If you’ve been reading Secret Garden for a couple of years you’d be aware that I’ve got a thing for apples. For those who are new to the column (welcome, by the way!), let it be heard that apples are my favourite plant. By a country mile. You know those desert island lists that sometimes make the round in gardening magazines? Well, if I had to list my top four desert island plants, they would be dessert apples, followed by cooking apples, then cider apples, and finally, crab apples. Of course I probably couldn’t grow any of them on a desert island, but that’s beside the point.

If you’re a long time reader, you’ll also know that I have absolutely no idea why I love apple trees so much. It goes without saying that apples are also my favourite fruit, but that’s not enough to inspire a grand passion, is it? The only other reason I can come up with to support my apple enthusiasm is that my ancestors came from Herefordshire in England. To this day, when China is easily the biggest apple producer in the world, Herefordshire remains a major growing region. But a century ago apple trees were legion in the English west country and my Russell ancestors were right in the thick of it. So my theory is that some kind of genetic memory has been passed down, and the result is a longing to grow apples. Sounds bonkers, but it’s all I can put my finger on.

It’s hardly a surprise then, that I’d love to see more gardeners growing the fruit in their backyard. I get asked all the time whether apples will even grow in Toowoomba and on the Downs. The answer is a resounding yes. In my own experience, the 30 odd varieties growing here in my Hampton garden are doing very well, but the broader answer to the question is that there is an apple for almost every climate.

Apples originate not in the Middle East as popular myth might suggest, but in central Asia. There are still wild forests in Kazakhstan containing 20 metre tall, 300-year-old apple trees with the girth of oaks and fruit in a huge diversity of colours, shapes and sizes. This latter point is the key thing to learn about apples. They are one of the most genetically diverse plants on earth, which means the odds are very strong that you’ll find an apple well suited to your garden.

The big garden centres will dish out the standard advice that for Queensland climates, you must plant low chill cultivars such as ‘Anna’ and ‘Dorsett Golden’. What they don’t usually tell you is that the first comes from Israel and the second from the Bahamas. They’ll also neglect to tell you that Dorsett Golden was bred from Golden Delicious, a staple variety in cold climate orchards across the world. So my advice is simple: be careful who you listen to, and don’t get too hung up on matching apple varieties and climate. There are 500 plus cultivars in Australia – plenty will do well in your garden.

One thing you will need to get hung up on is the apple’s rather specific reproductive habits. The flowers are pollinated by bees and there are very few self-pollinating apples, so the general rule is that for a tree to bear fruit, it will need another apple planted in the vicinity that flowers around the same time. If you’ve already planted an apple tree and it isn’t producing fruit, chances are you need a second variety for pollination. For a select group of large fruiting apples called triploids, a third variety will be required. A good apple nursery will give you the skinny on the best combinations.

As for apple growing culture, the trees are generally easy to grow, but in some climates they can be prone to a range of problems. The big three are fruit fly, codling moth, and the fungal disease apple scab. The first two can be controlled with a combination of good hygiene, exclusion bags or nets, and organic baits. Scab is worse on some varieties than others, can be prevented to some extent by facilitating good airflow through the trees, and can be controlled quite successfully with an overwintering spray of lime sulphur. Soil isn’t a major concern, though being a forest dweller, the trees will thrive in rich soil full of organic matter. Apply compost regularly and keep the trees mulched.

If I sound overly enthusiastic, please refer to paragraph two. I make no apologies for being an apple freak. The apple is a wonderful garden plant just waiting to be rediscovered by discerning gardeners. Please, I implore you all to give them a try. I doubt you’ll regret it.

One of the highlights of late winter in Toowoomba is the deciduous magnolia. I absolutely love the things. Their flower display has an air of exoticism that few trees can match, except perhaps for their cousins, the Bull Bay or evergeen magnolias.

Five years ago, Magnolia grandiflora and its offspring were the must-have plants of the moment. Hot shot designers like Jamie Durie were using them all over the place, and nearly every week, shows like Backyard Blitz used them as a feature tree. More than a few trees were snapped up by a gardening public willing to pay $30 or more for what was essentially a fashion statement in a 140mm pot.

But fashions change. In this new era of austerity, expensive little trees are less likely to loosen the purse strings and the evergreen magnolia has joined lots of other gardenworthy plants in a twilight zone of horticultural obscurity. To be honest, even I’m guilty of overlooking the plant. The main reason it’s even getting a run today is because of a road trip my wife and I made last week.

