Letters to garden makers

Dear Monty, A long-winded title on a very windy day. I had an elemental walk above Talybont on Tuesday with my good friend, photographer and garden maker Charles Hawes, I have no photographs to show as I have blown up my laptop by plugging in a faulty usb cable! I do share the above sketch made from memory of the startling birches at Blaen y Glyn. I share the account of the walk as written in my journal - along with a walk done at the beginning of the month on the route of the old railway from Swansea to Brecon. I also try to describe the comfort of coming from wilderness into the garden. 10/11/15 Mist Tapestry of yellows, golds, browns and dark greens fading into light. Orange grasses Coal black tip Mist and engines Rivers burns streams Muddy cattle Welsh longhouse Three oaks Stalks of rosebay willowherb Houses and chapel of Caerbont fade into the curtain Abercraf Caehopkin Blond grasses mix with copper No more scent of sulphur in the air The bright...

Monty, I asked you if there was going to be any inspiring garden related programmes broadcast this winter - I was very impressed with the answer and the resulting programme. I have just read an article in the Telegraph written as a result of an interview with you before your promo on The One Show. What strikes me is that your personal views of gardens and garden history are almost at odds with what you present on GW. I picked this up some time ago when listening to you speak at the Hay Festival. I just feel that you have a lot to give in bucking the trend of gardening in a particular style or formulaic way. There are many influences on us as gardeners - and I agree that the more gardens we see, the better we are able to refine our ideas of what kind of garden we want. Making a garden is a glorious way of expressing the creative seed that is in us all. The trouble is when I listen to garden programmes I tend to relax so much I fall asleep. Sometimes I think we are all...

Dear Monty, A poem for Remembrance Sunday Under the cold moon's light The soil remains warm The worm turns and twists It casts off its scent Of damp earth I push tulip bulbs into the soil With bare fingers They will see a new spring While my eyes dim The moon once awesome and bright Weighs down like lead I plant a dumb idol My tongue lights too many fires and the Forests flame Anger eats up life It is a consumer It feeds on judgement And begets more Until it gets fat Ripe for death. Paul