102

Astute observers of this website – a rare and endangered species one suspects – will notice some changes, especially in regard to the welcoming of garden visitors. Having withdrawn from our connection with Scotland’s Gardens Scheme we are now moving towards ending our open-garden status.

Garden visitors are a mixed blessing. On the one hand it is generally encouraging to witness the response of fellow enthusiasts to our horticultural efforts. And over the years we have met some very fine people. And of course, the revenue from entry fees and plant sales has enabled us to make some significant contributions to the environmental charity Fauna and Flora. On the other hand, keeping the garden in visitor-ready condition is becoming more difficult the older we get. But don’t be confused by the title of this piece – we are quite a few years off 102.

Adjusting to the reality of diminishing physical ability seems prudent, and can also be rewarding. Of late I have been spending an hour or so most days in the summerhouse at the bottom of the garden, which commands a view over the agricultural landscape to a horizon some five miles distant, in the centre of which sprouts the Prop at Ythsie, a memorial tower honouring a famous laird of Haddo, erected by the grateful tenantry. Or so the plaque reads.

Armed with a cup of tea and a pair of binoculars I can scan a considerable area of sky, and have been doing so with the express purpose of finding a particular bird. And on August 2nd the effort finally paid off.

Fifty years ago the only place to find red kites in the UK was mid-Wales. Then they were introduced to the Black Isle and became a common sight around the Inverness area – but never seemed to expand their population in our direction. More recently further introductions have made this species a common sight in the south of England.

Perhaps the best place to find them is along the M40, where a few months ago I enjoyed sitting in a 45-minute traffic jam watching them gliding above the stationary vehicles.

For several years it has been possible to see this bird within 20 or 30 miles of Airdlin Croft. But it took until last week to see one cruising over the summerhouse.

Why the excitement? First and foremost, no British bird flies quite like a red kite. They are the aristocrats of the air – they own it. Last week’s kite took five minutes from crossing our boundary to disappearing in the direction of Tarves, languidly pursuing a south-westerly course, occasionally flapping its long, narrow wings five or six times, then gliding, hanging like thistledown on an invisible breeze. I could watch that all day, and might be able to if I ever ease off from the rigours of gardening.

Secondly, there is something very satisfying when a long-expected event, one planned for, actually happens. It was inevitable that one of us would eventually see this bird from our garden, come hell, high water or misguided gamekeeper. Red kites are a conservation success story – and pose no threat to the sheep that occupy the fields over which I gaze.

White-tailed eagles – a more recent beneficiary of a reintroduction program – are a different matter. Now no longer restricted to Mull and adjacent north-west shores they can be seen on the Isle of Wight. Would I like to see one from the summerhouse? Of course, I’m a birdwatcher. But I do worry about the rewilding focus on top predators. Obviously they provide the most dramatic sightings for nature lovers. But they do have to eat something.

Red kites, I’m happy to say eat carrrion. And rabbits – well done. (Also small birds....) As garden visitors go there is only something slightly mixed about their blessing.

Finally it should be made clear that red kite is the 102nd bird species that we have recorded here since 1983. (Raven was 101, back in 2020). As mentioned, it was the most likely to attain that numerical status. 103? I have no idea, but doubtless it will receive a warm welcome.

Birds of prey quite naturally excite ornithologists but it would be churlish of me not to mention other avian visitors to our garden. On certain nights in recent weeks a large mixed flock of more than a hundred rooks and jackdaws has been using our trees as an overnight roost, pouring into the top branches in a noisy gaggle, going silent as the light fades, allowing the resident tawny owls to take centre stage. All we have to do is lie back and listen.

The Toenails Society

Readers familiar with my musical tastes should be aware that this blog was not inspired by Frank Zappa’s Valley Girl, though some parallels could be drawn. I share his scepticism of human behaviour. But it was another long lost hero, a personal friend, who provided the idea for this piece. When speaking about his workplace, long ago, he mentioned a colleague known to all the others as Toenails. Why? I asked him. Because he was so far up the boss’s arse that’s all you could see of him.

Are we not, as a society, in a similar position with the titans of capitalism? Why, for example, do we allow the fossil fuel companies to continue prospecting for more oil and gas when the IPCC says, in no uncertain terms, no more new exploration?

