The Chelsea Flower Show diary

Audio version (above)

Wednesday 13 May

I smile to myself, listening to the melodic tones of a harp being plucked nearby. I recognise the piece, I’ve heard it before, somewhere. It’s a warm, summer’s day and I’m lazing on a cozy sun-lounger in a beautiful garden in the countryside. I’m watching children play with an energetic puppy on the striped lawn. They giggle and shriek as the little dog scampers and barks around them.

The harp sings out its hypnotic refrain again, louder now, more persistent. I definitely know the melody as it repeats itself, over and over again.

“Michael. Come on, you’ll be late if you don’t get up.”

The harp plays on, then stops, abruptly.

“Michael! Come on. Cup of tea!”

I look up, bleary eyed as curtains are pulled open, flooding daylight into the room. I squint my eyes, adjusting to the brightness.

“Come on, you’ve got half an hour,” Peter says. “Unless you’re not going?”

I’m in bed. It’s morning. The melodic harp the alarm on my mobile. Memories of the dream disappear.

~

In what seems like the blink of a very sleepy eye, I’m on the train, London bound. London Waterloo is bustling, everyone shuffling urgently, lemmings following each other mindlessly through the dirty, grime-encrusted underground network. I much prefer the slower, calmer pace of life back home, where I can, in the words of The Devil Wears Prada’s Miranda Priestley, feel free to move at a glacial pace!

The short walk from Sloane Square to the showground provides a taster of the prevailing weather conditions. In a twenty minute journey, a downpour of heavy hail, followed by late spring sunshine and an almighty clap of thunder as I walk into the Great Pavilion - that’s how to make an entrance! And that, my friends, is how the day plays out. Angry thunderstorms rolling around us, dramatic sheet lightning, downpours of biblical proportions, and then sporadic bursts of glorious sunshine.

How lucky we are to be working under the cover of the marquee. I’ve worked outside on a couple of Main Avenue gardens in previous years, and my heart goes out to everyone out there now, toiling in the rain. With tight deadlines in play, there’s precious little time to take time out to seek shelter; work has to continue.

Weather aside, the day is spent placing stunning, oversized show hostas across the space, the largest display Sienna has ever constructed. The large rectangle, 9.5 x 5.5 metres, is sprayed out on the grass in white. Six of us work together to pull together the beginnings of a stunning woodland clearing, complete with gently winding Breedon gravel pathway, two breathtaking Acer palmatum ‘Osakazuki’ trees and a wishing well.

We work together, collectively making decisions on the placement of each hosta; tweaking, turning and tilting every plant to find its best side before finding a suitable neighbour, based upon complementary colours, form and size. Impressive, large specimens, some thirty years old, add real maturity to the scheme.

The afternoon races away. It’s suddenly four o’clock. We start to tidy the space before leaving. Plant pots and wooden block are stacked neatly and crates of damp sphagnum moss are covered with sheets of grease-proof paper to lock in moisture before being covered in old compost bags. Moss is green gold at flower shows, with so many growers using it within displays, so it’s sadly susceptible to being ‘lifted’ by unscrupulous growers who’ve depleted their mossy cache.

A scream echoes across the space. An old, metal step ladder falls onto a corner of the display, crushing a strappy-leaved, yellow hosta as it lands. The ladder is pulled away, but the damage is significant - not in an earth-shattering, news headline kind of way, of course not, but proportionality, in our tiny Chelsea bubble, the ripples of this incident touch us all.

“I’m so sorry everyone,” she cries, tears already pricking her eyes.

“It’s fine,” a voice of calm reason says, pulling the plant away from the display, picking out the damaged foliage. “I think we’ve got a replacement on the nursery.”

Tired from a long day, we decide it’s time to leave. Standing together, taking in the work completed, we agree that already it’s looking promising, it’s coming together, but there’s still a phenomenal amount of work still ahead.

Thursday 14 May

Rhaaow! Rhaaow!

I wake up, startled. What was that?

Rhaaow! Rhaaow!

There it is again. It echoes around the quiet streets below me.

Rhaaow!

It gets louder. The same mournful sound repeated, over and over. I strain to listen. I realise, eventually, that it’s a fox. Its cries almost human in quality. I lay still. The painful cries continue, getting louder through my open bedroom window. A cool breeze plays across my face. I check the time; it’s just gone 4.30am. I pull the duvet under my chin and roll over, finding sleep again.

