Hello Spring!

by Justin Russell on September 1, 2010

Spring CottageBuds are bursting, bees are humming and the birds are flitting about excitedly. Spring is here!

For us here at Thistlebrook it means that it’s time to throw ourselves headlong into some urgent jobs like grafting next winter’s fruit trees, planting them out to grow on over summer, getting the garden ready for visitors. Then there’s lots of preparation and planting to do in the veg garden, articles to write, talks to prepare (I’m speaking at the Toowoomba Carnival of Flowers in a few weeks – more details to come) etc, etc.

We had a fantastic winter bare root season with our nursery, so thanks to everyone who purchased trees. It’s really inspiring to see so many people getting interested in home grown fruit, and we hope your Thistlebrook trees perform well for you in the months and years ahead. Don’t forget that if you need any growing advice, please feel free to ask – I’m very happy to help in whatever way I can.

For those readers who haven’t purchased trees (or those keen to add to their collection), we have a brilliant spring offer to get you started. From now until the 17th of September, we’re reducing all of our remaining bare root trees to just $15 each (plus postage for mail orders). On some varieties that’s a saving of more than fifty percent, but we’d rather see them planted in your backyard than hang around the nursery for the next month. Stock is very limited and mail orders will close on the 17th, so please check the catalogue page of the website to see what we have remaining, and grab a bargain before it sells out until winter 2011.

Wishing you all the best for the season,

Justin

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Backyard Warfare

by Justin Russell on August 24, 2010

Butterfly Apricot BlossomIt’s brutal, unrestrained warfare. Me versus them. The lone, heroic gardener armed only with a pressurised spray pack, a pair of plastic goggles and a respirator, taking on a swarming, orc-like army of pests vying for ultimate control of the garden. To the victor shall go the spoils, namely basketfuls of home grown fruits and vegetables necessarily laced with a cocktail of toxic chemicals.

This is the way some so called “gardening experts” distort the gentle art of growing your own food. Theirs is a world of paranoia, where pests lurk around every corner, waiting patiently until the cover of darkness to wipe out a ripening tomato or a broccoli leaf. Like suburban Kim Jong-ils with better haircuts and cooler spectacles, they have stockpiles of pesticides, herbicides and fungicides sitting innocuously in their garden shed. Unlike the North Korean supreme leader, the warrior gardeners have no hesitation in using these backyard weapons of mass destruction on anything that dare spoil their infantile notions of garden perfection.

To those gardeners who fit the description above, here’s a reality check: there is no such thing as the perfect, blemish free garden. Real gardens will always contain weeds. They’ll always be attractive to insects that feed on fruit and foliage. They’ll always be prone to fungus “attacks” when the weather is warm and humid. And guess what. All the midnight fretting and gung-ho spraying in the world ain’t gonna change it. In fact, such practices will probably make your problems worse.

My approach to “pest control” is somewhat more relaxed. In part, this is a reflection of my personality, as much as my beliefs – I consider myself a fairly gentle soul. A peace lover. It takes a lot to get me really riled, and as far as I can remember, the last time I punched someone in the nose was way back in Grade 8 when I took on a bloke called Donald who was bullying a deaf kid. I’m anything but a saint, yet for whatever reason, I mostly manage to vent my spleen by means like the pen, rather than the sword.

So backyard warfare’s not my game. I get asked all the time what spray should be used for such and such a pest, and I’m tempted each time to suggest doing nothing at all. More often than not, that’s what I do – nothing. I rarely spray, and when I do, it’s with something organic that is as gentle as possible. I’m not out to beat the bugs, and I have no delusions of control over the natural world. I’m keen to make peace, not wage war.

What I’d like to see is gardeners practising something along the lines of the Slow Food movement’s concept of “the co-producer”. Consider this quote from the Slow Food Australia website:

“We consider ourselves co-producers, not consumers, because by being informed about how our food is produced and actively supporting those who produce it, we become a part of – and a partner in – the production process.”

To me the key word is partner. Slow Food advocates are determined not to simply act like leaches on the ample backside of industrial farming, bleeding it dry. They’re not parasites or competitors. They’re partners. What would it look like if gardeners took a similar approach by partnering with nature rather than constantly fighting against it?

The starting point would be a radical shift in attitude. A myth still prevails that human beings must dominate and subdue the natural world with the aim of fashioning a sense of order and control from something chaotic and hostile. My rebuff for this argument is to point to the catastrophic floods currently drowning Pakistan. It is an act of pure pretence, and indeed arrogance, to believe that the natural world can be tamed. It cannot. So instead of deluding ourselves with the notion that we can bend nature to fit around us, we need to do the opposite – find ways that we can shape our lives to fit with nature. That’s what partners do.