We took off for a couple of days to deliver fruit trees to a property at Kentucky, a village at the southern end of the New England Tablelands in NSW. Sitting between 900 and 1400 metres above sea level, New England is famous for having one of the coldest climates in Australia. Deciduous trees and conifers dominate the landscape, but while driving through the main street of Uralla I spotted a large evergreen tree out of the corner of my eye. When I slowed down for a look, I was surprised to see that the tree was a mature Magnolia grandiflora.

The discovery shouldn’t have been that much of a shock. The Bull Bay magnolia is actually quite a cold tolerant plant. Native to the southern United States, in the wild it often grows in the company of deciduous trees such as liquidambars, tupelos and oaks. In a garden situation it can be found growing as far north as Chicago and British Columbia. We’re talking about one of the oldest exotic plants in cultivation here – Magnolia grandiflora has been grown successfully in Britain since 1726.

The species can be a large tree to about 20 metres tall. There are some handsome plants scattered around the Toowoomba area, particularly in older parks and gardens. A real beauty can be seen growing just outside the cemetery at Cabarlah, but for the average garden, one of the cultivars is a wiser choice. There are around half a dozen to choose from, and all bear the “grand”, heavily-scented white flowers as the species during late summer and autumn.

The variety that caught designers’ imaginations five years ago is ‘Little Gem’. I’ve got one growing in my garden, and while the plant might eventually reach a height of about five metres, it appears to be in no hurry to get there. The foliage is something else: glossy and dark green on top, brown and felty in texture underneath.

If you’re after a faster grower than Little Gem, ‘St Mary’ is a good choice. It will get to about six metres in height and is a more open plant. And if the brown leaf texture doesn’t appeal there is a new variety on the available called ‘Greenback’. The pick of the lot, however, is an oldie called ‘Exmouth’. This exceptionally stately tree will grow a bit bigger than the previous plants to about 10 metres tall but it has a conical shape and will only get to five metres in diameter.

Exmouth was grown by Sir John Colliton in a Devon village during the early 18th century. You might say that Colliton had an entrepreneurial spirit. He leased his tree out to local nurserymen on a rotational basis, collecting five guineas (about $750 in today’s terms) for each young rooted tree sold. He wasn’t however, very astute. The tree was accidentally cut down in 1794.

Evergreen magnolias do best in a loamy soil, but they’re very tolerant of a broad range of conditions. They handle the black soil of the plains and the red soil of the plateaus equally well. You’ll need to water plants regularly during dry spells to get them established, but after the first year or two no supplemental moisture is necessary. Pests are a non event. I’ve yet to find barely a blemished leaf on my Little Gem.

The famous plant explorer Ernest “Chinese” Wilson called magnolias “aristocrats with ancient lineage”. His description was spot on. Ignore the fact that Magnolias aren’t trendy any more. Classic beauty never goes out of style.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 6th August 2011. Photo by Justin Russell, Magnolia ‘Little Gem’, The Laurels, Warwick.

In last week’s Secret Garden I introduced the permaculture concept, and it’s three guiding ethics. In this week’s sequel, I want to talk principles. Permaculture co-founder Bill Mollison first outlined a set of design principles in his 1988 epic, Permaculture: A Designer’s Manual. The book is thick enough to chock a semi-trailer, so broad is its scope, so when permaculture co-founder David Holmgren restated the principles in a more accessible format in 2003, the overhaul was very welcome. Here they are, along with my brief take on each.

Observe and Interact

Take the time to engage with the natural world, and design a garden that is tailor made to a particular site. Alexander Pope put it this way: “consult the genius of the place in all”.

Catch and Store Energy

Harvest resources while they are abundant, and store them for later use when they’re scarce. Rainwater tanks are an excellent example of this principle, as is the traditional practice of preserving the harvest for use during winter.

Obtain a Yield

Holmgren states this as “you can’t work on an empty stomach”. When a starter vegie grower brings in a first harvest, for example, or some income is derived from a project early on, it provides a boost, and the project is likely to go ahead and thrive.

Apply Self Regulation and Accept Feedback

The three permaculture ethics are an important means of self regulation, but it’s important to learn from your mistakes. Seek constructive criticism, and observe the feedback provided by natural systems. If you plant a cactus in a bog, and it rots, accept the feedback and resolve to plant a moisture lover in its place.

Use and Value Renewable Resources and Services

Nature is abundant, with more than enough renewable resources to satisfy our basic needs. Why ordinary citizens continue to prop up fossil-based industries, when the solutions are under our collective nose, is beyond me.