~

My alarm rings - that wretched harp again! The heavy, sonorous pulse of a passing Heathrow-bound plane filters through the open window - the AirBnB is on the flight path, which thrills me. My father was an aircraft engineer. My mild obsession with watching planes takes me back to numerous family trips to London, standing with him on top of the Queen’s Building at Heathrow, marvelling at the spectacle of jumbo jets, BAC One-Elevens, Boeing 747s and Concorde, amongst others, landing and taking off above us, seemingly within the grasp of my tiny fingers. This childhood memory comforts me, reassures me. I smile, remembering happy childhood days. Remembering my dad.

~

Blue-coloured hostas are stunning. But… brush past them and they bruise. One end of our display is home to a dozen, or so, of these steely-blue beauties. It becomes clear during the course of the morning, that we’re all avoiding this corner. The underlying structure, constructed yesterday, needs to be packed with leaves and moss. Not one to shy away from a challenge, I get the bit between my teeth and start the precarious work of carefully lifting hosta foliage from the underside and feeding in handfuls of terracotta-coloured autumn leaves. I’m soon joined by the others, and together, we show the blues who’s in charge, with not a blemish to be found.

An artist has been commissioned, Sarah, aka Skippy, to paint new introduction, Hosta ‘Red Ninja’ (pronounced, Nin-ya, named after the Danish lady who has bred this stunning plant). She sets up her easel and starts surveying her beetroot-coloured, subject matter, sketching it, carefully onto the canvas.

Angry rumbles of thunder crash overhead again, flashes of lightning and the fierce drumming of hail on the pavilion’s roof. Dark skies, blanket Chelsea, throwing it into an eerie, early nightfall.

By four o’clock, storm passed, our work is largely completed, save for filling five pools with water, dropping black dye into them and lacing them with duckweed. A job for tomorrow.

The Sienna gang leaves just before five o’clock, leaving me to have a good nosy around the pavilion and along Main Avenue. Clearly far from finished, the show gardens are largely exquisite, but some, in my humble opinion, are a little underwhelming. I've not thought this for many years, and like to feel I have an eye for a good design, good structure, good planting and overall impact, so I'm a little disappointed, but put my thoughts to one side in anticipation of seeing the completed gardens.

Friday 15 May

We finish the display, and, please forgive my slight bias and the use of Anglo-Saxon English, but it looks bloody fantastic. It's a strange feeling, I think, to be too proud of something. Clearly we all feel the same, each of us tempering and rendering our words with careful respect to reflect the cautious optimism we feel; afraid that speaking the words aloud might anger the gods of fate.

So what now? We’re done, surely? Outta here like cinema-goers flocking to the exit as the end-credits roll? Finito?

Not quite! It’s forensics now. Down on all fours, bum in the air, nose in the display, checking for obvious peeks of the underlying structure; damaged or blemished leaves; missing or misspelled plant labels; the rims of plastic pots revealed because of moss slippage or insufficient leaf coverage; or browning of leaf tips. It’s an exacting science. Every minute detail will be scrutinised, almost obsessively, by those lovely RHS judges.

A rogue hosta leaf is discovered; properly munched, perhaps torn. Elsewhere a stressed hosta needing life support is removed and replaced, its foliage displaying tiny blemishes. Blankets of moss are misted and water added to the five pools, laced with black dye and garnished with duckweed. I write half a dozen replacement plant labels in my bestest-ever handwriting and then collectively we pore over every centimetre of the stand… again.

And so we’re done. Finally. They’ll be more primping and preening before the judges arrival on Monday morning, when I return for Press Day.

I wave goodbyes and call out cheerios to Team Sienna.

I’m on the train now. I’m tired. It’s warm. The carriage rocks gently from side to side, a gentle, rhythmic knocking, lulling me, anaesthetising me. My eyelids are lead weights, falling downwards, slowly. Down, then jerking up as the carriage rocks. Down again. I fight to stay awake as the countryside races past, a blur of green trees and fields.

Monday 18 May

It’s press-day. I haven’t slept a single wink. Man-flu has seized me. I’m run down from recent events, but it’s not going to stop me. Zoe Ball, yes, I’ll say it again, the Zoe Ball has messaged me, threatening to come and see me on the Sienna display. Will she turn up?

