A Blight of Pignuts!

Hello dearests!

What is it with this confounded weather? 19 degrees one day, -40 the next! It’s chaos for all of nature. On Wednesday I saw some bunnies gamboling in the white garden. Marvelous, I thought, Spring est arrivee. And the following day they were frozen solid, their only use as a lowly doorstop.

Amidst this climatic confusion, Pignuts thrive and this is a WORRY. They’re the most desperately parasitic little buggers. If they grow on a fallow patch that you’ve reserved for Bottle Stubs, Whorecrunch or something long lasting like Ayrton Senna well that’s it, the patch will be overrun with Bindle Weed and Piss Stalks.

The solution: If you see even a hint of a pignut, mix half a pint Labrador wee with Drambuie and sprinkle liberally. Work completed, light a fire and finish aforementioned bottle of Drambuie.

Cheers,

JC xx

I hate the poor

It’s only three days until Snowdrops season when we at Chatterley open our doors (reluctantly) to the great unwashed. While there are many things that I enjoy about opening the house and gardens, little ones gamboling on the lawn, the ker-ching of the cash register, I cannot BEAR the general public.

Snowdrops = CASH

It’s not the smell of cheap perfume and violence. No, it’s their absolute insistence on decimating our language; the dropped aitches, the split infinitives, the swearing. But that is not the worst of it. The youth’s insistence of speaking in sub Jamaican patois really greases my wicket. It’s as if everyone under 18 is trying to adopt the style and attitude of mixed race teenagers on a South London housing estate. How very queer! Everyone I’ve ever met from rough inner city life have been trying to escape.

So Solid Crew - Poor but motivated!

A perfect example: Early in the last decade, Asher D, Oxide, Neutrino and other assorted members of the So Solid Crew came to visit Chatterley. They were all fascinated by the Tudor period and we spent a lovely weekend making mead and performing the lesser known plays of Congreve. Asher D rounded of the weekend with selected readings from Wychwood’s translation of the Aeneid. It was marvelous fun and just shows how motivated poor people can be.

If you believe, like I do, that to be born British is to win life’s lottery then please, for the love cream teas and old school ties, stop braxing our mutha-tongue. Getme bredren?

I do hope so.

Yours,

J x

Bunny’s Brilliance!

Hallo chums,

Desolee for not having written for a few days but been having a BLAST. Returned from Cornwall via my old chum Bunny de Lisle who owns a fantastic pile, Puggerley in North Devon. Dear old Bunny is an absolute whizz in the garden and an authority on all things de horto. Poor chap has been wheelchair bound since the age of 6 when he sat on a Roman Candle. He farted sparks until he was 13, but I digress.

Mahmoud is massive

Bunny’s writing a book on the history of Puggerley; a grand Palladian beauty nestled in the Mendips. But the gardens, oh! Bunny pioneered the use Buttercloth (Bingus Pontifex) as a creeper, in which Puggerley is densely clad. From May to October, Buttercloth flowers in pinks and purples. Visually, it’s jawdropping, floral fireworks. (For those of you who don’t know Buttercloth, it’s similar to Rapewort.)

Bunny still runs his house in the Edwardian tradition, of which I APPROVE: 82 staff just catering for just himself and his boyfriend / manservant Mahmoud, a giant black Libyan chap. They’ve been together years. As Bunny himself says “I’d could never let him go. He’s so Moorish!” Wonderful, don’t you think?

J-Clar x

Change is as good as rest.

Good morning!

Occasionally I wake up and think tits to it all, climb into my Citroen 2CV, and drive to a National Trust garden for inspiration. This morning I woke in that very mood and, 250 miles later now find myself in gorgeous St Mawes in Cornwall. I holidayed here in the 30s and 40s as a teenager and the memories liderally come flooding back. It was idyllic – all Swallows and Amazons, camping on the beach and rough sex with young farmers. And the games! What fun they were! Paddle-Me-Backward, Sink the Admiral, and Don’t-rape-me,-I’m-tied-to-a-tree! What hoots.

This man touched my tits

Nearby, Trelissick garden is a wonder – palms galore, wonderful walks along the river, and the amazing Cryptomeria tree on the main lawn. One gets a real sense of regeneration and rebirth in the these stunning grounds. But the best, best, best is a ferry ride across to St Mawes and a booze clad dinner and bed at Hotel Tresanton. Heaven.

