Take a drive around some of the older parts of Toowoomba at the moment and it won’t take long to have your breath stolen by a crepe myrtle tree in full, spectacular flower. Alongside jacarandas and liquidambars, crepe myrtles are one of the Garden City’s most popular trees, and for good reason. Not only do the trees extend the spring flower season into mid-summer, they absolutely adore Toowoomba’s weather and soil.

Historically the most commonly grown species was the common crepe myrtle, Lagerstroemia indica. Despite the suggestion of a subcontinental heritage in the botanical name, this species actually hails from China and Korea and was introduced to the southern states of America in the late 1700′s. Lagerstroemia indica is a fine plant, but it has two major faults: a vulnerability to the fungal disease powdery mildew and a tendency to send up suckers, especially if the roots are disturbed.

To overcome these problems, plant breeders have selectively crossed Lagerstroemia indica with the Japanese crepe myrtle, Lagerstroemia fauriei. These hybrids are much improved plants, being more cold tolerant, mildew resistant and sucker free than the old L. indica. The most readily available are sold under the “Indian Summer” banner. They bear the names of native American tribes and are available in a range of sizes from medium sized trees, such as ‘Natchez’ and ‘Tuscarora’, to distinctly shrub-like plants such as ‘Tonto’. Even smaller are some of the “Symphony of Colour by Chopin” range of crepe myrtles. The prostrate variety ‘New Orleans’ will grow to just half a metre tall by about a metre and a half wide – prefect for planting as part of a mixed shrub border.

The obvious reason for growing crepe myrtles is their flowers. Formed on large panicles in saturated shades of crimson, mauve, pink and white, the blooms are a highlight of summer and welcome in the New Year like a natural fireworks display. But you’d be wrong to dismiss the crepe myrtle as a one trick pony. In my view they are among the best four-season plants being grown on the Downs.

During autumn, the foliage turns incredibly radiant shades of orange and red, and in winter, the mottled, exfoliating bark provides welcome interest. The display is especially attractive on tall, multi-trunked specimens that have had the lower branches pruned off during the first few years after planting. Even in spring crepe myrtles are pretty – new foliage on the branch tips starts crimson, and gradually turns green. There really is something interesting happening the whole year round.

Beside being wonderfully ornamental, crepe myrtles are also incredibly tough. Thanks to the Lagerstroemia fauriei genetics, hybrid varieties are easily able to cope with the heaviest frosts the Downs has to offer and the trees are supremely drought tolerant, once established. Unlike some drought tolerant plants, which perform very poorly in wet conditions, I’m happy to report that the hybrid crepe myrtles will withstand soggy soil for weeks at a time. I’ve got two young specimens planted either side of the front entrance to my property, and despite going under last year in the floods, both plants survived. Crepe myrtles won’t grow in a swamp, but they will do well in all but the heaviest Downs soils.

Two quick tips for growing the best looking trees. Firstly, don’t fall the the temptation to prune crepe myrtles heavily each winter in order to produce flowers. Pruned trees send up lots of watershoots, and the result is a disfigured tree that would have otherwise developed a lovely natural form. If size is an issue and you want a smaller tree, choose one of the smaller growing varieties. Secondly, to prevent powdery mildew on the species and Chopin range of crepe myrtles, plant them in a position with good airflow. Crepe myrtles really aren’t suited to being planted in tight, hedge-like spaces, and benefit from some space to show off.

If you’re after an outstanding deciduous tree or shrub that’s easy to manage and very floriferous, consider planting a crepe myrtle. The Indian Summer varieties in particular are highly gardenworthy plants. And if anyone from Toowoomba Regional Council is reading, please, plant crepe myrtles more often as street trees. They are worthy of being put on public display, and just imagine the sight if the Garden City was lit up each January by the blooms of thousands of crepe myrtles. There are quite a few around the place, I know, but if Toowoomba is famous for its jacarandas, it deserves to be equally famous for its crepe myrtles and their summer spectacle.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 21st January 2011. Photo by Justin Russell, crepe myrtle outside the Hampton Visitor Centre.

Don’t forget to visit our new site The Radish, edible gardening from roots to fruits!!