Press day is a strange entity. It’s great to publicise the event, of course, but many/some of those attending wouldn’t dare to dirty their well-manicured digits in soil. Many are there because they feel they ought to be. They litter Main Avenue, air-kissing each other, surreptitiously eyeing each other up and down, quietly assessing each other’s Gucci, Prada and Versace ensembles, for, heaven forbid, anyone wearing last season’s stock. They stand, forced laughter ringing out a little too loudly, waiting expectantly to be papped, feigning surprise as the shutters click around them. Others, to be fair and completely balanced, are obsessed with plants and gardening; powdered noses ensconced in roses, lilacs and pelargoniums.

The much-talked about Hosta ‘Red Ninja’ fights off stiff competition, including two breathtaking new hydrangeas, to win the much-coveted Plant of the Year accolade, prompting huge celebrations and thick heads the following morning in Camp Sienna.

I scour the showground unsuccessfully for Ms Ball and her Dig It podcast co-presenter, Jo Whiley, keen to thank them for including my gardening clips in their wonderful podcast. Next year, ladies, next year!

Tuesday 19 May

Here we go again! It’s medals day. After an evening of celebrating the Plant of the Year success at The Ivy, the sickening ache of anticipation returns the following morning - it might have been the salmon teriyaki?!

As we approach the stand I see the medal notification card on the desk. My heart sinks - it winks silver in the early morning light. Had we allowed ourselves to become a little too complacent, after all?

Chris picks up the card, turning it towards us.

‘Gold!’

I looked at the card, confused. I look at him and back at the card. And there it is. The gold embossed medallion twinkling on the white card. We learn, later in the day, that of the twelve points available to us at judging, we have scored a perfect twelve; no points deducted, nor observations or comments from the judges - almost unheard of.

Later that morning, on an upward trajectory now, Chris is asked to do a piece to camera, talking about the plants on the display. Filming starts. The RHS President, Keith Weed appears, a Dartington glass vase in hand. He interrupts Chris as filming continues to present Sienna Hosta with the President’s Award - acknowledging the stand as best in the showground.

~

The doors open on a cool, cloudy first day. It’s RHS members day. We run the gauntlet of questions from discerning and aspiring hosta growers:

• ‘Which one is the slug resistant hosta?’

• ‘Which one don’t the slugs like?’

• ‘Can I have the red-flowered hosta?’

• ‘I’ve been told the blue ones are evergreen’

• ‘They’re houseplants, right?’

• ‘How do you keep the slugs and snails off them?’

I’d been advised to expect some strange questions, and of course repeated mollusc enquiries. I'm happy to repeat myself, over and over and over again - I really don’t mind. And if it means just one person walks away knowing a little more, being better positioned to grow pristine hostas that survive the season intact, then I’m one happy chappy. For me, sharing knowledge and experience is part of what Chelsea, or any garden show, is about; learning from the experts across the showground.

Over a lifetime of gardening I've amassed a reasonable knowledge of plants and gardening, which I want and am happy to share. That was the main reason I asked Sienna if I could be involved with, not just the build, but meeting and sharing my knowledge of hostas, and gardening, with the passionate gardeners who flock to the shows.

~

We’re informed the BBC want to film the introduction for one of the evening Chelsea review programmes from our display. Hostas are frantically sprayed, bejewelling lush foliage with mercury-like dew drops. Moss-encrusted stumps strewn between the seas of hostas are also revitalised with the quiet swish of the watering lance. The display is cordoned off, camera crews and sound technicians set up store and we wait the arrival of La Don and the delightful Rachel. A crowd gathers. A sea of mobile devices is raised. Is the human race now consigned to watching events through the lens of a mobile phone? Should we worry now that our retinas will burn should we fail to employ the interface of a smart device between them and the subject matter? I heard Meryl Streep being interviewed just yesterday, saying that people no longer want autographs, instead, holding out mobile devices for a selfie. Yes, it's official, I've turned into my dad, the lovely man who could always find something wrong with the world we live in!

Wednesday 18 May

My last day.

You’re all familiar with my feelings about going home, I think. I love going away, being invited to participate in some incredible opportunities. I thrive on meeting fascinating new people, from all walks of life, not necessarily just from the wonderful world of gardening and horticulture. Over the past few weeks, at both RHS Malvern and Chelsea, I’ve met some incredible people - growers, judges, plant experts, new and experienced gardeners, gardening personalities, social media influencers, garden designers and friends, old and new. I’ve had the time of my life - cue that song from ‘Dirty Dancing’.

I leave the Great Pavilion late-afternoon, a few hostas in hand, a bag-full of laundry and a pocket crammed with wonderful memories.

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