Why do we continue to buy, and in a year’s time upgrade, every new-fangled gadget that we did perfectly well without until its glossy image was floated across our screens?

How do we sanction our politicians to suggest that the real cost of living crisis is anything other than deciding, now, how much we should pay, or forgo, to limit the impact of environmental collapse? What is it about us that allows us to let what we choose to believe trump that which is abundantly apparent? (Apologies for the T word).

It would seem from the flurry of vox pops in the run-up to the general election that at least some of us are choosing not to believe our political leaders, and in this case, succumbing to the blindingly obvious. True, it is a difficult time to be a politician, when the truth they should be telling is so unpalatable that they decide to protect their job and their party in preference to adopting some guise of leadership.

We expect, for example, that when they say ‘we have been perfectly clear’ they mean ‘we continue to deceive’. For ‘energy security’ read ‘CEO bonus initiative’. Populism: selfish ignorance. Affordable housing; oxymoron. Pothole: inadequate drug supply?

If 80% of climate scientists are predicting that by 2100 temperatures will have reached 2.5 degrees C above pre-industrial levels, a situation they describe as catastrophic, why is this topic not the main subject for discussion, especially when climate science has consistently underestimated the impact and timing of the changes we are witnessing?

Why, if we need to reach net zero carbon emissions in the early part of the next decade, is anyone still talking about 2050? How can a British prime minister say, with a straight face, that this country has already played its part in achieving climate goals? Did his expensive education exclude both the natural sciences and history?

These are all rhetorical questions, of course, and could be described as a rant. As ordinary citizens with limited agency is there anything we can do to effect real change, as opposed to the Starmer version, for example? Certainly the idea alluded to in my last blog – that our cultural evolution has swamped our instinct for survival – is not a happy one. However, given our talent for believing in the unlikely, or downright impossible, it should be feasibleto foment a little hopefulness.

Rightly or wrongly I put a degree of faith in organisations like Greenpeace, Avaaz, 38 Degrees, who have demonstrated that positive outcomes can be achieved when enough people get behind an issue. And it can be as simple as pressing a button on a keyboard; and infinitely more rational than expecting your national football team to beat Germany in the opening match of the Euros, in Germany.

Back in the garden we have enjoyed the most colourful Spring to date, with a number of plants flowering for the first time, including several rhododendron species, magnolias and most surprisingly, the Davidia that can’t be much older than fifteen years.

Bird nerds may be interested to know that swallows arrived later than usual, and only one pair decided to nest here, inconveniently choosing the porch of a summerhouse lovingly referred to as the eyepad – rendering conventional use of the building a potential wildlife crime. Willow warblers, on the other hand, arrived on time, and occupy at least three territories in the garden.

Sadly there have been no signs of sedge warblers here this year, despite two broods being successfully raised in 2023 from a nest near the big pond (reedbed). One might have expected some of them to return, but perhaps the rigours of intercontinental travel proved too much for them. It has been suggested that for another sub-Saharan migrant that an insufficient food supply – insects – prior to the long haul causes population decline.

Birds apart, keeping the garden all together still appears to be within our grasp, a task much facilitated by the frequent deliveries of woodchip mulch from our tree surgeon friend. Jack the dog, now 2, has developed a winning way with rabbits, which more than compensates for his behaviour with other canines. He is the fourth German Shepherd to live here but the first to demonstrate an effective hunting instinct. Having taken another year out from involvement with the Scotland’s Gardens Scheme there have been few visitors to witness the extraordinary growth in the new part of the garden, now in its tenth year of development. However, we look forward to meeting a group from The Hardy Plant Society at the end of July, and are busy making sure that there is a decent selection of plants available for sale – all proceeds, as usual, going to Fauna and Flora.

Any requests to visit from The Toenails Society will be impolitely denied.

Be Here Now

Before Airdlin Croft there was Cairnleith Croft, where Ellen, myself and co-conspirator Paul set up a back-to-the-land commune from which, amongst other things, we produced a periodical that, as its cover page hinted, discussed Ecology, Survival and Alternatives. In that magazine, fifty years ago, we suggested that oil should be left in the ground.