Produce No Waste

Trade your council Green Bin for a compost bin. Minimise your packaging and reuse it where possible. Or as self-sufficiency pioneer John Seymour once said “the dustman should never have to call”.

Design From Patterns to Details

If we apply permaculture principle one, we’ll see that patterns exist in nature, and they can be used successfully in our gardens. Once these “broad brush strokes” have been made, it’s easy to fill in the details.

Integrate Rather Than Segregate

An ideal example of this principle is compost. More than the sum of it’s parts, compost contains various elements – moisture, plant waste, animal manure – which combine together for the common good.

Use Small and Slow Solutions

The bigger they are, the harder they fall. When size and speed become excessive, maintenance becomes difficult and the crash, when it comes, is a lot harder than ought to be. Pay attention to scale.

Use and Value Diversity

The more diverse an ecosystem (or garden), the more unique it is, and the more resilient it becomes to a variety of threats. Rather than putting all your eggs in one basket, diversify. Mix things up.

Use Edges and Value the Marginal

Permies argue that where two different elements overlap, there is an intense area of productivity. An often cited example is where forest meets open grassland. Some of our most productive fruiting plants come from margins such as this.

Creatively Use and Respond to Change

Since moving to Hampton in 2006 my family has been quietly designing, and implementing a rough plan as a response to issues such as peak oil and climate change. I refuse to fear change, and instead try to make it work for myself, my family and my community.

There’s a perception in horticultural circles that permaculture is little more than a quirky method of gardening, using novelties such as herb spirals, swales, chook domes, and off the wall things called keyhole beds. However, these are simply techniques that are supposed to fit within a broader philosophical context. Taken as a whole, permaculture is seen by many as the clearest template yet of how we can best design human settlements in partnership with the natural world.

Personally speaking, I’ve been interested in permaculture since I started getting serious about gardening 12 years ago. But for reasons that I’m yet to properly define, something has stopped the concept from jumping up and grabbing me by the throat. Maybe it’s that I’ve seen some weedy, overgrown, and to be frank, ugly permaculture gardens. Maybe it’s simply that I don’t yet understand permaculture well enough to give it a proper go. Then again, maybe, just maybe, permaculture is truly revolutionary, and I’m yet to realise that it offers the best shot at thriving in a swiftly changing world. Time will tell.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 7th May 2011.

The events come thick and fast at this time of the year. Easter, Anzac Day, and Earth Day last weekend, Gardenfest and Autumnfest this weekend (see Garden Cuttings for more info), and the Hampton Food and Arts Festival in a couple of weeks’ time. One event that’s likely to fly under the radar, but deserves more attention is the inaugural National Permaculture Day, tomorrow, May 1.

Despite being described by veteran environmentalist David Suzuki as “the most important activity that any group is doing on the planet”, Permaculture has yet to gain any real traction in our part of the world. As far as I’m aware, there are no local events being held tomorrow, which is a shame, and though there are a handful of dedicated permaculture gardens hidden around the place, none are throwing open their gates to the public. I wonder why this is the case. Is it because of Toowoomba’s conservatism, where anything and anyone bearing a green tinge generally gets treated with suspicion? Or is it simply that permaculture is a difficult concept to understand?

Conservative our area might be, but in my experience the latter reason is true: most local gardeners have heard of permaculture, but few actually understand what the concept is about. Personally, I find permaculture to be brilliantly conceived, even revolutionary, but it is a very difficult concept to penetrate for the average home gardener with no experience in design or ecology. And while I don’t really consider myself a permaculturalist (and certainly don’t qualify as a permaculture designer), I would like to spend this Saturday and next introducing the permaculture concept and outlining ways we might be able to apply it in our gardens.

As with all concepts, it’s worth starting with a definition. The Oxford English Dictionary defines permaculture as “the development or maintenance of an ecosystem intended to be self-sustaining and to satisfy the living requirements of its inhabitants, esp. by the use of renewable resources”. That hardly pins the concept to the mat, so let’s expand a bit with some history.

The term Permaculture” is a portmanteau of permanent culture, and permanent agriculture. The concept originated in the mid 1970′s when a young ecology student, David Holmgren, and his lecturer at the University of Tasmania, Bill Mollison, published an article in Tasmania’s Organic Farmer and Gardener Magazine. This article was soon followed by an interview on ABC radio, and in 1978, Holmgren and Mollison’s seminal book on the concept, Permaculture One: A perennial Agriculture for Human Settlements.

