I'm not going to show you any pictures of the big house or the main garden, because I don't have any. I hated them both. The garden was large, set on steep slopes, and planted with a collection of Rhododendrons and acid-tolerant plants. It was the boss's pride and joy, and he assumed that because he loved it and had created it from an ugly forestry plantation that everybody else would fall on their knees in awe. It was quite the most dismal place I have ever flagellated myself in. One thing it decidedly was not was a garden. It was a collection. It was a vast ugly filing cabinet of an outdoor space, designed to show off wealth and to look horticulturally important through the presence of rarities. Nothing had been done to arrange these specimens in any kind of aesthetic harmony, and many of them sat there drowning in the generous precipitation which waterlogged the entire site, in spite of the steep slopes which would have shed the water in a more forgiving climate. A good example of the collecting mania which drove the arrangement of the garden to its detriment was shown when I was told to expect a consignment of several of each of 9 Hydrangea aspera varieties. The site for these had already been marked out with canes, and I was led there to be shown what I must do. All my instincts fought against the concept, because not only was the area lying under water at the time, but all nine varieties were to be planted together, where their overall similarities would lose them amongst one another. So I told him he was making a mistake. After all, I already hated the job, and had put in a couple of miserable weeks by then, so I had nothing to lose. Of course, I was overruled. I was not God in this context. I was only his beleaguered and disrespected adviser. I was a gardener. It doesn't get lower than that, even for someone who professes a love of gardening. Gardeners do the dirty work. Garden owners are the real influence. That's the way he saw it. But I couldn't doff my cap. I hated the place more every day I was there. Three pictures from the internet to show different varieties of what is essentially a good shrub. I hope they show how pointless it would be to put them all together in the same place, even if there was any hope of them surviving -
And yet, despite the delusions of the management regarding its excellence, the place was a tip. It was poorly-maintained, under-exploited and in the doldrums. A sloping area from which the house arose was just a scruffy area of rough grass with a few shrubs. My suggestion that the house would look better rising from beautifully planted terraces went down like indigestion medicine. And then there was the kitchen garden, which I do have photos of, as it was always prudent, if not exactly safe, to stay close to the glasshouses for fear of getting caught in a sudden deluge. The food was grown a whole mile away from the main house, and the staff cottages were kept in the same isolation. My little dog got very fit running between the two after me in the boss's golf buggy, which I used to use when he wasn't looking. It kept the little fellow very fit, which was a godsend, as there were building works going on at the mansion, and the builders kept giving him ham rolls which he devoured voraciously. He also used to hang around their vans scrounging, a habit which took me a long time to break subsequently. A dog with a fetish for vans. Here he is. I know everybody likes pictures of cute little animals, and I have nothing of great horticultural beauty to show for this short period of my life. The picture is actually taken from my next job, as at this time I was far too busy actively seeking a way out of my self-induced misery. Little Stan sadly is no more, having spent his last year with dementia. A sorry end -
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