Our lilac is flowering! This is cause for celebration in any spring, but it’s extra special this year because the plant was given to us by a friend over at Ravensbourne (thanks Kym). Her garden is warmer than ours, so the lilacs she had planted never bloomed very well. Rather than coddle them along she dug the mature shrubs out of the ground and gave them away. I love this aspect of gardening culture – the swapping of plants and hard won wisdom, so I was really keen to see the plant thrive.

For a year it piddled along and did next to nothing other than blow over in a storm. I re-staked it, mulched, gave it plenty of seaweed extract and a dressing of wood ash in the hope that it would get a liking for our conditions and send out lots of beautiful new roots. For months during summer and autumn our lilac looked horrible. It was alive, but had failed to leaf out and was a bunch of bare sticks in an otherwise lush garden. Now, after a cold winter, the lilac looks beautiful. It’s covered with big panicles of grape coloured flowers and the fragrance…wow. What a knockout.

I should have had more faith that the plant would do well. For those who aren’t aware, the lilac genus, Syringa, is most closely related to privet and that’s a plant in more than enough abundance around our parts. We have a large windbreak of the non-weedy small leaved variety on the western side of our house. It was planted thirty years ago by the property’s original owners and went absolutely ballistic during last summer’s big wet. Down at the creek, the large leafed privet is a serious weed. What’s more, lilacs are generally grafted onto a privet rootstock. Should I be surprised that our plant is thriving? Probably not.

When push comes to shove, lilacs are a tough and adaptable plant. Their ideal conditions are a slightly alkaline, relatively impoverished soil, plenty of sun in summer, and a cold winter to produce the best flower displays. I’m not sure if they’re growing lilacs down at Stanthorpe, but their conditions should be ideal. In the blacksoil parts of the Downs, it would pay to improve drainage with some gypsum and compost, while on the red soil plateaus an annual dressing of lime (or wood ash) each autumn.

Lilacs are best purchased bare-rooted in winter and for best results, a special technique should be used when planting. You see, lilacs are difficult plants to strike from cuttings. But they are easy to graft, so propagators put the named lilac variety onto either a seedling lilac or a privet rootstock. However, privet grafts usually fail in five to ten years and lilac seedlings tend to have inferior flowers. Both these problems can be overcome by planting your lilac extra deep, making sure the graft union is buried about 20cm below soil level. In time the named lilac will grow its own roots above the graft, and any suckers coming from below ground can simply be cut out. Note that this is the opposite of what you should do for most grafted trees, which need to be planted with the graft union above soil level.

As for pruning lilacs, there’s two golden rules: first, avoid pruning if you don’t need to; and second, if you must prune, do it just after the plant his finished flowering. Lilacs flower on wood formed the previous summer and autumn, so if you prune in April or July, you’ll be cutting off all the flower buds. Who wants a lilac that never flowers? Not me. Flowers are the lilac’s raison d’etre.

There are more than 2,000 named lilac cultivars, but the most commonly available in Australia are either hybrids or cultivated forms of Syringa vulgaris, the common lilac native to the Balkan Peninsula. The vulgaris types tend to have more fragrant flowers, so I’d be inclined to keep an eye out for ‘Belle de Nancy’ (compact, mauve flowers), ‘Congo’ (dark purple flowers), ‘Madame Lemoine’ (pure white, double flowers) and ‘Sensation’ (purple flowers with a white border). Specialist growers are also likely to have a range of species available, including Syringa afghanica, which has pastel blue flowers and lacy foliage.

I have absolutely no idea what variety the lilac in my garden is. And you know what? I don’t really care. I’m just happy that the plant survived the wettest summer in 40 years, and that it’s flowering. You’ll excuse me then, if I finish up for another week and race outside to take a whiff of that heady fragrance.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 15th October 2011. Photo by Justin Russell

Don’t forget to check out our new site, The Radish, edible gardening from roots to fruits.

One of the best plant combinations I’ve ever seen was in the garden at Vineyard Cottages in Ballandean. On a central arbour marking the axis of two intersecting paths is a yellow banskia rose, and a purple Chinese wisteria. The two were in flower when I visited a number of years ago, and the image will be forever burnt in my memory. The purple and yellow flowers set against the hazy blue backdrop of Sundown National Park was simply stunning!

Is it any wonder? Everything about the combination is spot on. Yellow and purple complement each other on the colour wheel, which means that in theory, the combination should work nicely. But as any half knowledgeable artist will tell you, mixing colours also has a lot to do with combining the right shades of a certain colour. In the case of banksia rose, the yellow is a soft lemon shade, which means it teams perfectly with the wisteria’s dusky lavender.