On the ferry, (which has been driven by the same family for over 100 years) the driver accidentally touched my knocker as he helped me aboard. It was quite something. I believe I’d slept with his grandfather some 70 years previous. Ah, the circle of life.

Love, me.

J xx

Lessons in Landscaping

Word!

Now, there’s one huge job to tackle before I leave this planet for an eternity of Canasta, Chianti and sex with strangers. And it’s a biggie. But I shall not balk at the task. As Ernest Hemingway said of writing, “Bite down on the nail!” and so shall I. (Actually, Hemingway came to a game shoot here at Chatterley in the 50s, got smashed on absinthe and shot a gamekeeper. But that was SO him!)

Sustainability Brown. Horse Impersonator

The southern aspect of Chatterley Castle needs relandscaping. One’s first port of call must be the great Capability Brown who landscaped as many as 170 parks in his day, including some of the great British houses including Blenheim, Chimley Baxter and of course the Palace at Bibbleswick. Yet despite his genius touch, I always preferred of his lesser known brother Sustainability Brown. SB was way ahead of his time, building houses out of dung, porridge and whatnot, but he did have an eye for a landscape. He was also gently barking mad and was once arrested for impersonating a horse when introduced to the Turkish ambassador. Marvelous.

This week I’ll be perusing his early designs, then hiring a JCB. Happiness!

Ever,

JC xx

Febrrrrruary

Hello you!

Manshelves!

February. Awful word, don’t you think? It’s so mealy and unsatisfactory to pronounce. Like the word ‘foyer’. Awful, awful, awful. But then of course it’s French. So then… Where was I? Oh yes. February.  Brrrrrrr. According to my hilarious chum Patrick – he’s a lapsed Catholic bishop who once beat Sigmund Freud at ‘Fiddle the Duchess’** and twice went to prison for using choirboys as furniture – Anyhow according to P. it always snows in Sussex at the beginning of Feb. His sage prophecy has saved me an absolute fortune in bulbs over the years.

And my, what a mild January we’ve had! Hence Snowdrops, Daffodils, Furry Buzzers and Bottle Cocks abound. I believe I even saw the green shoots of a Felipe Massa. We’re lulled into that sense of spring and then boom! Bastard February shows up and murders everything.

During this inclemency I’ll be making plans for the gardens, and so must you. A new vegetable patch in the walled garden; a redesign of the white garden; relandscaping the Southerly fields. Exciting! Accompany your planning with a mug of hot bovril and sherry. Yumbo.

Ever,

Jen

** Fiddle the Duchess is quite a rude game, involving a torch, genitals, string and someone has to dress as a wizard. The rules are a mystery.

Suicide is Silly

Hello dear reader,

Well I feel like a complete nincompoop for not having written in over 2 years. I could go into the whys and wherefores but I won’t. (Actually I will – fell in love with 22 year old Argentinian under-gardener Arturo, bought a small section of  Tierre del Fuego where we could live as Adam and Eve, Arturo ran off with Chilean travel agent whose name translates into English as JANET (Ugh!) – So there.

In October, shattered hearted, I returned to my beloved Chatterley, to find it all overgrown and scrubby, and climbed into a bath of sloe gin, to liderally drown my sorrows. I was ready to end my 82 year old life, and what a life it had been. I ducked my head under  but as I swallowed , it was hard not appreciate what a wonderful drink sloe gin really is. As a result I’ve sat in a bath pissed up on liquor for 3 months and I’d heartlily recommend it.

Suicide can ruin one's hairdo

In the midst of my drunken bath sojourn my computer went ‘F-Fong’. Does yours do that when you get a message? Mine goes ‘F-Fong’. And lo! it was a message from a reader of this very blog. His name is Brad and he is from America (I know what you’re thinking but he seems OK). Anyhow Brad edits a nifty little pamphlet called Landscape Architecture in DC (wherever that is!) He asked if I might continue writing. Frabjous day! Calloo Callay! Well I was thrilled. Thank you Brad. I shall begin again forthwith. And as a little present to you Bradley in DC (?), herewith my recipe for sloe Gin.