From the point of view of a determined fruit and veg grower, I’m pragmatic enough to acknowledge that there will be times when some sort of intervention is justified. I’m not suggesting that you never, ever, spray. But much of what gets passed off as gardening advice bears more resemblance to the totalitarian ravings of backyard megalomaniacs than it does practical wisdom. My advice is to put down your chemical weapons. We are not at war. Nature is not the enemy.

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Barking Mad

by Justin Russell on August 17, 2010

Snow GumIt’s that time of the year again, when I look out my study window to see a landscape that’s neither here, nor there. Gone is the frost bleached grass and golden light of June. Gone is the crystal-like starkness of July.  It’s mid August, and while the occasional magnolia or daffodil enlivens the scene, the view from my vantage point is mostly of a garden where all the colours lose their definition and blend to form a kind of drab, muddy olive.

Small wonder then, that people get so easily seduced by big flowers in the dying days of winter. I’m not immune. A few weeks ago in this column I positively gushed about a Yulan magnolia in Toowoomba, and though it was a genuinely spectacular sight, I realise now that the tree’s beauty was intense, but fleeting. By now, the display will be waning, and within weeks, all trace of July glory will be stored away as happy memories.

What I want from my garden, besides wholesome food and a feeling of peace, is a human scale landscape that resonates with deep and abiding beauty. Some people approach the garden like they would a serious of casual flings. They get all hot and heavy about a particular plant one month, and when it loses its lustre, go all ga-ga about something else. That kind of infatuation does nothing for me.

Instead, as I become more experienced as a gardener I’m learning to appreciate subtle, more lasting beauties. This is especially so during the drab days of August when there’s little else by way of distraction and I can train my eye to really see. Suddenly, I start to notice that the garden is actually full of colour, just not as gaudy as that in spring and summer. And there are some wonderful textures to admire, from the felty softness of lamb’s ears to the lustrous gloss of a camellia japonica leaf.

But what really catches my eye is an interesting array of barks. If there’s such a thing as a true gardener, you can pick them, says Jackie French, by their appreciation of bark. Really? When was the last time you took a proper look at a tree with beautifully patterned or wonderfully textured bark?

There are plenty to choose from. One of my favourites has to be the snow gum, Eucalyptus pauciflora, which has so beautifully patterned and coloured bark that it looks like it was painted on the tree by God himself. I’ve yet to see it offered for sale in a nursery this far north of the Snowy Mountains, but if it was, I’d snap one up and give it a go. Another of my favourites is the bark of Eucalyptus maculata, commonly called spotted gum, and even the bark of the locally common Sydney blue gum is beautiful.

If your garden is too small for a massive eucalypt, and most these days are, there are still many trees to choose from. Crepe myrtles, which range from shrubs to small trees, have smooth, patterned bark a bit like that of a snow gum, and it offers a timeless counterpart to the tree’s dazzling summer flowers and autumn foliage. Also smooth but wonderfully rust coloured is the bark of the Irish Strawberry Tree, Arbutus unedo. It makes a nice evergreen shade tree and is great for kids to climb.

River birch, Betula nigra, has a lovely exfoliating bark that flakes away to reveal underlying layers of cream, pink and orange. Snakebark maples such as Acer davidii have unusual green bark with prominent vertical stripes and are worth tracking down from a specialist supplier. There are some good examples in Davidson Arboretum at Highfields, along with lots of Japanese maples. Many of these have bark colours that glow during winter, the pick in my opinion being the coral bark maple, Acer japonica ‘Sango Kaku’.

Another plant I really like for its bark is the cherry tree. Some have amazing glossy bark that when rubbed, polishes up like the finest cabinet timber. The most incredible bark you’ll ever see, and I say this hypothetically because I’ve only seen it in photos, is the bark of the Tibetan cherry, Prunus serrula. You’d swear that you were looking at a piece of French polished mahogany.

Then there’s the green bark of Illawarra flame trees, the bark of young apple trees, the rough hewn bark of Chinese elms – seriously, I could go on for hours. The point I’m trying to make is straightforward: flowers are fleeting, and there are other aspects to the garden that have a beauty and a charm that endure. Like bark. It seems insignificant, but that’s how life goes. Some of the most beautiful things abhor the limelight, revealing their wonder only to those who are prepared to really look.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 14th August 2010. Photo by Amanda Slater via flickr.com, snowgum bark.