But there’s more to a good plant combination than colour alone. The other reason banksia rose and wisteria work so well together is that they both like very similar growing conditions. Because they hail from the botanical hotspot of southern China, which has a climate ranging from alpine to subtropical, the two plants thrive right across the Darling Downs. Cold winters aren’t a problem, nor is drought, heat, or heavy black soil.

The only major difference between the two plants is the way in which they are pruned. Banksia roses are a cinch. Unlike most modern shrub roses that flower on the current season’s growth, banksia roses flower on wood that grew last summer, and the plants only flower once in spring. So if you’re going to prune you should do so just after the plant has finished flowering. This will give the new wood a chance to form before the plant goes dormant in winter. Don’t prune in winter like you would other roses. If you do, you’ll cut off all the flowering wood for the following spring.

Wisterias are a bit harder to prune, but they’re not as difficult as many gardeners imagine. Unlike banksia roses, wisteria flowers on short, finger-like spurs that form along lateral branches growing from the main trunk. With this in mind, wisterias are pruned for two reasons: to keep the plant relatively compact, and to encourage the formation of these flower spurs.

Ideally, wisterias are pruned twice a year. After the plant has finished flowering in spring it will start to send out lots of whippy shoots. In summer, these “side shoots” can be pruned back to about 30cm from where they originate on the lateral branch, leaving about four to six leaves on the shoot. If you want to extend the plant, leave some of these side shoots in place to grow on. Then in late winter, shorten the side shoots you pruned in summer even further. Take them back to about two or three buds. This will encourage the side shoots to become flowering spurs, and all being well, you’ll get to enjoy a magnificent display of flowers in September.

Besides staying on top of summer and winter pruning, the other way you can encourage wisteria to flower is by growing them in quite lean soil. Avoid applying lots of high nitrogen fertiliser. All this will do is tell the plant to send out new growth and you’ll end up with a triffid-like monster that never flowers but does a great job of crushing your back fence with it’s weight. Fertilise your banksia rose after pruning to encourage new flowering wood, by all means. But with your wisteria you should either avoid fertilising altogether, or at most, apply some “flower and fruit” fertiliser that’s low in nitrogen but high in potassium and phosphorous.

Finally, if you’re going to grow a banksia rose/wisteria combination, it pays to give a bit of thought to what you’re going to use to support the plants. Strength is a primary consideration, as a mature wisteria is heavy, and a mature banskia rose only slightly less so. In the garden down at Ballandean the plants were trained on an arbour made from solid hardwood, but they also had a wisteria growing on a solid post-and-rail boundary fence. If you’re handy with a welder, or know someone who is, steel can be a more reliable choice.

Combining plants for best effect is an art form, just like any other. Good combinations are hard to achieve, so if you’re after a showstopper for your garden, take my advice – banksia rose and wisteria are a match made in horticultural heaven.

First puublished in the Toowoomba Chronicle 1st October 2011. Photo by Justin Russell, wisteria and banksia rose, Vineyard Cottages, Ballandean.

Blossom season has arrived on the Downs, and we ought to celebrate. It’s a privilege to inhabit a part of the world that experiences four seasons, and considering our spring is fleetingly intense we should all make an effort to embrace the wonder of the natural cycle.

If we were living in Japan, a nation beset by catastrophes far more monstrous than our January floods, spring blossom would currently be a national obsession, with hanami (flower viewing) parties held in parks and gardens throughout the islands. And rightly so. On the back of a winter that has been colder and drier than average, spring is a welcome gift. It’s a reminder that change, though inevitable, brings opportunities for renewal.

While a range of blossom trees are enjoyed in Japan, the plant at the centre of the hanami festival is Prunus serrulata, the non-fruiting, ornamental cherry known by the Japanese as sakura. The tree is widely grown outside of Japan, and though the species is uncommon on the Downs, it’s many cultivars, including ‘Kanzan’, ‘Shirotae’ and ‘Ukon’ are popular.

I haven’t grown any of these varieties in my garden yet, but I do have a Prunus ‘Okame’, planted (with thanks) by the previous owners and currently blooming in all its spring glory. Being a hybrid between the Formosan cherry (Prunus campanulata) and the Mt Fuji cherry (Prunus incisa), Okame combines the best features of each species. It produces a mass of pink flowers on a fairly upright tree in early spring, much like P. campanulata, while colouring up superbly in autumn like P. incisa. It really is a beautiful, undervalued plant.

