A gardening book written more than fifty years ago needs to convince the reader that it still has something to offer. This reader certainly believes so. Having recently acquired a garden, I have found Vita's "Garden Book" full of recommendations which I've scrawled on scraps of paper
marking relevant pages.
You might expect someone writing in the tower at Sissinghurst to have expectations of a more exalted kind than the owner of a suburban back garden. But the writer, though privileged, was not rich and was a thrifty and practical gardener, who wrote a regular column in the Observer until shortly before her death. This book is a selection from those columns, grouping articles from different years together under the month of the year. An index, indispensable, has been added.
Well-written, the pages mix practicality with poetic description of the seasons. She writes as one gardener to another, and acknowledges her own foibles and preferences:
"It occurs to me that I have never written about pergolas ..."
The reason is simple:
"They drip."
Years later, her suggestions for planting are still relevant and appealing, though there may now be many more hybrids of the plant available to choose from. Her background, inevitably, makes itself felt, as in her reference to yew, which is:
"poisonous to cattle, so you cannot plant it where your own or other people's cows are likely to browse on it."
The photographs of the grounds at Sissinghurst ensure that the reader sees the differences of
scale between our gardens and hers. But those surroundings gave her the breadth of experience which makes her writings so useful. Passing asides about daily life bring home the different context in which her columns were published. Seeds collected from your plants, for example, can
be stored in "little air-tight tins, such as the tins that typewriter ribbons come in."
A book to enjoy on a winter's night when the hard work of gardening can be postponed.
Quotes
"When the (autumn) days arrive, with their melancholy and the spiders' webs so delicately and geometrically looped from the hedges, how grateful we are for the torch of a little tree or the low smoulder of leaves on azaleas and peonies."
On a hedge of rambler roses: "a long, angry, startling streak, as though somebody had taken a red pencil and scrawled dense red bunches all over a thicket-fence of green."