Mad Dogs and Englishmen
3 June 2026
By: James Lennox
There’s nothing like an arbitrary self-imposed deadline to force me into action. Without one, I’m inclined to sloth, managing nothing more than drifting through the garden dead-heading the occasional rose like a dowager duchess in her Country Life pearls. The year I attempted to go biodynamic (way back when I thought I needed to grow vegetables to establish my horticultural bona fides) was an utter failure on all fronts. Somehow the phases of the moon, changeableweather and my own innate laziness all conspired to ensure that nothing got done at all. There was always someplanetary excuse for procrastinating.
So, the third week of May has become an immovable feast in the gardening calendar. By then, the garden has to be shipshape and ready for inspection, no matter the weather. And what a torrid time it’s been – so far, spring has seen an entire month of cold rain followed by a heatwave and incipient drought. 12 degrees C and squelchy to 33 degrees C and crispy in the space of 4 days. Worryingly similar to last year's pattern, in fact – and we all know how that ended.
None of which got in the way of the hard graft that is an essential part of gardening – and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. The secret is to remind yourself to take pleasure in the process, every tiny task contributing towards the end goal. Winkling weeds out of paths with a hori hori, stripping ivy from tree trunks before it’s off to the races – mind-numbingingly time-consuming to some, an act of meditative deliberation for me.
The rest of the village might retreat indoors to hunker in front of a fire or seek refuge from the noon-day sun, but I’ll be out there in all weathers, reminding myself that you can only get wet or hot once, after that it’s just a continuous state of mild discomfort. A wide-brimmed hat to keep the rain off one’s glasses and the sun off one’s miraculously youthful complexion is worth every ounce of ridicule from one’s nearest and dearest.
But not all tasks are repetitive chores. Planting new booty has to be a highlight for any gardener. A plant fair here (Iturraran in the Basque Country being unmissable), a mail-order delivery of herbaceous goodies there – all in the ground lickety-split while the rains were still with us. Another self-imposed rule is to make sure everything is out of its pot by the end of April at the very latest if the newcomers are to stand any chance of getting through the summer unscathed. Mulch well, keep the little darlings free of weedy competition and the endless round of supplemental watering can be kept to a bare minimum.
Among other treasures were added more magnolias (I never can resist), a Mexican Clethra pringlei pushing the geographic boundaries of the American planting in the grove, an osmanthus or two for the orchard (olive family, you see), yet more epimediums and a brace of Japanese maples – I feel another plant addiction coming on. All of which have been entered on the Plant List – very much a work in progress but a handy aide-mémoire for the rapidly dwindling little grey cells.
Of course, the combination of heat and humidity, while not ideal for the appearance of some of the fuller-figured roses, means everything has galloped away – unfortunately including the dreaded grass, remnants of old sheep and cow pasture that haven’t yet been eliminated entirely by planting. You can probably tell where I stand on the whole fashion for ‘meadows’ – grass just gets in the way of proper plants.
It’s fine for a rustic path, but otherwise it just takes up precious real estate and effort, with most ‘meadows’ lookingmiserable for about 10 months of the year. And as every woody obsessive knows, grass is the enemy of trees and shrubs, especially on a naturally dry hillside. I’m only too happy to tilt that eternal struggle between savannah and forest in favour of the trees. Reduce it to a bare minimum, preserve anything truly special that crops up (not even I can scythe an orchid) – and leave the grass-growing to the professionals, i.e. farmers and groundsmen.
With the essentials taken care of, attention turns to the finer points of garden maintenance. Some people assert that the price of democracy is eternal vigilance. The price of a half-way presentable garden is a thousand subtle interventions – a much more exacting, and rewarding, endeavour. A tweak here, a snip there helps to sharpen up the whole picture without drawing attention to the changes. To the untutored eye it will appear as if I’ve just been lounging by the pool with a G&T, whereas I’ve actually been holding the downward dog pose for hours on end while grappling with secateurs, string and a wayward stem.
Wisteria was pruned (at least a month early by English standards, but not a moment too soon in Asturias), moss was scraped from the most treacherous paving and promptly deposited amongst the shade lovers (waste not, want not) and the herbaceous planting was assessed for staking and pinching out purposes. Chelsea chop all you like, particularly if you’ve got four young children, time constraints and a nascent drink problem. I prefer a slightly more focussed, less frenzied approach that doesn’t leave the plants with split ends or unsightly tears.
While the trees and shrubs can more or less look after themselves in spring and summer, the herbaceous planting in the terraces and rose garden needs more attention right now. Slug and snail-watch can be exhausting but nobody wants to see a dishevelled daylily or a holey hosta. And it’s never too late to correct obvious mistakes – a misplaced Pinellia tripartita really won’t thank you for finding itself in full sun at high noon. Intervene early or repent at leisure is as good a motto as any to see you through the summer with minimal regrets.
At the risk of understating how exhausting the spring rush can be, let me spell it out – this is, by far, the most frantic time of the year in the garden. But it’s also the most satisfying, rewarding and uplifting moment in the calendar as well. Otherwise, none of the effort would make any sense. To see the borders fill out, the surge of new growth all around, the garden coming to life when all seemed brown and inert just a moment ago, is the biggest thrill of all.
And somehow, in the midst of all the relentless activity, there was even time for some good old-fashioned hard landscaping. Reconnecting with my trusty spirit level, shovel, trowel and bucket was long overdue – there are only so many years I can rest on my laurels for having once built two houses with my very own hands. Even I need a break every now and again from the green stuff. At long last, and with just a little help from my resident photographer, we now have an entrance to keep unwanted animal riff-raff out and, more importantly, through which we can welcome guests.