But as much as I love our Okame, my enthusiasm for cherries is directed mostly toward the edible cherries, both sweet and sour. Sharing many of the same attributes as the non-fruiting species, fruit bearing cherries are just as ornamental in spring but come with the significant bonus of delicious, home-grown produce. Why Toowoomba Regional Council doesn’t plant edible versions of some plants is beyond me. Imagine being able to wander through a local park, enjoying not just the shade of a cherry tree on a summer’s day, but also being able to harvest some fruit. It would mean that TRC would have to resist spraying the trees with chemicals, lest they poison the public, but that wouldn’t be a bad outcome.

If council was to get adventurous with its public plantings, the cherry I’d recommend above all others is the sour cherry, Prunus cerasus. In Australia sour cherries carry the stigma of being a “cooking” fruit, but in Europe it is by far the most commonly grown cherry tree. The reason it’s so popular overseas is that the tree has considerable advantages over its sweet cousin.

Cold winters are essential for both species, but sour cherries tolerate more summer heat, are genuinely self-fertile, are less attractive to birds, come into bearing earlier, and form a tree half the size of the sweet cherry, which can reach a height of 10 metres. Additionally, the fruit of sour cherries won’t split open during wet weather like some sweet varieties do, and the tree is more resistant to brown rot.

These advantages apply equally to home gardeners. I’ve just planted a Morello sour cherry in my garden and I’m looking forward to using the fruit in the kitchen. Maggie Beer is a big fan of sour cherries, as is UK smallholder Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall of River Cottage fame, who describes jam made from Morello cherries as “superb”.

Last but, certainly not least is everyone’s favourite, the sweet cherry. Christmas lunch in the Russell family wouldn’t be complete if a bowl of sweet cherries wasn’t on the table alongside the bon-bons and baked ham. This summer, I’m hoping to harvest the first fruit from our own trees. To keep them small and net the fruit against birds – the botanical name of sweet cherries is Prunus avium, after all – I’m growing the trees in a restricted bush form, where the vigour of the tree is spread over a large number of small branches.

To date I’ve planted Stella, a self fertile variety from Canada and Naploeon, an old French “white” cherry, but have two more waiting to go in the ground, the NSW bred ‘Ron’s Seedling’, and ‘Early Burlat’, developed in Morocco during the 1930′s. There are many other good varieties beside these four. If you’re keen to give sweet cherries a try be prepared to prune the trees to keep them manageable, consider their pollination requirements, and most importantly, plant in a cold micro-climate. Cherries, both sweet and sour, are fruit for the coolest parts of the Downs. But if you do manage to get cherries thriving, these superb trees will provide generous rewards for many seasons to come.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 27 August 2011. Photo by Justin Russell, Okame Cherry.

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.

If you’ve been reading Secret Garden for a few years, you’ll probably be familiar with my love/hate relationship with roses. Every winter, when the bushes are bare and stragglier than a mangy wolfhound, I get tempted to pull the wretched things out and be done with them. By November, I’m in love again. No one grows roses for their winter appearance, me least of all. Flowers are the main attraction. Without fail, I succumb to the promise of beauty in the months ahead and abandon all thoughts of hauling my poor old plants to the tip.

Having earned their pardon, by late July I’m guiltily lavishing the plants with attention. The rose garden becomes like a day spa for plants. First up is a proper pruning, followed by a complete spray, and finished off with a good feed and some tonic.

Pruning is anything but the dark art that some gardeners make it out to be. After all, the practice isn’t a pre-requisite for the plants to produce flowers, and I occasionally commit rose growing heresy by pruning my plants some winters and ignoring them in others. This will have rose aficionados waking in a cold sweat, but the proof is in the pudding – never yet have I had a rose bush refuse to flower. We’re talking here about some of the toughest plants in the world that will do their thing regardless of any intervention from the gardener.

I have to admit, however, that rose pruning is a satisfying job. The rhythmic click of secateurs through rose wood on a sunny day in late winter is quite meditative, so when time’s on my side, I cheerfully give my plants their annual haircut. The basic process for modern bush and hybrid tea roses is pretty straightforward.