Back then, idealistic university drop-outs had infinitely more opportunity to do their own thing than their 21st century counterparts. ‘OK boomer’ is a perfectly understandable reaction to the generation that ‘never had it so good’. And I wouldn’t expect much sympathy for our current identity as boomers in dystopia. Maybe we could have done more. Nevertheless, anthropogenic climate change had been recognised as a phenomenon as early as the late 19th century; and annual measurements of rising global CO2 levels were initiated in the 1950s.

In the ‘80s, Exxon researchers acknowledged that burning fossil fuels was the principal cause of global warming – which didn’t stop that company or their competitors from spending millions on disinformation that fed into our seemingly unstoppable addiction to the black stuff. Their disingenuous argument centred on the uncertainty of climate predictions – forecasts that continue to demonstrate considerable variability simply because the interaction of tipping points and feedback loops is an unknown dynamic. We haven’t been here before.

Back in the hippie haydaze – when the burning of dried grass made little difference to the accumulation of greenhouse gases – the mantra ‘Be Here Now’ seemed central to our utopian dream. It was also the title of an influential book written by Richard Alpert, formerly a colleague of acid guru Timothy Leary. Alpert changed his name to Ram Dass, reflecting his journey into Indian mythology, a trip made more famously by George

Harrison, who wrote a song with the same title. (Oasis recorded an album similarly named, though perhaps for different reasons).

At Cairnleith we remained in the Leary camp, though played music from diverse sources, including the very flowery Incredible String Band, who sang: ‘This moment is different from any before it, this moment is different, is now.’

Being here, now, would seem to be an essential attribute of the naturalist. Observation of the non-human world requires patient, real-time attention. But such attention, over time, inevitably notices dynamic change that predicts future consequences. For example, when goldfinches first appeared at our feeders in the ‘80s, it seemed likely that this northward drift of a Mediterranean species implied a change in climate. Since then a number of southerners previously unknown to British birders have become regular UK breeders – little egret, marsh harrier, common crane, to name but a few.

It has been suggested that living in the present is an evolutionary characteristic of Homo sapiens – one that served us well until relatively recently, hardwired into a species no longer regulated by Darwinian imperatives. This may explain why we can’t get to grips with climate change; with limits to growth; with an ever expanding population. (Back in the ‘70s we marched down Union Street, Aberdeen, on World Population Day – today it appears to be politically incorrect to suggest limiting family size). And what generally goes unnoticed is that the previous 10,000 years – which more or less coincides with what we call civilisation – was a period of unusual climatic stability.

We are literally unable to get our heads around the idea of an uninhabitable planet. Both organically and culturally our evolution engenders denial. Ten thousand years is a long time, but the 2.5 billion years of life on this planet is almost beyond comprehension. During that period there have been five major extinction events, some of which were caused by climate change. 99% of all lifeforms are extinct, apparently.

Our species, around for the last quarter of a million years, is responsible for the sixth great extinction, which probably began about 50,000 years ago and is predicted to eliminate half of all existing species by the end of this century. For the first time in the history of this planet, the authors of apocalypse can see it coming. This moment is different, is now. And yet the mantra of our globalised, planet-gobbling society would appear to read ‘Be Here Yesterday’.

For many of us who would like our grandchildren to be here tomorrow we rely on hopefulness rather than optimism. Some take the view that individual action, like reducing personal carbon footprint, is of little value in the grand scheme of things, where concerted

international political solidarity would seem to be vital in achieving a check on the deepening climate/biodiversity crisis. Democratic governments, though, do at times respond to public pressure, which can be generated by peer pressure. It may be that in this age of the online petition our laptops are more powerful than the ballot box. Hope springs eternal.

Airdlin Croft still welcomes visitors, though we have not renewed our link with Scotland’s Gardens Scheme, in part because we would like all receipts from entry fees and plant sales to promote environmental action. To that end we continue to support Fauna and Flora.

Returning visitors will notice a few changes. Recent storms have been quite destructive though at the same time have provided new planting opportunities. Hostaphiles might be disappointed to discover that the polytunnel that housed the containerised collection has been more or less given over to tree propagation and food production. But there are still around 250 Hosta cultivars in the garden.

