ( I was able to give up work while they were small, but they filled my time up, and the gardening bug didn’t get a look-in.) They adored “helping” her and we would all go out to nurseries together to buy summer bedding. The lawn began to suffer badly as it became a playground. We dug a sandpit at one side where the boys spent hours “digging to Australia”. Eventually, we had a large patio laid near the house (a wonderful barrier against muddy trails through the kitchen) and invested in a new turf lawn.

Granny with eldest (1976)

“Are we nearly there yet?” (1978)
This was our garden “soil”, 4 inches down.

Meanwhile, after many rumours and planning applications, the land over the wall had been acquired as a site for two schools. The area was cleared and covered with a layer of topsoil. Pleasingly, the planners left a border of the self-seeded birch trees all around the perimeter. The view of the railway line has long since disappeared. The “proper” wood across the site was retained and is now managed and used as a teaching resource and a wildlife area.

Granny experimented (not very successfully) with a vegetable patch. We had a few small potatoes and , strangely, a very poor harvest of turnips (turnips?) which I put in a stew. They were rather like large radishes. But she also planted a gooseberry bush, which still fruits marvellously, and has self-seeded to produce another productive bush. Another survivor is a John Downie crab apple, which has provided many a pound of jelly.

The plant which will always be a memorial to my wonderful grandmother, however, is the Cecile Brunner rose (there are actually three of them throughout the garden). It was her very favourite rose, with small perfectly-shaped pink buds which develop into small but surprisingly blowsy flowers. She had always planted one in every garden she had owned. My grandfather had worked in the City and daily wore one in his buttonhole when they were in flower. When she planted it here, very soon it started to send out very long shoots. She had never seen this before and enquired of the grower if these might be suckers. He told her they were “sports” and she should train them horizontally so that more flowering shoots would grow upwards from them. I now have a 12-foot-long hedge from one rose – I have to cut it back scrupulously and quite brutally otherwise it would be about 8 feet deep! Its disadvantages are that it is exceedingly vicious and only flowers once even if I do my best to remove all the spent blooms.

Cecile Brunner : an indomitable old lady (a bit like Granny, but she wasn’t as prickly, I’m glad to say!)

After Granny reluctantly “retired” from the garden, well into her 80s, it began to resemble that around Sleeping Beauty’s castle. I mowed the lawn and … that’s about it. Self-seeded hollies towered over the beds, ivy covered the walls, “wild flowers” ruled. I was becoming increasingly bogged-down at work and hardly noticed.

Then – light-bulb moment! – (well – year) I gave up full-time work and took a good long look out of the window. With the help of my sons and my daughter I started to tackle the holly and the ivy. I began to think about re-shaping the lawn, no longer resembling the new turf of 16 years ago, and got cracking. It was wonderful. I went to bed dreaming about it, and got up eager to tackle it. The garden and I recovered together. By the time I embarked on my second, part-time, career it had become my beloved hobby.

If I thought I didn’t know much about gardening, I found I was wrong. Granny (and her father before her) and Mum were all keen gardeners – as I am, and my brother and two sisters as well. I realised I had absorbed so much while growing up that I had a feel for, and an attitude to, gardening that stood me in good stead. Watching gardening programmes, I realised how many techniques I already understood – I just had to put them into practice.

Now when I walk round my garden I see all the changes I have made. It has a completely different shape, it has a large wild area at the bottom, where Granny had rose bushes and the attempted veg patch (there are still a Cecile Brunner and an Elizabeth of Glamis down there, much recovered since the school at the back cut the overhanging branches off the sycamores). Some things she planted are still there – among them a cotoneaster tree, a contorted willow we started off as a cutting in a milk bottle, a very large camellia she had grown in a pot which had never flowered. The ancestors of my snowdrops came up from Surrey with her in the 60s. The two Leylandii – not her best idea – were cut down a few years ago and now make a very satisfactory framework for the wisteria which she planted – 12 feet away. The lily of the valley are certainly thriving, marching through one of the beds. And – thankfully – I would have to dig a lot deeper these days to reach that sand!

The contorted willow has twice been reduced by half since we started it off in the old milk bottle.

Cotoneaster “John Waterer” continues to thrive and delights the bees.

The leylandii, cut down and crowned with the wisteria.

Alpine strawberries pop up all over the place – Granny planted them for the children.

And as I wander round, I fantasise about walking round with Granny, reminiscing and (I have to admit) showing off a little. I wonder if she’d be pleased? I think she would. Thank you, Granny.

And thank you for reading this. I feel very lucky to have a garden full of so many memories, and wanted to record some of them – before I forget!

6 Jul, 2013
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Comments

Louisa15

I loved reading this blog, so full of your memories which you've brought alive to us so well. It sounds like decades of love and care have made your lovely garden what it is today, thanks for all the photos too!

6 Jul, 2013

Kidsgran

That was a lovely blog loved the photo of granny ! not many are called granny today it,s nana and nan etc but I am gran or granny to my 5 grandchildren , I always tell them if it,s good enough for the Queen and her mother it,s good enough for me lol , I hope mine will have good memories of me and my garden as they have all enjoyed helping me plant things over the year,s .

6 Jul, 2013

Steragram

This was great - really "down to earth" so to speak. I wonder what the original owners at the beginning of the last century would think? The pic of the two children playing in the sand reminded me so much of my eldest and neighbour's child (the red head) at the same age. A nostalgia trip!

6 Jul, 2013

Motinot

Lovely blog Mel and beautifully told...:>)

6 Jul, 2013

Xela

Thank you for sharing this with us Mel, a thoroughly enjoyable read.

7 Jul, 2013

Jaykaty

Interesting blog and lovely memories and photos.

7 Jul, 2013

A history of my garden

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