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Crematoria or La Nina?

by Justin Russell on August 10, 2010

Regular readers of Secret Garden know that I’m a weather nerd, so it should come as little surprise to hear that at the end of each month, I religiously pull out my rainfall record and tally up the total for the preceding four weeks. Some months, the figure is cause for celebration, and optimism for the weeks ahead. Other months, more than I’d like to admit, it’s commiserations all round.

July was the latter. A paltry 24mm (one inch for the imperialists!) fell in the gauge – about half the long term Hampton average. This is just enough to keep the garden afloat during a cool winter, but on the back of an even paltrier 11mm in June, means that we’re heading into our driest months of the year with precious little moisture in the soil.

For purely ornamental gardens, a dry outlook isn’t much of a big deal. It means some jobs might need to be put off, and that some extra watering might be necessary to help young plants get established. But my garden is mostly about food. I’m setting it up to supply my family with as much home grown produce as possible from my two acre smallholding, and in this regard, it’s vital that I keep an eye on the weather forecasts and plan accordingly. The question is, how do you plan ahead when the weather is so fickle?

A good part of the answer is to understand the distinction between weather, and climate. Time is the key factor. Weather might be described as the atmospheric conditions over a short period of time, whereas climate refers to atmospheric patterns that occur over a long period of time. Global warming aside, climate is closely associated with the seasons and therefore, tends to be relatively stable, and consistent. With this in mind, my strategy should be to do what farmers do and plan for the months ahead using my garden’s long term climate as a basic guide.

The other thing I can do to plan ahead is consult indigenous culture, which in my view is a greatly overlooked source of wisdom about how to live well on earth’s driest inhabited continent. In Aboriginal society, landscape, plants, animals, ancestors and weather are all interconnected. By accumulating an intricate knowledge of the continent’s various climates over tens of thousands of years, the indigenous Australians developed a subtle description of the seasons and used their knowledge to predict the timing of various shifts in the weather.

As many as six, or as few as three seasons were recognised, depending on the location. In contrast, British settlers relied upon the basic four season description of summer-autumn-winter-spring so applicable to northern Europe. Though this remains the predominant model, indigenous wisdom is gradually being recognised.

Brisbane-based Gardening Australia presenter Jerry Coleby-Williams has taken a cue from indigenous climate observation to suggest that south-east Queensland experiences a fifth season. After a very brief spring in late August and early September, Jerry has observed that a pre-summer season occurs before the summer wet begins in December. He calls this pre-summer season “crematoria”.

It’s a foreboding kind of name, but one that perfectly describes the typically hot, dry, and windy weather that can persist during September, October and November. Last year we had a classic crematoria season marked by regular dust storms, and hot, north-westerly winds –awful conditions for gardening, particularly the establishment of new plants. Lots of gardeners relying on tank irrigation ran out of water.

Now I’m yet to hear the BOM identify a fifth season called crematoria, and in fact, the official climate models are predicting the development of a La Nina weather pattern during late spring and early summer. In other words it could get wet, and the evidence for crematoria is entirely anecdotal. But in my view Jerry’s on to something. If I’m to be serious about planning ahead for the coming season I’d be smart to take into consideration the potential for a few dry and windy months.

Here then, is my crematoria action plan: I’ll try to give young fruit trees better protection from drying wind and will water regularly; I’ll try to complete major plant-outs in the vegie garden following a rain event, instead of blindly following the calendar; I’ll top dress as many plants as possible with compost and replenish mulch in garden beds and around trees; I’ll attempt to make stored rainwater go further by using soil wetters and incorporating as much rotted organic matter as possible. Beyond that, I’ll continue to hold out hope that late 2010 will produce the creek flowing, dam filling rain we still so desperately need.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 7th August 2010.

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The Importance of Trees

by Justin Russell on August 6, 2010

Peacehaven EucalyptsTomorrow is National Tree Day, and as in previous years, I’ll be getting outside and finding a place for a native seedling or two somewhere in my garden. This year, I’ve earmarked a spot for a Crows Ash, Flindersia australis. This species would have been indigenous to my area when the land was virgin forest, and there are still some fine old specimens around. A beauty can be found in the south-west corner of Peacehaven Botanic Park at Highfields, where Tree Day celebrations will be held tomorrow morning. As a complement I’ll also be planting a couple of fruit trees.

It might comes as a surprise, considering the lack of publicity such an important initiative receives, to hear that National Tree Day has been an annual event for the last 15 years. It was co-founded in 1996 by Olivia Newton-John and the environmental organisation Planet Ark, and to date, is responsible for planting more than 15 million native trees. Another one million or so will go in the ground tomorrow.