Firstly, gather your tools: a spray bottle of metho or tea tree oil to sterilise your gear and prevent the spread of disease; a pair of sturdy gloves to avoid getting thorns stuck in your finger (I find it easier to keep my right hand glove-free); and most importantly, a pair of sharp secateurs. If they’re not sharp, get yourself a simple diamond sharpener from the nursery and use it. For branches larger than a big bloke’s thumb, you’ll need a pair of loppers or a pruning saw as well.

Start the job by appraising the plant. Look for dead, damaged and diseased branches then cut them out. Once that’s done, your aim with bush roses should be to do two things. The first is to open up the centre of the plant to facilitate air flow and reduce fungal disease. Create a goblet or open vase shape by pruning off any branches growing toward the centre of the bush. Secondly, shorten the remaining branches by about a third of their length. Make the cuts a centimetre above an outward facing bud, and ideally, cut on a 45 degree angle sloping away from the bud.

For standard roses, prune the main branches back by about two thirds of their length, in addition to opening the centre and removing dead wood. Climbing roses are trickier, but are best pruned to short two-bud stubs spaced along horizontally trained canes. Once blooming heritage roses are rarely pruned in winter. Do the job in late summer when flowering has ceased.

Once the pruning is complete, it’s time to spray. The traditional over wintering spray for roses is lime sulphur. It’s still a decent choice, being low toxic and suitable for organic gardens, yet effective against a broad range of fungal diseases and dormant insect pests. An even less toxic alternative is a combination of potassium bicarbonate (sold as EcoRose) mixed with a horticultural oil. This will help prevent outbreaks of blackspot and powdery mildew.

Finally some food and a tonic. I use a complete organic fertiliser based on pelletised chook poo for my roses, but you’ll have good success with blood and bone or well rotted manure. To help my plants flower as freely as possible I also throw around some wood ash from the fire, which is high in calcium and potassium. Two or three handfuls per plant is usually plenty. If you don’t heat with wood, choose a fertiliser with a high potassium content or apply some extra potash.

To atone for my rose growing sins I finish the job with a seaweed tonic, a deep watering, and a fresh application of mulch. All of this pampering should produce lush, disease resistant plants that flower so prolifically that they make even the hardest of hearts turn to mush. If you doubt me, try poking your head through the door at a rose grower’s show – most of the competitors are blokes.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 30th July 2011. Photo by Justin Russell, Newtown Park, Toowoomba.

Over the last sixty years, as gardening became less about food production and more about ornamentation, gardeners acquired the habit of classing plants according to their use. Into one box went the edible plants, and into another went the ornamentals. The problem with this distinction is that it’s completely arbitrary. Some edible plants are more beautiful than many ornamentals, and many ornamentals produce fruit. Plus, there are a whole host of plants that don’t fit in either box, and are best thought of as being dual, or multi- purpose.

The focus in my garden over the last couple of years has been on plants that fit in this latter category. I’m keen to maximise the relatively small space I’ve got available to grow food, but I still want to have a beautiful garden that is well designed and satisfies all of the senses. Am I aiming too high? Is it a case of wanting to have my cake and eat it to?

The key is to select lots of multi-purpose plants, and some of the very best for a temperate climate are the crabapples. These close relatives of the domestic apple are mostly grown for their flowers in spring, which are stunning and usually borne in great profusion, but crabs are much more than one trick ponies. Beyond spring, the trees can provide ornamental value in the form of stunning autumn foliage and fruit that hangs well into winter like colourful baubles on a Christmas tree. Lots of crabapples produce acceptable fruit for eating, juicing, and cooking. Not to be underestimated is their long flowering period, which makes crabs useful pollinators for more desirable fruiting varieties.

One of my favourites is Malus trilobata, the trident crabapple. This beautiful crab grows like some of the very upright ornamental pears but looks for all money like a maple. As the species name suggests, the leaves have three lobes. This confuses more than a few visitors to my garden, who are used to seeing oval shaped apple leaves and get a surprise when I tell them it’s actually an apple. And a good apple at that.

Trilobata bears large, pure white flowers in spring, followed by small yellow crabs that provide a useful autumn food source for native birds, or eager jam makers. In late autumn the tree’s foliage turns an intense, scarlet red. Combined with a statuesque growth habit the effect is very striking, and trilobata would be an ideal candidate for marking the entrance to a property or highlighting a gateway.

