The Great Escape

Lord Muck

Making A Break For It

Phew. We’ve made it through January. Just.

It’s always my least favorite month, and I know I’m not alone. For gardeners, January is an endurance test of the soul. We can’t get out and play in our gardens most days, and the withdrawal symptoms are real. The result? We become tetchy, unpredictable, and - if I’m being completely honest - an absolute nightmare to live with.

Take me, for example. Thirty years of marriage this year. So, I can't be that bad, right? And yet, every January, something rather peculiar happens. Lord Muck - my dear husband - suddenly develops an overwhelming sense of duty towards his friends. Friends with urgent, mysterious crises that require his presence for hours, sometimes days.

One week, it’s his old rugby mate, who’s apparently in need of some serious help moving house (odd, given that the man lives in a studio). Then there’s the cricket pal who’s coincidentally having a breakdown and needs company at the pub. And just last weekend, Lord Muck shot off to “help” his padel partner with a family emergency, which - upon closer questioning - turned out to be “a difficult doubles match.”

roll on summer

When Gardeners Smile Again

I used to be in awe of what a truly remarkable friend he was. And always felt sorry for him the poor thing, always being called upon after the festivities of Christmas, to rescue his struggling friends throughout January. But yesterday, it all finally clicked.

It’s me.

I turn into a complete menace after New Year’s Eve. And this time, I can’t even blame menopause. I stomp around the house like a caged animal, sighing heavily at windows, glaring at the lifeless garden, and snapping at inanimate objects (including a particularly smug-looking houseplant). And when that’s not enough, I turn my fury onto my poor husband, berating him for his heinous crimes - crimes so grave they could be tried at The Hague. A teaspoon placed the wrong way round in the cutlery drawer (anarchy!). A rogue cup on the coffee table, coasterless and mocking me (the horror!). And the ultimate betrayal - returning from the supermarket with the wrong brand of chocolate. (Did he want to start a war?!)

Lord Muck, I now realize, has been staging a tactical retreat. The poor man isn’t running to his friends - he’s running for his life.

But hope is on the horizon. February is here, and with it, the promise of longer days, the scent of damp earth, and - hallelujah - the first seed catalogue deliveries. Soon, we gardeners will be back outside, smiling again, hands in the soil, no longer terrifying our loved ones.

That is, of course, until next January. At which point, I fully expect Lord Muck to announce he’s taken up a new hobby - possibly deep-sea fishing in the Maldives, to throw a bit of distance into the game…

Lord & Lady Muck

A long, long time ago when The Great Escape was just Lord Muck’s favourite film :)

Die Plant 2

Gardening is a funny old business, isn't it? For some of us, it's pure relaxation – a tranquil escape from the madness of modern life, where we can potter about, chatting to our begonias like they're old friends. But we all know someone who breaks out into a cold sweat at the mere mention of a trip to the garden centre. The very idea of taking care of a plant sends them into a full-blown existential crisis.

Take this morning, for example. I was with Ana, my lovely Spanish teacher. Normally the epitome of calm: intelligent, bright, capable, and so easy-going she practically floats into the room. That is right up until the moment I did something so unbelievably shocking that she practically fainted, right there in front of me.

I gave her a plant. A little Christmas gift to say thank you for putting up with me massacring her beautiful language over the past year.

I gave her a succulent - small, unassuming, easy to care for… or so I thought. I’d grown it myself from a cutting off my mother’s beloved plant. I handed it over with a big smile, hoping Ana would like it - but instead, she morphed into a human-shaped bundle of pure panic. Her eyes widened as if I’d just given her a live grenade. Her hands trembled as she clutched the innocent little pot. And then came her anxiety-ridden questions.

“Where do I put it? How do I look after it? How much water does it need? Does it like the sun? What about the shade? Oh no - should I bring it inside at night? What do I feed it? What if it grows out of its pot? What compost do I need? WHAT IF IT DIES?”

She grabbed my arm with the desperation of someone clinging to a sinking ship. “WHAT IF I KILL YOUR MOTHER’S PLANT?”

Ah. There it was. The nuclear fear. I had unknowingly given her not a gift, but a ticking time bomb of guilt. Poor Ana. She had gone from relaxed, patient, capable teacher to full-blown meltdown in a matter of seconds. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she asked for my mother’s forwarding address in heaven to apologise personally when the inevitable happened.

And that’s when I remembered something important: I used to be Ana.

For years, I was the Grim Reaper of houseplants. If it was green and photosynthesized, I could kill it. When I first started dabbling, I was personally responsible for a plant-based massacre so vast that, frankly, I should have been blacklisted from garden centres.