Sadly, the two visionaries have since gone their separate ways. Mollison, who still lives in Tassie, has focussed on education, believing that permaculture could spread exponentially by teaching students, who would in turn teach others, and so on. He taught the first Permaculture Design Course (known as PDC’s by Permies) at Stanley in Tasmania, in 1979, and thousands of PDC’s have been taught around the world in the years since.

David Holmgren took a different approach. With permaculture gaining widespread publicity, he retreated to a smallholding in Victoria to quietly test his ideas. In 2002, he re-emerged with Permaculture – Principles and Pathways Beyond Sustainability a landmark book that reinterpreted permaculture’s fundamental design principles as a creative adaptation to the decline in non-renewable sources of energy such as oil. I’ll talk more about these principles next week.

Until then, I want to conclude this week’s column by mentioning the three ethics at the core of the Permaculture concept. In Permaculture One, Mollison and Holmgren described these as: Care for the Earth; Care for People; and Fair Share. The first ethic is self explanatory. The second suggests that all people should have access to what they need to live a safe, and healthy life. The third is a principle that most gardening and farming models overlook, and is based on the ethic we’re all taught as kids – only take what you need, and share the rest. Some permies call this, “return of the surplus”.

While some elements of permaculture are ripe for critique, I confess to having a great admiration for any movement that is built upon a set of foundational ethics like those above. What’s more, I believe they are the right ethics to build upon. We’re living in an age when most big, established institutions – business, politics and religion – are being white-anted from within by self interest and a desperation to cling to the status quo. In some cases, ethical foundations rotted away years ago. Permaculture offers a creative response.

Next week – The Principles of Permaculture Design

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 30th April, 2011.

It’s been more than 150 years since Easter Monday last coincided with Anzac Day, a date well before the landing at Gallipoli and one that won’t be repeated until 2095. For the keenest of the keen, such a rare event equates to five days in a row of gardening bliss. I’m pretty keen myself. I plan to do a bit of work outside, but I’ll also be making time to relax, and reflect on what the weekend might mean beyond chocolate bunnies and slouch hats.

Easter and Anzac Day share a common message as far as I’m concerned. It’s a message not of war and glory, but one of sacrifice and ultimately, enduring peace. The Old Testament prophet Micah foresaw this peace in pointedly non-violent, agrarian terms:

“They shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up a sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid.”

These words ring true for a fruit grower (and peace-lover) like me. I’m a bit taken by the idea of sitting under my abundant fig tree and pruning it with a tool furnished from a defunct weapon of war. It’s certainly not the reality at the moment. I’ve got one old, poorly positioned fig in the garden, and the world’s most cursed marsupial – the possum – usually beats me to the fruit. I’m planting more figs this winter, and hope for a day when I can eat from a number of trees and live not just in peace with my fellow human beings, but the local wildlife as well.

The common fig, Ficus carica, is probably the oldest of all the domesticated fruit trees. It is one of a number of contenders for the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden, and was first described in stone tablets by the Egyptians more than 2700 years ago, when it was revered as the Tree of Life. The tree and it’s fruit are afforded frequent mentions in the Bible, but the most famous is, of course, Adam and Eve’s use of the leaves as “modesty patches” to hide their nakedness.

The fact that the leaves were able to hide the dangly bits of the first man should give some indication of their ornamental value. The leaves are big and handsome. The tree itself can look scrappy, but a well pruned example can make for a very attractive specimen that meets my ideal characteristics for a plant – beautiful and productive.

The fruit is even more luscious than the foliage. If you’ve never eaten a fat, fleshy fig straight off the tree then I don’t reckon you’ve quite lived. Don’t even give the occasional supermarket fruit a second glance. Figs have such a short shelf life that they demand to be eaten fresh, cooked or dried. Freshly picked figs, halved and baked with honey, then served with a dollop of double cream is nothing short of a taste of heaven.

Figs will grow in any climate the Downs has to offer, from warm to cool temperate, to subtropical, and while the tree prefers reasonably rich ground to sand, isn’t overly fussy. The real key to getting bumper crops is to grow figs “leaner” than you would most other fruiting trees. A well-nourished fig tree will get fat and lazy, developing an extensive root system and putting lots of energy into a lush canopy. It will do this at the expense of fruit, so in fertile soil, feeding is only necessary to get the tree established. As Louis Glowinski says in his excellent The Complete Book of Fruit Growing in Australia, “neglect seems to be a good policy as far as fertiliser in concerned.”

