Back in the day, I was involved in reissuing several books by the polemical garden writer William Robinson (1838–1935), he of Gravetye Manor. The Wheel of Fortune having nudged on a bit, I am now spending a few hours each week leafing through Robinson’s weekly periodical, The Garden, which he wrote large chunks of, edited and published from 1871 to 1899. (He continued to own it until 1919.) I am looking for certain specific references, but it’s fatally easy to get distracted. Continue reading
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Samuel Smiles
Now that I spend part of my time in a museum (tough gig, but somebody has to do it), I am getting quite good at pausing mid-stride and staring without actually falling over or causing anyone else to fall over. If I try this in the street, the results are usually not so good, and of course I am completely intolerant if anyone else does it to me – ‘Come on, Tourist, are you telling me you’ve never seen King’s College Chapel before?’ (Though in fact this happens less and less often, because the Tourists are all reading about King’s College Chapel on their phones, or taking selfies, not breaking stride in awe and wonder at the sight before them.)
Assuming anyone can be bothered to make the trip, I think I’d like my ashes scattered at the Secret Cat Place on Torcello. Though alas, even Torcello is going a bit downhill, since today, for the first time ever, there was another couple at the Secret Cat Place when we arrived, sitting down as though they owned it, which – though possible – is unlikely as they were speaking Spanish.
Just as everything is connected to everything else, so one thing leads to another. I was leafing through an ancient copy of Country Life in the doctor’s waiting room the other day, and was electrified to see a photograph of half an Albion press which clearly had the words on it ‘Harrild and Sons’. Having (to my shame) come across the name of
4 September 1666 is generally reckoned to have been the most destructive day of the Great Fire of London, during which large amounts of the city on the north bank of the Thames were razed to the ground. The lost buildings included many churches, and it was the determination to replace many of these on their original sites which – as well as insoluble wranglings about land ownership and rights of way – caused the reconstruction of the area to end up being dov’ era, if not quite com’ era.
I’m currently reading a book about 
Quasi-familial motives led the Hedgehog ménage to Thessaloniki recently, and a jolly time was had by all, in spite of 40 degrees C, 98% humidity, and the overwhelming nature of Greek hospitality. We had time for a little light sightseeing; and on all our travels to and from the leafy and lofty suburb where we were staying, as well as driving from the airport and back again, I noticed one particular plant which was surviving and thriving on roadsides and waste land in the extremely parched landscape.
Regrets, I’ve had a few … but none so profound as for the fatal day on which I gratefully accepted a kind neighbour’s gift of a single plant of Meconopsis cambrica. Up to my oxters (whatever they are) in the stuff today, I marvelled at the foolishness of my distant youth, when – even more ignorant about horticulture than I am today – all I wanted was plants to fill my newly acquired garden, most of which had previously existed as paving and a jerry-built shed, the electric lighting to which was achieved by a cable loosely draped across the said paving, itself so badly laid that the cable mostly sat in pools of water.