Tuesday 5 May
The five o’clock alarm pulls me reluctantly from my slumbers following a fitful night, tossing and turning. Sleep never comes easily to me when I’m heading off somewhere, these days. Half an hour later I’m on the road beneath a sky of the palest pinky-grey, flecked with dirty-purple powder-puffs of altocumulus, the base of each cloud reflected with the fiery salmon-pink of the rising sun.
I’m heading to Malvern on the eastern side of the Malvern Hills to the west of Worcestershire, and, I’m a tad anxious, to be honest, but excited too; an amalgam of my dislike of being away from home, which troubles me more with age, and the long drive (it’s only three hours, but it’s enough). But there’s also a deep-seated excitement; I’m a child again, on Christmas Eve - the week ahead is full of excitement and the promise of good things.
The Malvern Hills rise majestically, bruised-green sentinels, standing reassuringly over the Three Counties showground. Chris, the owner of Sienna Hosta, is already unloading the Luton transit, filled to the gunwales with everything we need for the week. Bulky dumpy bags filled with used compost bags and dusty black hessian are pulled from the van, alongside tool-kits, a watering can, racking, a plastic pond liner, an old rake, a small kitchen sieve on a long plastic pole - remind me to expand upon this later, and eight Dutch trolleys, crammed to capacity with trays upon trays of hostas; miniatures alongside small, medium and large specimens in a kaleidoscope of greens, blues, variegated creams and whites. Some are broad-leaved like paddles, others fine and strappy, but each plant pristine, and ready for show-time.
Van unloaded, we stand expectantly in the cold marquee. This is where the magic happens, hopefully, as an army of growers prepare to transform the cavernous canvas into a lush, plant-filled paradise that will wow the crowds for four wonderful days.
The nondescript, three-metre diameter, black-hessian-skirted ‘stand’ that sits before us is to be transformed into a gently undulating, woodland floor, strewn with mossy, upturned tree stumps, leaf-litter, and two small pools of still black water, their surfaces speckled with pea-green duck-weed. From beneath the carpet of this sylvan stetting, a tapestry of hostas will erupt; a symphony of steely blues, running seamlessly into valleys of khaki, emerald and bottle greens, with contrasting clusters of white and creamy-yellow variegation whispering in the leaf-littered glade.
And so the painstakingly delicate construction begins. An underlying sturdy structure is constructed before the stars of the show are carefully and skilfully positioned - not a leaf must be blemished in the process. Foliage colour, leaf shape, plant form and size are deliberated at length before placement, with each of us standing back, stroking chins and peering at the display through half-closed eyes - artisans at work, (I speak solely of Chris, and not of yours truly, his new apprentice).
Hostas placed to perfection, dried leaves collected from the Sienna Hosta nursery, sheets of moss, and crumbs of soil, are carefully woven into the vignette. The hairs on my arms raise with the involuntary disbelief and excitement of the thing of beauty that now stands before us.
Oh, and before I forget… that long-handled pole with a kitchen sieve on the end? Once the display nears completion, there’s always an area in the middle of the stand that needs just a few more leaves, or a smattering of soil, but is beyond the safe reach of an arm’s span. The leaves or soil are placed into the silver sieve and carefully lifted into the display and deposited - the fairground classic, hook-a-duck, in reverse! Simples!
Six hours later, we stand back. Our work here is done... for today!
Wednesday 6 May
It’s D-Day, or perhaps more appropriately, J-Day? Whatever we call it, it’s the day the judges come to visit all exhibits in the floral marquee. Formal judging starts at 2pm, but some tread, surruptitiously around the marquee, an early ‘sniff around’, clipboards cradled firmly in the crook of their arms, with seemingly obligatory half-moon-glasses perched prominently at the end of their noses, assuming the facial expression of one who thinks they’ve found an earwig in their salad. They stand, they scrutinise, and, was that a smile, a scowl, or the passing wind of disapproval?
We spend the morning poring over every millimetre of the display, checking foliage isn’t marked, scorched or damaged; pots are hidden, their rims not daring to peep above the forest floor. The foliage of larger hostas is inspected to ensure other plants or plant labels aren’t obscured; the devil’s tucked away in the detail.
Away from the display, a sales stand has been erected and stocked to capacity. Here, the taller hostas are staked for easier storage during the show and subsequent onward transmission, plant labels are checked and everything watered.
The display is checked again.
Tiny hosta plug plants are packed securely and safely in cartons, ready to be put on sale the next day.
And then, half an hour, or so before the clock strikes two, a studious hush falls across the marquee as nervous growers primp and preen, wielding tweezers, water-colour brushes, tissues, camera blowers, and, for those who have them, delicate fingers, finessing petals, stamens and flower heads with fastidious attention.