We continue to plant trees here. The area formerly preserved as a car park for SGS open days is shrinking in size, but the majority of the trees that we are growing are either being donated to community gardens in Aberdeen, or to neighbours, or reserved for our sales table to boost funds for F&F. (Hostas are also available). The bird tally, recorded over the forty years of our occupation, remains stubbornly at 101, and certainly does not include little egret, marsh harrier or crane; but might, in the future.

That prospect, amongst others, strengthens our continued commitment to be here now.

Benign Invasion?

To have a garden is to be rich. A garden is where interest grows. And to be fortunate enough to nurture one garden for forty years qualifies as an exponential bonanza.

Some rewards are obvious:

- a constant supply of fruit and vegetables free from chemicals and air miles;

- a wood where once was a potato field, now a diverse mix of native and non-native trees up to 50ft. high, underplanted with shrubs and herbaceous perennials: a woodland garden that brings constant pleasure to both humans and wildlife;

- 101 species of birds recorded since 1983, many of which would not have occurred without the creation of the garden

– we are surrounded by 20th-century agriculture, mostly sheep;

- a degree of protection from the elements, though it has to be pointed out that we have experienced four tree-breaking storms in 40 years, all four within the past eighteen months;

- also recently, the opportunity to open the garden to visitors and share their enjoyment while raising funds for a world-leading conservation charity;

- and, I suppose, a degree of vindication that the techniques we’ve acquired over time have allowed us to demonstrate the enormous variety of plants, edible and otherwise, that can be encouraged to thrive in north-east Scotland.

 But there are less obvious benefits to be derived from staying in one place for a considerable length of time – not just the ability to watch an oak grow from hand-planted seedling to majestic tree, but more subtle changes from year to year, such as the interactions between plants.

 The first thing to know about this garden is the hawthorn hedge that formed two-and-a-bit sides of our original acre-and-a-half purchase. This hedge, as much as anything, influenced our decision to start a new garden here. A tall, thick hedge on the north and east boundaries of a plot which sloped to the south, protected also to some extent by topography, was almost too much to hope for.

 I am not sure when it was planted but our Title Deeds from 1919 mention this hedge and state that should it be removed it would have to be replaced with a stockproof fence of specified dimensions.

In places we have removed short sections – one where a newer, adjacent hedge makes it redundant, another where we wanted to link old garden with new; and in another, where extra room was needed for parking cars. Here our friendly, local contractor grabbed a section in his JCB bucket, pulled and tipped a few metres away – unwittingly creating a new feature which we call Henry’s Wood. But in none of these places did the hedge continue to mark our boundary, so no replacement fence was required.

 Most of the old hedge remains, however, shaped annually to a height of five or six feet, and valued primarily as a nesting habitat for various birds. South of the house we have allowed individual plants to attain tree status – multi-branched veterans up to 30ft high. Our most recent storm, Otto, ripped one of these apart, necessitating a complete beheading job. The three-foot stump will probably resprout, and as a result may well outlive its neighbours.

Apart from the August trim – now made quieter and easier with a lithium battery-powered machine – it has been necessary to remove tree seedlings from within the hedge. Elder (Sambucus nigra) is particularly good at insinuating itself amongst the prickly hawthorn trunks but can generally be levered out with a suitable spade. Sycamore (Acer pseudoplatanus) is more difficult to remove and frequently gets lopped by the hedgecutter, consequently becoming bushier year on year.

 We had noticed that a small sycamore was established in the hedge back in 1983 but because this was on the northern boundary and providing some shelter to a newly-planted orchard, we left it there. Over the following years we watched the tree grow, and the hedge beneath it diminish. When, in late 2014, we were surprisingly able to add two more acres to the garden, we removed this section of hedge but left the sycamore. It was of much the same size as an adjacent row of similar trees that ran at right angles to the old boundary, now within our extended plot.

On examination of the far end of this row we discovered a lone hawthorn. When we took a closer look at an aerial photograph of the property taken in the ‘60s, it became obvious that the line of sycamores had almost entirely replaced a section of hawthorn hedge contiguous with the one that bordered the old garden. The only survivor was that single loner, protected between two fences and with enough light and water to keep growing.

The process we had noticed at the back of the orchard had supplanted a hedge which, for more than fifty years, had been imperceptibly dwindling on our neighbour’s land. Now, by some strange coincidence, the new boundary fence has reunited parts of a croft that have been separated for over half a century.