Some of the benefits of planting trees are obvious. At the most basic level, they create shade, helping to cool us down. You think this would be so simple that it’s elementary, but drive through some of the new estates in Toowoomba or Highfields and you’ll enter a surreal landscape almost totally devoid of any trees. Why run the air conditioner all day to cool yourself down in summer when a well located tree can do the job for free? You’re welcome to live where you like, but lest we end up inadvertently creating suburban deserts, I think it would be wise to plant more trees.

Maybe you’re of the opinion that you prefer your air conditioner, and all this tree planting caper is a bit of a lark. Let me try to convince you otherwise by pointing to the example of Kenya’s Green Belt Movement (GBM) and its inspiring founder, environmental and political activist Professor Wangari Maathai. Since 1977, GBM has planted more than 45 million trees in sub-Saharan Africa, established 6,000 village nurseries, and trained more than 30,000 poor rural women in skills such as horticulture, forestry, food processing, and bee-keeping.

The net result of such activity is that desertification in north east Kenya has been halted by GBM’s planting of long “green belts” in what was an eroded and deforested landscape. With reforestation comes increased biodiversity and restored ecosystems, as well as fewer crop failures and water shortages. Wangari Maathai received the 2004 Nobel Peace Prize for her efforts. Her work is based on the belief that a healthy natural environment is at the heart of an equitable and peaceful society.

Contrast what’s happening in Kenya with the situation occurring in Niger, north-west Africa. Here, rampant desertification has encroached on what little arable land the already dry country possessed, leaving more than 80% of the landscape covered by desert and causing major food insecurity. Some reforestation efforts have been undertaken in recent years, but it hasn’t been enough. Now facing a prolonged drought, it is estimated that half of Niger’s population of 15 million is suffering form severe malnutrition. More than three million are classified as starving. Kids, as always, are being hit the hardest.

What’s the link between starving children in west Africa and a festive day of planting in the comparatively fertile Darling Downs in Australia. It’s the importance of trees. Once and for all we need to clear up the misconception that trees are little more than obstacles and inconveniences standing in the way of development. Let’s get real. Trees are vital. They provide habitat – for ourselves and for native animals – they help maintain healthy rural landscapes, they feed us, and we ought to never underestimate the role they play in enhancing our collective quality of life. Trees deserve far more respect than we currently afford them.

I’ll leave the last word to Wangari Maathai:

“I love the trees, I love the colour. To me they represent life, and they represent hope. I think it is the green colour. I tell people I think heaven is green.”

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 31st July 2010. Photo by Justin Russell – old growth Eucalypts, Peacehaven Botanic Park, Highfields.

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Open garden creates magnolia envy

by Justin Russell on July 26, 2010

Magnolia denudataThe Toowoomba range is host to some fine gardens, but in my view they don’t get much finer than the rangetop paradise in Leslie Street known as Stirling House. Established by John and Jill Stirling in the 1960’s, and now owned by hospitable couple Colin Fitzgerald and Dr Viola Nicholson, the garden comprises two acres of magnificent cool climate trees, hundreds of roses, classic bluestone paths, and lots of lovely woodland perennials.

What Stirling House is most famous for though, is its camellias. There are dozens of beautiful specimens scattered amongst the garden, most in full flower when I visited last weekend and yet all of them outdone by the prized yellow species Camellia nitidissima.

As stunningly beautiful as this camellia was on the day (I’ll write about it in a later article), it was actually outshone for sheer visual splendour by another exotic plant. Like a gifted Academy Award winner being upstaged by a glamorous supporting actress, the star of the show when I visited Stirling House was undoubtedly a Magnolia denudata in full, exquisite bloom.

The Yulan, as Magnolia denudata is commonly known, makes an arresting sight when it produces masses of huge, pure white blooms on bare wood during the second half of winter. It certainly stopped the 18th century plant explorers dead in their tracks. Imagine the sheer astonishment of a sweaty English botanist, trekking along an ancient pathway in the lower Himalayas, stumbling across a misty valley bleached white with the blooms of thousands of magnolias. The contrast with the less exotic flora back home would have been absolutely stark. It still is, especially when the blooms are admired against the backdrop of a clear winter sky.

Magnolia denudata was named for its region of origin in central China. Here it can still be found growing in moist upland forests amongst camellias and rhododendrons on deep, fertile soil. The genus magnolia was introduced to horticulture by the famous botanist Sir Joseph Banks, who was absolutely delighted to open a consignment from China in 1792 containing the first ever specimen of Magnolia denudata from Dr Alexander Duncan, a surgeon working in Canton.