‘John Downie’ has more recognisable apple foliage and makes a medium sized tree, perfect for a suburban garden where there’s a bit of space to play with, but not enough to accommodate a giant. The best fruiting variety of all the crabs, ‘John Downie’ produces red-blushed fruit the size of a bantam egg. Cooks prefer the fruit for making crab apple jelly and the juice, which tends to be fairly acidic, is useful for blending with sweeter apple juice to give some extra character.

The other good thing about John Downie is that it flowers very heavily for a long period in spring, making the variety an excellent pollinator for other apples. The old English crab ‘Golden Hornet’ is similarly generous with its flowers. And it’s probably even more attractive than John Downie, because after the tree has dropped its leaves, it remains covered in small yellow crabs well into July. Again, the crabs make delicious preserves.

The list of gardenworthy crab apples is quite long really. ‘Aldenhamensis’ produces stunning wine-red flowers in spring followed by bronze foliage and large purple crabs, Malus floribunda ‘Pendula’ is probably the best weeping variety, and ‘Evereste’, regarded by many as the most ornamental of all crab apples, is a true four season plant with cherry sized crabs hanging into winter. Some of these less common varieties can be difficult to track to down. Try asking whether your favourite local nursery can order a couple of plants in for you.

The secret to getting the best out of crab apples is to grow them fairly lean. Don’t enrich the soil with fertiliser at planting time, and avoid applying any nitrogen-based food unless the plant is really struggling to grow. Instead focus on regular applications of seaweed. By giving crab apples a tough time of it, not only will they stay compact, but most importantly, the trees will put most of their energy into producing an abundance of spring blossom, which in turn, will translate into a fruitful autumn.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 9th July 2011. Photo by Peter Repetti via flickr.com – John Downie crab apples.

In July, it can be tempting to believe that the garden has become a cold, drab, lifeless wasteland dominated by bare branches and frost-bleached grass. I’ve fallen for the myth lots of times, but in reality, it’s simply not true. When I actually slow down and really pay attention, I see a garden bursting with energy and colour. In this week’s Secret Garden I want to give a snapshot of what’s happening in my garden during July, with the hope that you’ll be inspired to see your own winter garden in a new light.

We’ll start in my favourite part of the garden – the vegie patch. Come winter, spring, summer or autumn, the patch is the beating heart of Thistlebrook. This is true in a physical sense, because the patch is located roughly in the centre of the most productive part of the property (right next door to the chooks and espalier orchard). But more importantly, the vegie patch brings to life our ideas of what good gardening, and good living, is all about.

The vegie patch feeds my family all year round. Winter moves at a slower pace than spring and summer, of course, but there’s still something to harvest every day. The two carrot varieties I sowed back in early autumn, Lubyana and St Valery, have been feeding us for months and there are still enough roots in the ground for a few weeks yet. The bed of leafy greens I sowed with my daughter in March is still providing fresh leaves of rocket, bok choy, mizuna, lettuce, spinach, and lots of beautiful Tuscan, and Red Russian kale. I’m growing the latter for the first time and it’s a winner – tender and delicious and quietly beautiful in the garden.

The brassicas are coming along well. A row of broccoli is sprouting dozens of side shoots, extending the harvest, and an adjacent row of purple cauliflower is big and tall and starting to form a startling violet coloured head. Next to the cauliflower is some young purple sprouting broccoli, a row of cabbage and finally, a row of wombok, now ready to be picked. All of the plants are thriving in soil that previously grew potatoes, and was enriched with lots of home made compost, some lime, and a decent scattering of pelletised chook manure.

My garlic is powering along. In addition to bulbs I saved from last spring, I’m experimenting with some heirloom varieties this year and so far, the results are good. The bulbs were tiny when they arrived in the post, and I was worried they wouldn’t grow. But garlic is tougher than people give it credit for and every clove bar one sprouted. I can’t wait for harvest in November. Nearby, in a permanent bed, is my prized rhubarb. The variety I grow is called Highfields Ever Red, and true to it’s name, produces glowing scarlet stems almost all year round before dying back to the crown in mid-winter. This year it’s still going strong.

