I have been to Devon which is usually a pleasure but this visit was particularly delightful.
At least it became delightful once I got there after much panicky rushing about missing the train due to a bit of a snarl up on the A34. I am really bad at getting to places on time: I always leave it too late and often end up a puffing, sweaty, breathless heap having run across pedestrian bridges and through underpasses in order to fling myself into trains at the very last moment. At least I only missed one train. I have, in the past, missed a train, waited an hour for the next one and then missed that one as well because I was too involved in a slightly sub-human chocolate Brownie.
Anyway, the purpose was to visit the RHS garden at Rosemoor in the company of the divine Hayley Monckton, the delicious Juliet Roberts (editor of Gardens Illustrated), the delectable Laura Tibbs and some lanky gingery bloke who smelt faintly of cider and Szechuan peppers. The chap who won best in show at Chesea last year was also invited but declined so he is now persona non grata until he comes up with generous presents for all. It was the logical extension of a visit I wrote about a while ago about the Wisley Six. This was the Rosemoor Five, six if you include the curator, Jon Webster, who showed us round. Here is a photograph of us drinking tea – and, in my case, looking uncharacteristically camp. 
Rosemoor was given to the RHS in 1988 by Lady Anne Palmer. The existing gardens were extended to a plan by the current RHS President Elizabeth Banks and are now visited by 100,000 people every year. It is in a very lovely spot, all snuggled up in a long valley surrounded by mature trees and overlooked by the village of Great Torrington . The gardens have been divided into sections by a collection of beautifully clipped hedges- some Holly, some box, some yew and some privet. There are rose gardens, late summer flower gardens, a cracking winter garden, foliage gardens, arboreta, vegetable gardens, a cottage garden (with wedding venue arbour), woodlands, allotments, a nascent Forest garden etc etc etc. All the things that one would expect and more: and things one would not necessarily expect like Action Man in a rowing boat.
The thing about RHS gardens – and this is a bad thing if one is looking a them from the narrow viewpoint of pure design – is that their destiny is to be a little bit of everything. This is their purpose and raison d’être: to ensure that anybody visiting not only enjoys the gardens but learns something. The garden is intended to be something for everyone and as such it loses some cohesion: that is not to say that parts of it are not very well designed it is just that it is in the nature of such things to be a little disjointed. However, it does fulfil its intention and, as such, can be considered a huge success. It is well cared for, extremely beautiful in parts and feels much less starchy than Wisley (that may be partly because of the rather stern brickwork of the latter) and is a very laid back place to be. Particularly impressive were the fruit gardens (although we would, naturally, never have dreamt of picking any) and the light which was staggeringly lovely. And the ice cream.
We then dined in a pub where we seemed to be the only punters: according to the cidery chap people in Devon start a bit later and the pub was likely to be buzzing by 10:30. Either that or nobody liked to be seen anywhere near us. We ate enormous steaks and quite a lot of pudding before returning to the Best Western in Tiverton. A fine day out although without clotted cream.
Still on the RHS thing I have also sat on the selection panel for next year’s Chelsea Flower Show. We spent a very interesting day trawling through the Show Gardens submissions. With this I have to operate the same principle as the Council meetings: i.e. I cannot really tell you what was discussed so will concentrate on the food, we had an interesting lunch out of lacquered Bento boxes. 
But without chopsticks. Suffice to say, there will be some very good gardens next year: designed and built by some fine folk. There, that is possibly the most non-committal and anodyne thing I have written in a while.
I have also been to Lancashire. Three hours there, three hours back and an hour talking about the garden. I don’t really mind that provided that I don’t have to drive. I try to get a fair bit of stuff done on the train- writing, emailing, reading all that stuff but also think it very important that the last half hour is spent watching a film.On this occasion I indulged myself with Ice Cold In Alex. I had forgotten how closely Anthony Quayle’s shorts teeter on the obscene: any slackness in his underwear and the entire veldt would have been on safari. As you can perhaps appreciate from this screen grab….
What else have I to report? an avalanche of plant lists has just descended upon me. Not suddenly, but I have been ignoring them and can do so no longer with impunity. In fact I must now take my finger from the dyke (i) and do them right now without delay or further hindrance.
While I do them I will listen to Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings singing Mama Don’t Like My Man.
The picture is of backlit Phlomis russeliana at Rosemoor.
(i) Honi Soit Qui May Y Pense.
I am in mourning for the stems of my Phlomis which have been ‘tidied up’ in my absence.
Winter will not be the same….
I think premature cutting of the Phlomis is probably a capital offence.
You have my sympathy.
It seems that WP has deemed your pic of Anthony Quayle too hot to handle and has censored it. So I’m off to get a beer with the droplet running down the glass…
I hope I have sorted that little glitch and the full glory will be there for your viewing pleasure.
Oh how lovely that you got to go to rosemoor on a jolly. I had no idea… You could surely have sent me endless annoying texts to rub my nose in it, between you.
What a good idea, we should have done exactly that.
Except that your number does not appear to be in my “A” List address book.
Actually I thought the pants appeared longer in your picture than they actually were in the movie! I well remember a pert little bottom and thinking at the time how short the shorts were! I can’t believe in 1940s they wore shorts that short, but then he was supposed to be South African wasn’t he? If we would say they were indecent today what must people have thought when the film came out in 1958 – well before hot pants and mini-skirts (which I can relate to).
Glad to know there will be some fine Chelsea gardens next year, the thought of it will bring me through the winter!
Well, during the war there was a shortage of fabric, so as long as the undercarriage was shielded from prying eyes, they were long enough.
That said, in the legendary lost photo of my grandfather, looking for all the world like a Welsh forerunner of Lofty from It Ain’t Half Hot Mum flanked by two Masai warriors in full regalia, his shorts are voluminous and knee length. So standard Army issue shorts were probably one size, and if you were of average height and build, they resembled lederhosen.
I attended the Malvern Autumn show on Saturday and was amazingly sensible in my purchasing. Vegetable seeds mostly, one decorative plant for me and three ornamental grasses for the Lovely Howard. (Though considering the Schizostylus and the grasses are destined for the same bed, there’s not really any point in saying whose plants they are).
British Army shorts were always large. Free circulation of air combined with nightie warmth.
Well done on your admirable restraint when shopping.
It seems that South Africans have always been noted for their short shorts. Especially Boer farmers: hot pants, rugger thighs and long socks is almost a uniform.
I have only visited Wisley and that was a running visit – literally. I had assumed that whilst the gardens are trying to be everything to everyone by being placed is very different parts of England what they were really doing was demonstrating how you garden in that environment, e.g. Harlow Carr’s weather conditions would be very different to Rosemoor.
That is indeed correct. And Hyde Hall shows you how to garden in a virtual desert.
I am deeply offended. Firstly I am not gingery: I am strawberry blond. And secondly I smelled of perry and Szechuan peppers. And lastly, Live from Pedants Corner…according to an expert on language that I accidentally heard on the radio the other day it should be ‘smelled’ not ‘smelt’.
You are almost correct: which is an enormous improvement on the status quo.
Both are correct although ‘smelled’ avoids any unlikely confusion with ‘smelt’ as in molten metal or ‘smelt’ as in fish.
Either way it was a fervent, though intriguing, odour. The subtlety of the perry was lost after you fell over near the septic tank outfall.
Nothing wrong with gingery: I have known many excellent biscuits that were gingery. Be proud.