Secaturs at the ready folks… I’m BACK!

J x

Jennifer’s Sloe Gin

2 kg Sloes

4 kg Caster Sugar

10 Litres gin.

Decant and leave for 12 years.

Present Problems

Dear you,

Christmas at Chatterley is a joy unbound. For as long as I can remember the great and the good have descended here for Christmas lunch and a walk in the gardens as a respite from the festive melee. In my time I’ve fed turkey to 4 PMs (Churchill twice, Eden, Macmillan and Major), foreign digs (Bhutto, Amin, the Aga Khan and his wife Chaka) authors (Forster, Greene, Clancy), rock stars (Jagger, Lennon, Roussos). You name them, they’ll have passed through these hallowed halls.

Ice Cube, embarrassed!

As a result I’ve been given some simply stunning Christmas presents; A Purdy from Germaine Greer, a sealskin gilet from Sting and methadone from Frank Sinatra. The most of generous prezzie ever, ever, ever though was from Public Enemy Front Man Ice Cube, who called ahead on Christmas Eve, to ask what I’d like. I modestly suggested something to put my hoes in and he gave me a Mercedes! A real mix up but a wonderful ride.

Gardening presents are all well and good but useless if you’ve no land. If you need to get a garden mad chum a present I suggest a plot of land. According to my chum, the Duke of Abercorn, Norfolk is on the market.

Happy Shopping!

Ever,

JC x

Plants of the Year

Dear you,

Tip of the Day: Much has been written about the beastly spread of Honey Fungus… Leveling turf? Blah. Grinding out dead stumps? Snore. I suggest taking one of one’s more elderly pets (NB must be bigger than hedgehog but smaller than a horse – a venerable Dandy Dinmont would be perfect!) and after a last cuddle and final steak supper, burning it in kerosene on the spot of aforementioned canker. The animal’s soul will keep cheeky fungus at bay for at least five years.

Honey Fungus. NOT a venereal disease.

In lazy hackdom lists are customary at the end of the year and I would like to announce MY top three plants of the year. Drum roll please… (I hate drums.) In reverse order…

3. The Nelson Piquet – Beautiful, tough and versatile – like Matthew Kelly.

2. Black Eyed Susans – the tenderest of plants with the aroma of a Libyan sheep fight.

And Number 1! Well, it could only the Rusty Whorehound. The name alone deserves a drink.

Do drop me a line and let me know your favourite plants of the year. I’ll most probably ignore your missive but give me the option, do!

Ever,

Jen x

Twitter Slang, pah!

Hello,

Tip of the day: Inspired by a simply stunning sunrise this morning, my thoughts were these. Yes, there’s more than enough to do – removing dying hedge plants, tidying up perennials etc. – but sometimes you must just stop, look, smell and listen, whether you’re surveying your allotment or your 10,000 acre estate and award winning garden, like me.

Brando - Trifle Guzzler!

Now. Much jollity! I became a member of Twitter yesterday and already have a host of new garden-loving chums. It’s quite dear really. My plan is to garner enough electric friends and then throw an enormous party at Chatterley. It will be an hoot!

One has to come to terms with Twitter slang, or ‘twang’ if you will. We had a jargonese of our very own at Chatterley, instigated by Lord Cavendish when guests came to dine…

FHB – Family Hold Back. Used when cook had prepared enough guinea fowl, or own one occasion when Marlon Brando charged through a trifle designed for twenty, on his very own.

MIK – More in Kitchen. On the Brando occasion, Lord C whispered FHB, but cook whispered back MIK. She had prepared a back-up trifle. Phewf!

NQOCD – Not quite our class dear. Used regularly for most guests including that grocer’s daughter, Thatcher.

NWA - HKLP!

HKLP – Holds Knife Like Pen. Referring to table manners, a sure sign of NQOCD. You’d be surprised how many people suffer from this social virus… Princess Anne, King Juan Carlos, John Maynard Keynes and the rap outfit NWA. (In fact the NWA boys were charming – they came for Snowdrop season in February 1988 – and the late Eazy E showed me a nifty way of deadheading roses with a butterfly knife!)

Work can wait until the tomorrow. Today, I say, enjoy.

Ever,

Jen