But my dear old mum - and later my mother-in-law - stepped in. With their endless patience, they taught me the basics. Slowly, my fingers turned a little greener, and I went from serial plant murderer to enthusiastic gardener. And now, here I was, watching Ana unravel in front of me - just as I had on so many occasions way back when - all because of my gift.

So, I’ve decided that my New Year’s resolution for 2025 is to support and encourage Ana.

Because that’s the joy of gardening, isn’t it? Sharing what you’ve learned. Helping beginners get past the panicky, “Oh no, I’ve definitely killed another one” phase. Reassuring those who have tried growing stuff before and are on the verge of giving up completely. Passing on our love of all things green in the hope that others might get hooked on gardening too.

But first, I think I’ll go and pour Ana a stiff whisky and distract her with her favourite film, Die Hard. And as for her Christmas succulent? I might need to pot up a back up - just in case I need to do a secret plant switch…

Pups and Peonies

PUPS AND PEONIES

Meet Morgan - My New Gardening Intern

As you know, I love all things green. So when my dear pal, Lady Bray, entrusted me with her precious garden while she headed off to Italy for a sun-soaked holiday, I leapt at the chance.

She has the most beautiful garden - with all my favourites: hydrangeas, orchids, sweet peas, fuchsias, rambling roses, hostas, ferns, buddleias, agapanthus, lilies - you name it, she’s growing it. So gorgeous it could take a prize at Chelsea.

Throw in her equally precious pup, Morgan and rescue cutie, Jess, to take care of, and I was in heaven.

But as I waved Lady Bray off, a creeping sense of anxiety started to set in. Keeping her beloved peonies and pups alive for two whole weeks? Now, this was going to take some doing. I may even need to cut back on the gin.

I mean, we all know what an English summer can be like. With its mix of heatwaves, downpours & cold snaps, Very quickly, my days became a whirlwind of garden duties and canine antics. Night shifts standing guard over the hostas with my trusty head torch against slug attacks. Dawn alarms set to check for whitefly on the hibiscus. Basil leaves constantly scrutinised for signs of the dreaded caterpillars. Always accompanied by my enthusiastic, four-pawed Gardening Interns. Morgan who liked to help mainly by chasing butterflies and Jess by bringing me nicely chewed up wellies. Spreadsheets emerged to meticulously monitor watering schedules, ensuring not a drop too much or too little. With a dedicated section for Morgan’s special watering’ of the geranium pots. Oops.

Lady Bray loves to grow her own vegetables too, so her greenhouse and kitchen garden posed a few challenges - mainly keeping Morgan out - and Jess from digging her way over to France. But, thankfully, the cherry tomatoes and lettuces kept on cropping and the herbs, beans, and squashes kept on growing. Phew.

Despite the fun-filled chaos, there was a certain rhythm to the madness. Quickly I bonded with my charges, spending much of the day chatting to the plants & playing with the pups. Always rewarded come evening with a nice chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Finally, the day of Katie’s return arrived. My knees shook. My heart raced. But as she walked through the garden, her face lit up with delight. Every plant was alive and well. She was thrilled. Double Phew. So, we celebrated as only English ladies do. With several jugs of Pimm’s. Under a golf umbrella. Well, it is summer in England, after all.

Working hard

Adorable Head Gardener Jess checking up on Lady Muck’s lawn mowing skills

Green Thumbs

gardeners world

Baby faced Lady Muck enjoying a summer’s day in the family garden 1970

Launching a book about all things green is a little bitter sweet when the two people who inspired me, are no longer around. All I wanted, when my proofs arrived last week, was to share my joy with those two special people: my Mum and Dad. But instead, I headed out into the garden with a cuppa, sat on my mum’s old bench and let myself take a little trip down memory lane. You see, whilst Dad is the reason I am obsessed with growing cabbages and cauliflowers, it’s Mum who got me into roses and rhododendrons.

She absolutely loved gardening. Her happy place? The verdant kingdom where she reigned supreme in her mucky wellies. Getting her inside was like persuading a cat to take a bath. Her garden was breathtakingly beautiful. With roses that would make Chelsea Flower Show sigh with envy, a lawn so green it looked like it was pinched from Wimbledon, and lavender bushes that made our house smell like Provence on a sunny day. Although as a kid whose summer holidays were spent mostly in caravans in Great Yarmouth or Northumbria, I wouldn’t really know that ‘til many years later!

