David’s Instagram account is @hortusjournal
When it comes to moving house, it’s all about plants. Well, that’s my take on the whole disruptive business.
We put our Carmarthenshire pile up for sale at Easter last year, thinking (wrongly as it turned out) we’d be horti-downsizing from ten acres to six.
I’d been collecting plants since childhood, many of them showing that oh-no-not-again smirk as I approached them with spade and barrow.
As one of those gardeners blighted by MCS (manic collecting syndrome, as it’s known under our roof) I was driven by the need to take with us to our new home as many of my bulbs, perennials, trees and shrubs as I had the time and energy to dig. Or, rather, pay someone else to.
While my partner worried about such practicalities as furniture, carpets and the family silver, I concentrated outdoors on living treasure.
It took five months from first viewing to completion of sale. Meanwhile, the weather maintained vigorous garden growth. As spring hurtled into summer there was no alternative but to dig the chosen plants as early as possible and transfer them individually into pots filled with moisture-retaining compost.
Thinking of those reduced but still plentiful acres which we assumed lay ahead, I began first with woody plants – young trees especially, including 40 or so three-to-five-year-old Japanese maples. These are expensive plants and have doubled in size since I bought them.
I was reluctant to leave them in situ and our prospective buyer displayed no convincing love of our bountiful garden.
So, safely uprooted and tenderly transferred to plastic pots (the better to maintain moisture), it was just a question of diligent watering until the arrival of removal lorries.
We discovered that pukka removal companies don’t want to transport living plants. Dirt and water would trash their trucks.
Fortunately, chums with vans were persuaded to drive them to their new destination.
Attention turned to my hydrangeas. Knowing I couldn’t possibly dig, pot and nurture for several months some 300 different varieties, I selected those of scarce availability, outright rarity and precious personal provenance, such as those acquired over a 20-year span from the French national collection at Jardin Shamrock near Dieppe. From the remainder, I took cuttings.
As the year (and sale of the property) oh so slowly progressed, we changed our minds about the house we intended to buy. We settled for a town house with a generous garden but no ‘land’.
Still the MCS uplifting and potting continued. By the time spring-flowering bulbs had died back, they were easily dug and packed into paper (not plastic) bags.
Perennials – notably crocosmias, epimediums, Siberian irises, Michaelmas daisies, hostas and a long tally of other delights – had to be pulled from the ground in large clumps to save as much soil around their roots as possible.
We had the space to store them, although the subsequent, months-long, daily watering proved tiresome.
We finally moved in late August. Drought was widespread, even in western counties. Famed Welsh borders terrain appeared scorched. The garden we eventually acquired is well-stocked – how could we possibly accommodate the accumulated haul? Somehow we have, remembering that old maxim ‘The older you are, the closer together you can assemble your plants.’ Overcrowding becomes someone else’s problem. Best of all, we have loads to give away to friends – gardening’s greatest joy.
David’s Instagram account is @hortusjournal