Two o’clock arrives and we walk away, a huddle of anxious plantsmen and women, collectively and quietly praying that the clipboard gods will be kind, fair and understanding of the blood, sweat and sap that has been poured into this defining moment, alongside the weeks and months of horticultural diligence.
Thursday 7 May
8.00am
The excited chatter of bird song outside my bedroom window pulls me slowly from the arms of Morpheus. Slowly, very slowly, the fingers of reality pull me from my half slumbering state. It’s medals day.
The thought sits quietly in the corner of my mind as I dress. At breakfast, it whispers in my ear. And then, on the twenty minute drive to the show-ground, it screams through my body. Neither of us dares to vocalise the thoughts sprinting through our heads. Did we do enough? Were there enough plants on the stand? Did we remove all of the offending bruised or damaged leaves, and those falling across other hostas? Will the moss have slipped, revealing pond liners, or pot rims?
We enter the far end of the floral marquee. It’s quiet, except for the arrival of other eager, excited and equally nervous growers. Cries of relief and joy and disappointment echo through the marquee. Exuberant hugs, squeezes and kisses, joyous phone calls, triumphant dances, arms held aloft, circling the air euphorically. Others, unlucky this time, quietly accepting of their fate, busying themselves to mask obvious disappointment.
Our walk to the far of the marquee to our stand seems interminable - a walk from John O'Groats to Land’s End, our stand stretching away from us, in a weird dreamlike state. We arrive. I see the medal notification card sitting on our small desk, sunlight glinting off the embossed medal at the top. I can’t see what it is. I step aside for Chris to move forward. He reaches out and picks up the card. He turns.
“Gold!” he shouts, eyes shining. We hug. Emotion contorting our faces with relief and joy. Tears spill from my eyes.
The elation is real and deep seated. I haven’t let Chris, Sienna or myself down. We celebrate. Coffee and cake (gluten-free, naturally).
9.00am
The doors open and the public come rushing in. We are inundated, overwhelmed with hordes of hosta lovers and the hosta curious. They queue, their treasures clutched to their chests, beaming as they scuttle away, other bounties to be secured, no doubt.
The day passes extraordinarily quickly. We share our knowledge of growing hostas, propagation techniques, managing slugs and snails, of course, and selling, selling, selling.
6.00pm
We leave the marquee, exhausted and very happy.
Friday 8 May
The first day of any show is generally the busiest, or so everyone seems to be saying, so imagine my surprise when a tsunami of plant-and garden fanatics crash into the Floral Marquee as the show opens.
Hostas are pulled from the stand: a few people buying just one, but the majority, twos, threes, fours and even fives.
Some ponder endlessly picking up, examining and replacing one plant after another, then flitting to a different part of the stand, human butterflies, repeating the procedure again, before committing to a purchase. Others are cavalier, charging towards the stand, liberating a hosta, seemingly any hosta, almost without thought, thrusting it in front of us. There are the timid customers, circumnavigating the stand slowly, from a distance, not wanting to get too close. They smile shyly, aware of their own retail insecurities, before timidly popping their hand forward and pointing towards the one they want,
“Please may I…,” they whisper, pointing again, clearly indicating that they have no intention of entering the fray and picking it out for themselves, perhaps for fear of knocking something over or damaging another plant.
There are those who believe the best stock lays not out front for all to see, but behind the stand, where we stand. They barge in, crouching to better have a closer look at the secret stash. Some growers might redirect them back to the front of the stand, perhaps with a flea in their ear, but we smile, allowing them to pick their prize.
Sunday 10 May
The days roll seamlessly into one another, and then, from nowhere, the last day arrives.
During the week I've been visited by a succession of friends, family and followers, which has been the icing on an already impressive cake. And, talking of cakes, Dame Mary Berry visited us on Saturday; resplendent in a shocking-pink jacket and trademark white-blonde bob, in her wake, a throng of excitable fans.
At four o'clock the plant sell-off begins, throngs of people having gathered ominously beforehand, milling around, looking at watches. Chaos ensues, as half-priced hostas, bargain bouquets and priced-down perennials are hauled triumphantly through the marquee. Lupins, foxgloves and lilies towering about their new owners, wobble towards the exits.
In a miraculous feat, driven by determination and pure grit, the stand and display are dismantled, loaded onto Dutch trolleys and pulled into the back of the van. At 6pm, I'm on the road back home, sun shining on the Malvern Hills in my rear-view mirror.
Thank you, as always for reading or listening to this piece. If you've enjoyed it, please do share it with a gardening friend and hit the heart below.
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