The same process is visible in another section of the hedge where we are allowing it to happen. Here, selected self-sown sycamores at reasonable spacing are avoided with the hedgecutter, and have begun to tower above the hawthorn. It remains to be seen how long the hedge can tolerate this stealthy invasion.

Sycamore has a bad reputation. Once thought to have been introduced from Europe by the Romans, it now seems to have arrived here in Tudor times, with the earliest reports of naturalisation coming from the eighteenth century. And, since not native, it can’t compete with willow or oak as a supporter of biodiversity. Nevertheless, it attracts aphids, and therefore aphid eaters: ladybirds, hoverflies and birds. Its leaves are eaten by a number of different moth caterpillars and its flowers provide a good source of pollen and nectar for bees and other insects. Furthermore, its seeds are eaten by both birds and small mammals.

Unlike elder, whose edible berries begin the process of hedge colonisation, via the blackbirds that feast on them, sycamore seed is wind dispersed. If this garden were allowed to grow untended for fifty years it would become a sycamore forest, outcompeting most other plants in the way it suppresses hawthorn.

And unlike other Acers, the foliage of sycamore is coarse; and towards the end of the season is often blotched with tar spot fungus. It acquires no glorious autumn colour. But it grows fast and develops a beautiful shape – and in time, an attractive flaking bark. It is also incredibly tough, withstanding the worst of weather which, in N.E.  Scotland, can be bad. Most of the large, deciduous trees in this neighbourhood – of which there are still very few – are sycamores (and, like the sycamore, most of the conifers round here are also not native, but all of them were planted, unlike the sycamores).

Furthermore, the timber is useful…...and finally, it has to be admitted that the most splendid tree in this garden is a sycamore. And the sneaky, invasive behaviour of this species only increases my respect.

Trees – Native or Otherwise

The other day I made a garden bench from a tree that I had planted in 1990 – a larch tree, felled by Storm Arwen on November 27th 2022. The notion of home-made artisan furniture never entered my head while planting those alternating rows of pine and larch. In theory one can imagine a tiny sapling becoming a fifty-foot specimen, though when the baby tree is no higher than the surrounding vegetation it requires a degree of optimism to dismiss the ridiculous idea that the planters never get to see the results of their labour. A solid, functional artefact derived from such labour substantially destroys the myth.

We planted our small woodland to achieve several ends: to provide shelter from the Aberdeenshire winds, to enhance cover and food supply for wildlife and to sequester carbon. On a global scale it is this last objective which fuels the drive to plant trees.

The 1.5 degree target will almost certainly be breached and several tipping points have already been passed, with predictable consequences. Though on an almost positive note, one climate expert maintains that every fraction of a degree of temperature increase that is prevented can reduce the possibility of further, and more serious, tipping points from being reached.

Thirty-two years on our objectives have been realised, though of course the occurrence of violent storms can upset the apple cart. As noted in a previous blog we lost more than seventy trees in last winter’s shocking onslaught, though twelve months on we approve of the changes involuntarily forced upon us – more light in the  wood which favours the shrub layer, and more planting space for yet more interesting subjects; plus a barn-full of firewood.

Tree planting is still very much worthwhile, for all the reasons highlighted, and more (sea-grass is considerably more effective at sequestering carbon, but not an option for most gardeners). The sowing of seed is always a demonstration of hope, a commodity in increasingly short supply.

One of the numerous delights to be derived from establishing a small piece of woodland is that after a number of years your trees start producing their own seed. So now, in addition to the hundreds of ash and sycamore seedlings derived from much older trees that germinate in our ubiquitous woodchip mulch we can now lift oak, alder, gean, holly, birch and rowan saplings from beneath the trees that we planted; and in much greater numbers than we can use in our own patch. Thus recently we were able to donate a hundred trees to community gardens in Aberdeen – after making it clear to the recipients that a certain amount of hybridisation, particularly amongst the rowans and birches, will likely prevent a crop of purely native trees, given the diversity of species that we are growing here. Does this matter?

Despite the abundance of ‘free’ planting material we also collect seed from favourite trees in order to provide extra plants for our own garden and to generate subjects for selling to visitors, which enables us to support Fauna and Flora International.

