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 18th century poet, wrote “consult the genius of the place in all”, and his advice is still one of the guiding principles for designers of buildings and landscapes. Those who are familiar with Glenn Murcutt’s houses will know that the Pritzker Prize winning architect works according to a philosophy of “touching the earth lightly” and matching the building to the landscape. Prominent English garden designer Dan Pearson is similarly renowned for being able to capture the spirit of a particular place in his designs.
A local garden that epitomises the spirit of a place is Vineyard Cottages on the Granite Belt. Here, the owners have used granite stones for edges, decomposed granite for pathways, and plants that reflect the culture of the area. Apples, grapes and lavenders all serve as reminders of Ballandean’s local farming traditions. Local mushroom compost was used to improve the poor soil in the garden and the owners even went as far as matching the trim colour on the cottages to the hazy blue shade of the distant hills. The effect of such thoughtfulness is that a stroll through the garden leaves no room for error – this is a garden that is a good fit with its locality. The genius of the place is distinctive, and celebrated.
In complete contrast was a Toowoomba estate I drove through the other day to visit friends. Despite having been built over excellent soil and surrounded by tall eucalypts, every second front garden consisted of a lawn, a couple of purple cordylines and perhaps a clump of dietes or a murraya hedge. There was no distinctiveness whatsoever. I could have been driving through any new estate in Australia, such was the denial of place.
Here’s what I’d rather do: rejoice in the things that make my little corner of the world unique. I want to apply my local knowledge to the way I grow commonly available plants, like rhubarb. I know that in my free draining soil, it needs daily watering in summer, and plenty of top dressing with compost each winter. In your garden, it’ll be a different story. Find the genius of your place. Y filltir sgwâr. In Welsh, that means “your square mile”. Celebrate its distinctiveness.
First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 3rd July 2010. Photo by Justin Russell, Vineyard Cottages, Ballandean.