The other trick people employed to stimulate fruiting, was to constrict the tree’s root ball. Old timers would plant a fig in a 44-gallon drum to keep the roots compact. Others advocate pruning the roots periodically with a sharp spade. A simpler option is to either plant your tree against a sunny wall and espalier it, or grow a fig tree in a large pot. Half wine barrels are perfect, both practically and aesthetically, but don’t forget to drill drainage holes in the bottom, and for longevity, treat with a wood preservative. As for varieties my picks for the Downs are ‘Brown Turkey’, ‘Black Genoa’ for colder areas and ‘White Adriatic’ where its warmer.

My hope is that you’ll take some time this weekend to reflect on the common message of both Easter, and Anzac Day. Perhaps you’ll be inspired to plant a fig tree. In years to come, maybe you too will be found sitting beneath your tree, eating its fruit, looking forward to the day when war is over and peace reins upon the earth.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 23rd April, 2011. Photo by Justin Russell, Ripening Figs, “Summerfield”, Cabarlah.

“Heirloom Seeds or Flinty Hybrids”. This is the title of an article I came across last week in the gardening section of the New York Times, and what interested me about it was the way an argument was framed like a showdown between competing ideologies. The author, Michael Tortorello writes about “heirloom heresy”and “a kind of orthodoxy amongst right thinking gardeners…called heirloomism.”. Tortello effectively suggests that growing heirloom vegetable varieties is about nothing more than nostalgia.

To some extent he’s right. It is easy to romanticise old seed varieties. They often bear colourful names and have equally colourful stories. To illustrate this point consider a tomato, bred by “Radiator Charlie” of West Virginia in the 1940′s. When Charlie Byles’s radiator repair business slumped during the Great Depression, the self taught mechanic tried his hand at plant breeding to make ends meet. Byles gathered pollen from four of his favourite tomato varieties and dabbed it on the flowers of a large fruited variety called German Johnson.

After seven years, Byles was satisfied that his new tomato had all the qualities he was looking for, so he took off his plant breeders hat, and turned his hand to marketing. It was a skill for which he possessed some brilliance. Radiator Charlie started selling seedlings for one dollar a piece, an exorbitant price in those days, but flogged enough seedlings to pay off his $6000 mortgage in six years. His tomato now bears the title ‘Mortgage Lifter’.

For modern plant breeders, the story of Radiator Charlie is a folksy tale of an amateur who got lucky. But for heirloom enthusiasts, the Mortgage Lifter story isn’t just about a tomato – it’s as much about the spirit of a man who never attended a day of school in his life, but through ingenuity and determination was able to create a legacy that growers (and eaters) across the world enjoy to this day. You might say that Mortgage Lifter tomato has soul.

Let’s compare the story behind a modern, patented hybrid tomato. ‘Tomatoberry’™ was developed by the Tokita Seed Company in 2006, and was bred to appeal to Japan’s “kawaii” (cute) culture. The fruit is an attractive, strawberry-shaped cherry tomato that’s been promoted as being ultra-sweet and therefore suitable for modern palettes. Tomatoberry seedlings were everywhere in the spring of 2009. The variety since appears to have gone AWOL, which makes me wonder whether it will still be around in 10 or 100 years time. What is certain is that Tomatoberry seeds won’t be handed down to future generations of gardeners. Besides the fact that the variety is patented, the plant is an F1 hybrid.

In genetic terms, F1 is short for filial one and refers to the first filial generation. This means that an F1 hybrid is the first generation produced from breeding two different parents, but the downside of this process for gardeners is that it’s pointless saving the seed. A Tomatoberry, for example, won’t grow true to type. It’s offspring will throw back to either of the parent varieties, so if you want to grow it again next summer, your only source of Tomatoberry plants or seed will be a nursery that supplies the variety under licence from the Tokita Seed Company.

For my money, I’d much rather an heirloom seed that comes with a story and some soul, than a tricked up hybrid designed to make a multinational company squillions of dollars. I want to have the option of saving seed year after year, selecting the best offspring each season, and over time, giving my favourite varieties the opportunity to adapt to my garden’s specific conditions. I want to be able to give seed freely to fellow gardeners without having to worry about patent infringements and licensing fees.

It’s not that I’m against hybridisation per se. The reality is that all heirloom varieties started life as hybrids, and were produced according to the same principles of 19th century Mendelian genetics as most new varieties are today. But when push comes to shove, I’m reluctant to simply hand control of my food supply over to mammoth agribusinesses who are bent on nothing more than making a profit.