While most mums were the ones calling in their kids at dinnertime, our house was the other way round. Often, Dad would joke about having to send out another search party - with whoever leading it, head-torch on, invariably finding her deep in conversation somewhere with a peony bush, or one of her favourite trees. That large garden, nestled near the border with Epping Forest, was her pride and joy. A place where she could forget her hard London childhood, when her parents were more worried about where the next meal was coming from, than whether there were flowers on the table. She created that garden for her family. She created that garden so we could run free. She created that garden so we would grow up with a lifelong love for nature. It was our playground, our sanctuary, and an endless source of adventure.

So, it’s no wonder that her passion rubbed off on me as the years went by.

Nowadays, I find myself pottering about in my own garden, whispering words of encouragement to my own flowers, just as I often watched her do to hers. Though my roses look more like rebellious teenagers than the regal queens she nurtured. But I hope that somewhere, she’s looking down on me, in her muddy wellies, smiling and cheering me on.

So, here’s to you, Mum - Lady Muck Senior - who taught me that gardening is as much about the journey as the blooms.

Mum’s Wedding Day

Thanks for passing on your green thumbs, Mum x

Strong Roots

Strong Roots

I have been going through some old photo albums this week and once you start wandering down memory lane, it’s hard to stop. Especially when you realise your love of food gardening started way back when - with your dear old Dad. .

Growing up in the 1970s, one of my fondest memories was trudging along to the allotment my Dad (Joe) shared with my Uncle. Think ‘Good Life’ crossed with a dash of ‘Dad’s Army’. Usually armed with nothing except an unfounded sense of optimism, we would merrily set off on our weekly horticultural adventure, eager to get growing.

Once there, Uncle Nobby (yes, that really was his name), would bark out orders like we were on the beaches of Normandy. “Get that spade moving, Joe” he’d say, while Dad, a man much happier raising a nice cold pint than a vegetable, provided a running commentary on all the goings-on to keep me smiling. “Looks like we’re planting spuds in the trenches again, Katie” he’d quip, before lacing his boots tight, taking a puff of his Old Holborn, and getting on with digging duty.

I remember the allotment site itself being a patchwork quilt of organised chaos. Each plot bore the distinct mark of its owner’s personality, from Mr Hodges’ regimented rows of carrots to Mrs Saville’s haphazard herb garden. Our own plot? Well, it was an eclectic mix of wonky runner beans, rebellious raspberry canes, fairy gardens, and Uncle Nobby’s prized Dahlias, all punctuated by Dad’s latest attempt at growing giant marrows, which always seem to end up more like oversized cucumbers.

Tea breaks were always the highlight, with flasks of stewed tea, homemade sandwiches, and if we were lucky, a few jammy dodgers thrown in by Mum for good measure. Uncle Nobby and Dad would reminisce about childhoods growing up during the Blitz, and observe how, in comparison, a bit of rain down on the plot never really hurt anyone. By the end of the day, Dad and I would be caked in mud, exhausted but triumphant, ready to return home with our haul (usually slug-nibbled cabbages and oddly shaped beetroots) and regale Mum with tales of our heroic hunter-gatherer deeds - as the poor woman looked down at our veggie oddballs and tried desperately to work out what concoction she could throw together, without poisoning the family.

But for me, those days at the allotment were more than just gardening and learning how to grow vegetables, fruit, and herbs - they were a rite of passage and a great lesson in perseverance, all wrapped up in a bundle of fatherly love, laughs, fun and muddy wellies.

Precious times. Precious memories.

Plus, the digging duo always managed to squeeze in a quick pint on the way home, which meant I could stop snacking on the bruised, windfall apples and end the day instead with my ultimate prize: a Coke and a packet of Hula Hoops. Heaven.

Good Life 1970s style

Thanks for helping me grow, Dad x

Say Cheese

Write a book, I thought. It will be easy, I said.

Hmmm. Well, that’s partly true, I guess.

I mean, the writing part was just lovely. Shut away in my little office, month after month, eating chocolate hobnobs and tapping away on my keyboard, living and breathing all things gardening and grow your own and channeling my inner Lady Muck Style. Loved it. But all the other stuff that goes with it. Jeez. Particularly when the Publishers emailed me the date of the PR photo shoot. Ugh. You see, I hate having my photo taken. Freeze up as soon as I see a camera. Let photos of my plants, veggies, and beach trips take centre stage, I begged. But no, they were having none of it.

So, last month, I found myself squeezing into my wardrobe’s finest, wandering around my garden and allotment in full makeup, which in itself was hilarious. I mean, who wears makeup out gardening? Lady Muck, apparently - well, at least for the purpose of a photo shoot. Back into my wellies and scruffy jeans tomorrow ;)