From this point on, the flames of an international love affair with magnolias were kindled, and it’s fair to say that the passion for these magnificent plants never really went out. In 1820, a retired French army captain by the name Etienne Soulange-Bodin crossed Magnolia denudata with Magnolia liliiflora to produce the hybrid Magnolia x soulangeana. Combining the best qualities of each of its parents, “soulangeana” is now the most widely grown of all the deciduous magnolias, lighting up Toowoomba during August and September with its opulent, pink blushed flowers. It’s a decent plant, but by no means the best magnolia in cultivation.

In addition to the Yulan magnolia described at the outset, there are some other beauties worth seeking out. For small gardens Magnolia liliiflora ‘Nigra’ is the pick. It’s a slow grower that will eventually reach just a few metres tall and produces lovely dark purple flowers on a multi-stemmed shrub. Almost as good is Magnolia stellata, which has white star shaped flowers and rarely exceeds three metres in height.

For larger gardens my picks would be ‘StarWars’ a tall growing variety that continues flowering through summer and autumn, ‘Vulcan’ with it’s striking purple-red flowers, and ‘Elizabeth’, a classy, late flowering yellow cultivar that grows strongly and is capable of reaching six metres or more in height. Use it to accompany your yellow flowered camellia and be the envy of all your gardening friends!

If that’s your ambition, and it’s not actually one that I’d seriously recommend, better get your conditions right. Magnolias are ancient plants dating back to prehistory, but they do have fairly specific requirements to really perform well. Chief amongst these is a mountain soil that’s rich, deep, well drained and slightly acid. A cool climate is preferred, and protection from severe late winter frosts is important to prevent the flower show from ending in tears too early in the piece.

This all sounds quite specific, but thankfully, the perfect conditions for growing brilliant magnolias can be found all along the Great Dividing Range, from the Bunya Mountains in the north to the suitable parts of the Granite Belt to the south. For those out west, magnolias are a trickier proposition. The best advice I can give is to try the evergreen cultivars of Magnolia grandiflora such as ‘Little Gem’, ‘St Mary’s’ and ‘Exmouth’. You shouldn’t feel left out. The evergreens are just as stunning as their deciduous cousins, and more tolerant to boot.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 24th July 2010. Photo by Justin Russell – Magnolia denudata, Stirling House, Toowoomba.

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On the Bowen tomato sabotage

by Justin Russell on July 26, 2010

Amid all last week’s hub-bub about asylum seeker policies, Spanish football, State of Origin football and footballers reacting badly to sleeping tablets, you might have missed a mysterious little news item about an act of horticultural sabotage in north Queensland. Around seven million plants, including four million tomato seedlings, have been killed after they were deliberately poisoned at a seedling nursery in Bowen.

Police believe herbicide was injected into the nursery’s irrigation system, and the rumours are flying. Some say the poisoning was an act of industrial sabotage. Some suggest that another grower was trying to force up tomato prices. Others are even claiming the poisoning was an act of terrorism.

Whatever the motive, the repercussions from this event are obvious. Bowen is the largest winter growing tomato region in Australia, harvesting 80% of the nation’s crop during spring. The loss of millions of seedlings means that if you were planning to make chicken parmigiana sometime in September, one of the main ingredients just got a whole lot more expensive. Prices are expected to triple over the coming months and reach in excess of $15 per kilo.

The loss of a crop is a devastating blow for any farmer, and I wouldn’t wish such an event on anyone. It’s also a serious blow for farm labourers and nursery workers who’ll need to look elsewhere for a job. But while this event is a difficult pill to swallow for those directly involved, I also think it can serve as a timely reminder of the problems associated with the industrial model of food production, and the urgent need for us to get back to basics.

Some of the issues are immediately obvious. Throughout southern Australia tomatoes are a summer crop. However in our society’s desire to have whatever food it wants, whenever it wants it, we’ve largely abandoned the time honoured practice of eating whatever produce is currently in season. Instead, we either eat processed food when fresh produce isn’t available, or worse still, import produce from overseas. In the case of winter tomatoes, we don’t seem to have any qualms about transporting produce via fossil fuel powered vehicles across thousands of kilometres, a process associated with the concept of “food miles”.