What these big seed companies don’t understand is that gardening is a human endeavour. Seeds, culture and people are intertwined. Old varieties handed down are a touchpoint of connection. There’s a reason some seed varieties are called heirlooms. It’s because they can be as cherished as a diamond engagement ring handed down from mother, to daughter, to granddaughter – generations of people linked by gardening and honest, homegrown food.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 2nd April 2011. Photo by Kimberley McKinnis via flickr.com, Mortgage Lifter tomatoes.

Not long after my daughter started school, she arrived home one day with a pocket full of small, marble sized acorns gathered from the playground. To Marley the fistful of nuts she thrust out in front of me was simply a collection of beautiful objects, but I was old enough to know their true significance. Each of the acorns, I explained, was a seed, and if just one was planted and tended, it would eventually grow to become a mighty oak tree.

For the sake of reference I described to her the oak tree that bore the acorns. A magnificent Southern Live Oak (Quercus virginiana), the tree stands in the grounds of Geham State School on the New England Highway between Toowoomba and Crows Nest. It was planted from an acorn more than a century ago, commemorating the local boys who went off to fight in the Boer War. Today, the Geham oak tree is a huge specimen with a 30 metre crown, much loved by the school community as a living landmark, and a place to escape the summer heat.

Every time I stand under that oak tree I’m filled with a sense of wonder. To be in the presence of something so ancient and spectacular is a humbling experience, a reminder that there are things in the world that are bigger and grander than I am.

The Geham oak tree reminds me too, of a John Muir story. In 1874, the famous American naturalist was visiting a friend who had a cabin in the Sierra Mountains of California. One December afternoon a fierce wind storm moved in from the Pacific, strong enough to bend and toss colossal trees like they were fragile blades of grass.

Instead of retreating to the shelter of the cabin Muir went outside, scaled a high ridge, and climbed to the top of a 30 metre tall Douglas Fir tree to ride out the storm. In his book The Mountains of California, Muir describes an intense experience.

“The sounds of the storm corresponded gloriously with this wild exuberance of light and motion. The profound bass of the naked branches and boles booming like waterfalls; the quick, tense vibrations of the pine-needles, now rising to a shrill, whistling hiss, now falling to a silky murmur; the rustling of laurel groves in the dells, and the keen metallic click of leaf on leaf.

I kept my lofty perch for hours, frequently closing my eyes to enjoy the music by itself, or to feast quietly on the delicious fragrance that was streaming past.”

I can’t help wondering, if John Muir were alive today, how would he respond to some of the language that has been used in the last month to describe the natural world he loved so much? Just a single editorial in the Courier Mail of February 3^rd used terms like “the fury of nature”, “Yasi the destroyer”, “Yasi hits below the belt”. The floods were described in various news stories as “fierce”, “like an atomic bomb”, a “war zone”, “Mother Nature’s cruel wrath”.

I qualify anything I write on this issue by saying that I haven’t lived through a cyclone, or lost a family member in the floods, or come home to a house gutted by bushfire. But I have to ask: is Mother Nature truly angry with us? Is she vengeful, full of wrath and fury? Is she like a dirty street brawler that hits below the belt? Can we honestly compare the floods to the devastation of Hiroshima or the Somme?

Of course not. Nature might be indiscriminate and uncompromising, but it is not out to get us. Nature and humanity are not adversaries. I mean no disregard to those who have suffered through natural disasters, but I believe that the best response we can have toward nature is one of awe. Fear is certainly warranted at times, but it should be the kind of fear that is based on respect, that recognises our arrogance toward nature and considers the need for us to be humble.

John Muir finishes his account of the windstorm with these words:

“When the storm began to abate, I dismounted and sauntered down through the calming woods. As I gazed on the impressive scene, all the so called ruin of the storm was forgotten, and never before did these noble woods appear so fresh, so joyous.”

The truth is that nature sustains us – physically, mentally and spiritually. We’d be wise to put aside our hostility. Go outside, and take in a grand vista. Walk barefoot through the morning dew. Gather fruit in the afternoon gloaming. Rest in the shade of a big old oak tree. Make peace, give thanks for nature’s gifts and you’ll find renewal, and hope.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 12th February 2011. Photo by Justin Russell, Southern Live Oak at Geham State School.

The 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 18^th 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.

Conifer. 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.

One 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 18^th 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.