The potted Eureka lemon tree, which has struggled along for a few years in the face of drought, frost, flood and the beautiful, but very hungry, orchard swallowtail butterfly caterpillars, is finally bearing fruit. Not a lot, and quite under-size compared to my neighbours’ lemons. But all fruit, whether abundant or scarce, is welcome in this household and I’m looking forward to this tree’s first harvest. A better performer is the blood orange. It’s going gangbusters for a young tree, and is covered with half ripe oranges that I’m hoping will survive July’s hard frosts.

There’s much more to this garden than just edible plants, and though flowers are scarce in July, observant visitors still manage to spot the odd beauty. Forget-me-nots planted beneath and old flowering peach are still producing their electric blue flowers, a red grevillea and a neighbouring teucrium are making a brilliant combination and out the back, along the rear boundary fence, a Mutabilis rose hedge continues to be a show stopper. This variety needs space, but it ranks as one of the most garden-worthy plants I’ve ever grown.

Now if that all sounds a bit too idyllic, take heart. Thistlebrook is hardly the perfect garden that some people imagine it to be. And to be honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Perfect gardens are an illusion, often created by a hyper-dedicated property owner or a small army of gardeners working day in and day out to create something that for most of us, is out of reach. Give me a garden that’s rough around the edges, but productive and beautiful, over a micro-managed show piece any day of the week. Let’s aim to keep it real.

First puublished in the Toowoomba Chronicle 2nd July 2011. Photo by Justin Russell, forget-me-not flowers.

Being a Dad is one of the great joys of my life. Child raising isn’t without its challenges, of course, but neither is it without some happy by-products. As a parent, I’ve had the pleasure of reading lots of kid’s books and watching the occasional kid’s movie. The best of these are brilliant works of art, and while I’ve got a soft spot for oldies like Mary Poppins (love the chimney sweep scene) my favourite so far is the 2006 film version of EB White’s classic fable, Charlotte’s Web.

One of the major themes of the movie, or at least the theme that gets telegraphed most insistently, is the idea of finding the miraculous in the commonplace. The closing song leaves little doubt about the “ordinary miracle” concept, and while the same theme is present in the book, EB White takes a less sentimental approach.

The novel’s title character, a spider named Charlotte, befriends a runt pig and saves him from the axe by writing a series of well chosen adjectives in her web above the pig’s pen. Charlotte describes Wilbur the runt as “some pig”, “terrific”, and “radiant”, and by the time the word “humble” appears in the spider’s web one morning toward the end of the book, crowds are flocking to witness the miracle first hand. As a consequence, her friend’s bacon is spared from the smoke house, and Wilbur lives to see winter.

What fascinates me about EB White’s story is the suggestion that people are drawn to the extraordinary sight of words written in spider silk, yet they overlook the real miracle – the web itself. There’s nothing grand about the sight of a dew laden web, catching sunlight on an autumn morning, but the incredible strength of the threads and the precision of the structure makes a spider’s web one of nature’s truest marvels. Every time we walk past such wonders without a second thought, we do ourselves a disservice.

Gardeners claim to love the natural world, but we’re as guilty of overlooking ordinary, everyday miracles as much as anyone. The problem stems from what amounts to a perpetual quest for the newest, the brightest, and the boldest. It’s exacerbated by some of the big garden centres and the broader horticulture industry, both of which are obsessed with the development of new plants with showier flowers that become further and further removed from their wild ancestors. We miss far more than spider webs.

I think there’s plenty we can learn from children. A child development expert could explain why, but I’ve noticed that kids are innately aware of, and get incredible joy from, the small details in their surroundings. When my kids pick a flower for their mum, they usually choose something insignificant, and unspectacular. When they appreciate autumn colour, it’s through a single leaf, not an entire tree. When they pick a piece of fruit from the garden they rarely salivate over the largest specimen. In a child’s world, little things are extraordinary.

One of the plants my kids enjoy the most is the common sweet violet, Viola odorata. We’re growing it as a groundcover on either side of semi-shaded path leading to our back door, where it also adjoins the kid’s sandpit. When the plant is in bloom from early winter to spring, the flowers get picked constantly for everything from making perfume to decorating volcanoes to sprinkling over miniature ponds. There are hundreds of other flowers to choose from in the garden. But it’s a purple wonder the size of a thumbnail that my children gravitate to.