One of our favourite genera is Sorbus – the rowans – a large group of relatively compact trees that produce showy crops of glistening berries in a range of colours, making them an excellent choice for any size of garden. The native rowan, Sorbus aucuparia, is by no means the only species or variety that produces fruit attractive to native wildlife. The first one here to be cleared of its crop, mostly by blackbirds, comes from an island off the coast of Korea – S. ulleungensis ‘Olympic Flame’. By the time that the winter-visiting redwings and fieldfares arrive, Olympic Flame has been denuded and it is the other red-berried rowans, including the native, that attract their attention. Once those have been stripped the yellow fruit is raided – as from S. ‘Joseph Rock’ and S. ‘Wisley Gold’; while white-berried rowans, such as S. cashmeriana and S. setchwanensis are more or less left alone. Colour of food appears to be more important to these thrushes than country of origin.

Some species of Sorbus are apomictic, meaning that they produce seed without any sexual recombination of genes. While this habit might have adverse evolutionary consequences it is a boon for the amateur propagator who wants an identical duplicate of the parent plant, something ‘normally’ only possible through vegetative propagation, using cuttings or layers. The extremely attractive, though dubiously edible, white-berried S. cashmeriana is an apomict, as is the purple-pinkish S. vilmorinii. A few winters ago a large specimen of this tree was defended against all comers by a very aggressive mistle thrush who had designs on the entire crop.

One of our favourite rowans is a red-berried variety of S. aucuparia, named ‘Ravensbill’ on account of its black, beak-shaped leaf buds. This is not an apomict though a row of twenty Ravensbills have all come true to type. This may be partly due to the location of our single parent tree which grows isolated from other relatives with which it could cross-pollinate. The other salient factor is that some members of the genus are self-compatible – they can pollinate themselves – whereas others are not. The yellow-berried S. esserteauana readily hybridises with other species, pointing at self-incompatibility; so vegetative methods of propagation are required to guarantee replication of this species. Another excellent yellow is S. ‘Joseph Rock’, itself a hybrid (possibly between a white-berried plant and a red-berried one) which produces viable seed that may or may not come true to type.

Perhaps all this detail is a tad arcane, though I consider it to be yet another benefit of planting trees, a process which in time reveals the intricacies of plant evolution.

Visitors to Airdlin Croft will have noticed that two other genera are well represented in the garden: Hosta and Rhododendron, both morphologically dissimilar from Sorbus but equally fascinating to the propagator. Hosta is a small genus of around fifty species of herbaceous plants native to Japan and nearby bits of Korea and China, remarkable for their propensity to produce sports that derive from mutations within the leaf mesophyll that affect the location and quality of plastids, thus giving rise to endless forms of variegation. At least 10,000 cultivars of Hosta have been named – and yes, some look remarkably like others – but even within a relatively small collection we have been able to isolate three ‘new’ ones, including a very promising plant derived from the all-green H. ‘Stir Fry’ , which has yellow variegation – tentatively named ‘Stir Crazy’. Perhaps this will appear on the market one day. But even if it doesn’t, its discovery and subsequent propagation has brought much enjoyment.

Returning to trees, genus Rhododendron produces even more surprises, but here it is sexual promiscuity rather than vegetative mutation that gives rise to seemingly endless variety. As noted elsewhere, even the best-known rhododendron nurseries struggle to replicate ‘species’ that come true to type, which, for the adventurous gardener isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Growing rhododendrons from seed may be a slow process but as with rowans and hostas, the non-predictability of results can be exciting.

Incidentally, when sowing seeds from berrying trees we have found that germination occurs more quickly if they are extracted from their fleshy fruit and rinsed off in a sieve under running water, and then sown in a free-draining compost mix and allowed to over-winter in an unheated polytunnel. They are also less likely to be dug up by mice or voles.

Another genus that we have been propagating this year is Salix – the willows; and these grow very easily from stem cuttings that can be rooted in a jar of water before potting up. We are using willows – mostly native – to thicken up the shelterbelt along the marshy western edge of the garden. It is worth noting that they have the potential to attract more insect species than any other native tree.

While on the face of it restricting oneself to native trees might be in the best interests of native wildlife, climate change has moved the goalposts, to the extent that several of our iconic tree species are severely threatened, for example by bark-munching insects that can thrive in the absence of severe winters. