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 ;)