Less obvious in the Bowen tomato sabotage is the issue of food security. Unlike our ancestors, who grew fruit and vegetables and kept backyard livestock, we find ourselves in a position of extreme vulnerability when it comes to food supplies. Almost every household is dependent upon supermarkets, but to minimise inventory sitting idly in warehouses, the supermarkets operate according to a “just in time” delivery system. It’s estimated that there is just three day’s supply of food actually stocked on the shelves.

When demand exceeds supply, fresh produce prices go up. But when calamity strikes, prices skyrocket to unaffordable levels. This happened following Cyclone Larry when a large portion of North Queensland’s banana crop was wiped out, and it will happen as a result of the Bowen tomato poisoning.

The solution to the issues of food security, dependence upon supermarkets and long distance transportation, is simple. It’s also affordable, and empowering. It builds community. It leads to improvements in physical and mental wellbeing. It is, of course, to grow your own food, right in your own garden.

I’ve been growing my own fruit, vegetables and herbs since Kylie and I got married in 1998. Twelve years later and we reckon that in summer, our garden supplies about 80 percent of our fresh produce requirement. Supermarkets are still a necessary evil. But we seek to make up some of the shortfall by swapping with neighbours and buying things locally. We’re not aiming for total self sufficiency, but we are determined to grow as much as possible.

There’s more to it than pure economics though. Something I’ve realised in the last year or two is that alongside my wife and kids, food growing is one of the great passions of my life. When I’m outside digging in my vegie garden or working in the orchard, I experience the kind of deep, pit of your guts satisfaction that comes from directly suppling my family’s need for food.

If I could turn the clock on my gardening efforts back to 1998, I’d only change one thing. I’d plant more fruit trees. That’s it. Growing my own food has been one of the best things I’ve done in my life to date, and I’d encourage you too, to take up the spade, align yourself with the seasons and bring forth from the soil a bounty richer than you have ever imagined!

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 18th July, 2010.

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Rediscovering a Local Icon

by Justin Russell on July 14, 2010

Blue FirConifer. As one of the very few plants that I have a love/hate relationship with, the very word is full of mixed emotions for me. On the one hand, I find conifers beautifully evocative plants that can conjure up romantic images of Tuscan villas and alpine forests. The reverie lasts until I drive through a 1960’s Toowoomba subdivision and struggle to appreciate an endless parade of front gardens filled with little other than dwarf or clipped conifers. In this situation they look more like a nineteenth century funeral procession – stoic, dour, sombre.

What a shame we got such wonderful plants so badly wrong. Conifers have many overlooked virtues. They are supremely tough plants, thanks largely to their needle like foliage which limits moisture loss and resists drying winds. Many conifers are remarkably free from disease, and are little troubled by insect pests. They are some of the most widely distributed plants on earth, able to survive in all but the harshest climates and found on every continent.

From a garden design point of view, another virtue is their pyramidal or columnar growth patterns. Few plants have such a strikingly defined shape, which means that conifers are the perfect trees for situations requiring bold planting. The Italians got it right. They used fastigiate (upright) cypresses to strongly define entrances, line avenues, frame views and emphasise vertical elements like walls. In Aussie suburbia we’ve done weird things like give tall growing conifers “flat top” haircuts, or tie wires around the tree to constrict the foliage. Surely we’d be much better off working with a plant’s natural inclinations, or planting an alternative.

Though only about 600 species occur in the wild, there are literally hundreds of different conifers to choose from in cultivation. Some make the perfect, low maintenance groundcover, such as shore juniper, Juniperus conferta. Others make an excellent farm windbreak, such as Bhutan cypress, Cupressus torulosa. Other conifers produce edible nuts such as Pinus pinea, and lots make stunning specimen trees, such as the weeping Atlantic cedar, Cedrus atlantica ‘Glauca Pendula’.

Conifers range from dwarf shrubs less than a metre in height to 100 metre tall giants. Bearing this in mind, it almost goes without saying that wisdom should be exercised when choosing from such a diverse array of plants. My advice is to do some research. Use discretion. Don’t stick a Dawn Redwood in your courtyard, be careful in how you use gold and blue coloured conifers, and above all, try to avoid the “miniature Switzerland look”.

Gardens filled with little other than conifers became wildly popular during the suburban expansion of the 60’s and 70’s, particularly in highland areas like Toowoomba, where the reasoning seemed to be “mountain climate equals mountainesque landscaping”. To some extent this is correct, but Toowoomba is hardly the Swiss Alps. If you’re a collector, you’ll probably want to plant conifers like there’s no tomorrow, but most home gardeners will fare better with a mixed garden containing a range of different plants.