I share the kid’s enthusiasm for violas. My favourite cool season flower is the humble Johnny Jump Up, Viola tricolour, a plant that earned its common name because of a tendency to self seed and pop up spontaneously in the garden. Its other common name is heartsease. This refers to the plant’s historical use as a medicinal herb, but I think it perfectly suits Viola tricolour’s ability to inspire cheer on the bleakest days of mid-winter. I also grow the larger flowered pansies (which are viola hybrids), but for me, a clump of happy looking Johnny Jump Ups is pure gold.

The 19th century American philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote that “the invariable mark of wisdom is the ability to see the miraculous in the common”. I’ll leave it for others to judge whether I’m wise or not, but as a gardener, and a dad, I think it’s vital that I learn to see with eyes attuned to nature’s common glories. If I can pass such wisdom onto my kids, and they pass it on to their own children, I’ll die a very contented man.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 4th June 2011. Photo by Justin Russell – common violet, Viola odorata.

All gardeners, at some point or another, are affected by what I like to call irresistible plant urge syndrome. The symptoms go a bit like this. You stop by your local nursery with no particular intent other than to have a browse. Out of the corner of your eye you spot a plant that’s been on your wish list for years, but have never been able to find a place in the garden for. You purchase the said plant and take it home, only to find that there’s a good reason it was stuck on your wish list – you don’t have a place for it. Undeterred, you convince yourself that you’ll make a spot available in the not too distant future, and will leave the new plant in its pot with a number of other plants also waiting to be planted into the garden.

The poor old plant sits there in horticultural purgatory for the next year, where it gradually deteriorates, becoming pot bound and turning yellow. One hot summer day you forget to water the plant and it dies. You throw the contents of the pot onto the compost, and resolve not to buy the same plant until you have a position in the garden ready to go. One spring day a few months hence, you stop by your local nursery and…all serious gardeners know how the story ends. Irresistible plant urge syndrome. I’ve had it, and still get the occasional relapse.

I’m doing my best, though, to resist the urge to buy plants on impulse. Instead, I’ve resolved to work with the plants I’ve already got in the garden, taking cuttings from favourites, dividing others, and where necessary, digging some up and moving them to a more favourable position. I find plant relocation particularly satisfying work for some reason. Maybe it’s because I’m making the most of what I’ve got, fine tuning rather than longing for more, and at least part of the pleasure is that the work is done mostly in autumn.

The weather for the last three days has been absolutely superb in my garden. We’ve woken to frosty mornings followed by perfectly clear, still days, with enough warmth left in the sun to wear a short sleeved shirt. There’s also plenty of warmth left in the soil. This warmth is a legacy of summer, and it will gradually decrease over the coming months until the soil reaches its lowest temperature in early spring.

The benefit of transplanting in autumn is two fold: first, the warm soil means quick recovery of damaged roots. Secondly, the cooler air temperatures mean that the plant loses less moisture through it’s foliage. Put simply, a plant moved in autumn is under less stress.

Even so, there are a few rules to follow to give a relocated plant the best chance of success. Start by identifying which plants move well, and which don’t. Those with a deep and woody root system, such as many natives, tend to be much more difficult to move than plants such as camellias or citrus, which have a fairly shallow, fibrous root system. Clumping perennials such as agapanthus, bearded iris, cannas, sedums, kniphofia and catmint, for example, are perfect candidates for division and relocation.

For plants that are small enough to be dug and moved by hand, you should begin by cutting the foliage back by at least half it’s overall size. This reduces moisture loss. Then drive a sharp spade around the rootball of the plant and dig it up. Aim to strike a balance between retaining as many roots as possible, and allowing easy relocation of the plant to its new position.

Once the plant has been lifted, a race is on. Roots exposed to the air will begin drying out and left for too long, the plant might fail to recover. Ideally, you should get the plant into its new position as soon as possible, which means having the site prepared ahead of time, otherwise “heel” it into a temporary position, or put the plant in a plastic bag with the roots contained in moist sawdust or newspaper. Plant out at the next opportunity.

Just prior to replanting, soak the roots for half an hour in a bucket containing a weak seaweed solution. The seaweed will help the plant overcome transplant shock, then plant out carefully into well prepared soil. Water the plant in well, even if the soil’s moist. Keep the water up for the first few months at least, and fingers crossed, your relocated plant will grow away strongly in spring. Then you, the gardener, will feel the warm glow of having made the most of what was already in the garden, rather than succumbing to irresistible plant urges.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 21st May, 2011. Photo by Justin Russell, Sedum ‘Autumn Joy’.