We shouldn’t overlook Australia’s native conifers either. I have a real soft spot for the Araucaria “pines” and their relatives. You only need to take a drive from the Bunya Mountains to Toowoomba via the New England Highway to realise that big, ancient trees like Araucaria bidwillii (Bunya pine), Araucaria cunninghamii (Hoop pine) and Agathis robusta (Kauri pine) thrive in the red soil country along the escarpment.

These stately conifers were once quite a common sight in suburban gardens throughout Toowoomba, but our modern obsession with health and safety has seen lots of domestic trees removed. I grew up with a massive Bunya pine in the backyard, so it always makes me a bit sad to see an arborist dangling from the top of a 20 metre tall specimen wielding a chainsaw. Lest a Bunya nut lands on someone’s head, another big old beauty bites the dust.

Well, stuff health and safety! Council will probably get their knickers in a knot but I say where there’s space, bring back the big native conifers. Not only did they provide welcome shade in a city rapidly looking like a tin roof jungle, but the old Bunyas, hoops and kauris helped define Toowoomba’s treasured Garden City identity. Let’s not forget how unique the Bunya is to our corner of the world. I think it should be celebrated as one of the city’s icons, and I’d love to see it planted appropriately, but happily, by all and sundry.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 10th July 2010. Photo by Justin Russell, “Blue Fir” Glenrock, Tenterfield.

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Celebrate Local Distinctiveness

by Justin Russell on July 8, 2010

Vineyard Cottages GardenOne of the most frustrating things about being a gardening journalist, is that there is usually no other option but to provide generalised advice to a widely distributed audience. Take my website as an example. In response to an article written last year on rhubarb, there are three pages of comments left by readers from all over the world, often asking questions of a similar nature. “Why won’t my rhubarb go red” is popular. So is “why are the stalks of my rhubarb so skinny?”

Such is the gardening journalist’s lot. I don’t profess to be a font of all horticultural wisdom, but I have gained some hard won experience, and I like to write about what I’ve learned. I genuinely want to helpful. But I ask you this: How on earth is it possible to offer specific advice to gardeners living in locations as far flung as England, America and good ol’ Toowoomba? By necessity, the advice has to be generic.

But here lies the problem. Gardening is never generic. In fact it is the opposite. It’s always local and individual. It is specific, and subject to the influences of climate, weather, latitude, and geography. This means that in gardening terms, experience is mostly about developing an intimate relationship with a single place over a reasonable period of time.

My favourite gardening writer, Monty Don, once described his idea of home as knowing which kitchen drawer he should open to find the string and scissors. In other words, home is about becoming intimately acquainted with a place and its people. The same is absolutely true of gardening.

For me, getting acquainted with my place means a few things. For starters, it means living long enough in one place to sink really deep roots. Then it means observing and recording things like weather and changes to long term climate patterns. It means getting to know the culture and history of my land and the broader landscape it’s part of. And of course, it means getting to know the geology and geography of the land, especially the soil. I suppose you might say that it means being sensitive to a place, responsive.

But there’s more to it than that. Every parcel of land, whether it is 10,000 acres or just 1000 square metres, a national park or town centre, has a particular spirit. I don’t mean some kind of magical power, but rather an atmosphere or mood that’s unique to a particular location.

The Romans called this atmosphere “genius loci”, the spirit of the place. Alexander Pope, the 18th century poet, wrote “consult the genius of the place in all”, and his advice is still one of the guiding principles for designers of buildings and landscapes. Those who are familiar with Glenn Murcutt’s houses will know that the Pritzker Prize winning architect works according to a philosophy of “touching the earth lightly” and matching the building to the landscape. Prominent English garden designer Dan Pearson is similarly renowned for being able to capture the spirit of a particular place in his designs.

A local garden that epitomises the spirit of a place is Vineyard Cottages on the Granite Belt. Here, the owners have used granite stones for edges, decomposed granite for pathways, and plants that reflect the culture of the area. Apples, grapes and lavenders all serve as reminders of Ballandean’s local farming traditions. Local mushroom compost was used to improve the poor soil in the garden and the owners even went as far as matching the trim colour on the cottages to the hazy blue shade of the distant hills. The effect of such thoughtfulness is that a stroll through the garden leaves no room for error – this is a garden that is a good fit with its locality. The genius of the place is distinctive, and celebrated.

In complete contrast was a Toowoomba estate I drove through the other day to visit friends. Despite having been built over excellent soil and surrounded by tall eucalypts, every second front garden consisted of a lawn, a couple of purple cordylines and perhaps a clump of dietes or a murraya hedge. There was no distinctiveness whatsoever. I could have been driving through any new estate in Australia, such was the denial of place.

Here’s what I’d rather do: rejoice in the things that make my little corner of the world unique. I want to apply my local knowledge to the way I grow commonly available plants, like rhubarb. I know that in my free draining soil, it needs daily watering in summer, and plenty of top dressing with compost each winter. In your garden, it’ll be a different story. Find the genius of your place. Y filltir sgwâr. In Welsh, that means “your square mile”. Celebrate its distinctiveness.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 3rd July 2010. Photo by Justin Russell, Vineyard Cottages, Ballandean.

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Can You Dig It?

by Justin Russell on July 1, 2010

To dig or not to dig, that’s the question. If you’re part of the legion of new vegie gardeners taking up the spade in a quest for the good life, you could be forgiven for wondering who you should believe. The advice seems completely contradictory. Should one take the advice of the no-dig advocates, who argue passionately for the spade to be left in the shed, or is it safest to believe the traditional gardeners, who argue that theirs is a tried and true method refined over hundreds of years? Or is there a third way that finds some common ground between the two extremes?

We’ll get to the answer later, but first, let’s explore what I mean by “no-dig” gardening. The concept has actually been around for decades, just under different names. It began in the1930’s with the Japanese farmer/philosopher/scientist Masanobu Fukuoka, who from 1938 until his death in 2008, experimented with various small scale farming techniques that he collectively referred to as “natural farming”. Fukuoka’s philosophy was based on a simple concept: the farmer should interfere as little as possible with natural processes. Crops could be grown, he argued, without machines, with no prepared fertiliser and no chemicals, yet attain yields equal to or greater than the conventional Japanese farm.

One of the main components of the Fukuoka approach was to use ancient techniques like cover cropping and seed balls in order to totally avoid having to cultivate the soil. Fukuoka’s concept was characterised as “no-till” farming and enthusiastically embraced during subsequent decades by both agricultural scientists and the growing band of farmers interested in natural farming methods. It wasn’t until the late 1970’s though, that a Sydney gardener named Esther Deans applied Fukuoka’s techniques to the domestic backyard.

In two well regarded books, Deans outlined the concept of “no-dig” gardening. Her basic idea was to build garden beds above the soil surface by layering various materials on top of each other like a kind of horticultural lasagne. Layer one is wet newspaper laid on the soil (or lawn) surface to smother weeds and grass. Layer two is straw or lucerne hay. Layer three is organic fertiliser such as pelletised chicken manure, or blood and bone. Layer four is straw. Layer five is manure. Layer six, the top layer, is good quality compost. Each layer is watered progressively as the beds are built.

Anyone who’s done a spot of composting will know what’s going here. When first made, a true no-dig garden is basically a fancy compost heap. A high nitrogen material (manure) combined with a high carbon material (straw) will decompose in the presence of moisture and oxygen, creating a soil-like material (humus) that is okay for growing plants in.

No-dig advocates claim a slew of advantages over traditional techniques. No-dig gardens don’t need to be cultivated, thereby eliminating damage to fragile soil flora and fauna. They are perfect for those who are unable to wield heavy tools. They are more fertile than traditional gardens. They can be made over really poor soil or even solid concrete.

Sounds great, doesn’t it. In practice, no-dig isn’t as simple as it appears, especially long term. As no-dig gardens decompose, they shrink, and need to be constantly topped up with copious quantities of organic matter. When built over a hard pan, serious drainage problems can develop in wet conditions. No dig garden beds need to be either really narrow or modular for ease of access. Then there’s the myth shattering truth that vegetables need to planted, and planting (even sowing) requires some degree of cultivation. There ain’t no such thing as a totally “no dig” vegetable garden.

So in answer to my original question, to dig or not to dig, my approach is to find a middle way. I’ve tried no-dig gardening, and it proved a tricky proposition. Instead, my philosophy is one of minimal till. I believe there are times when a good dig is beneficial for both the health of the garden, and the health of the gardener. While I don’t advocate the old techniques of double digging and annual winter cultivation, I have no qualms about digging in a green manure crop, cultivating the soil as part of my annual crop rotation, or growing carrots in ground worked to a fine tilth.

I suppose what I’m saying is that there’s a case to be made for digging, but with restraint rather than abandon. Before putting spade to soil, I try to use my brain. I ask myself questions, things like: “why massacre earthworms if I don’t have to”; and “do I really need dig this particular bed, or am I blindly following convention”. In gardening, as in life, the real answer is all about finding a healthy sense of balance.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 29th June 2010.

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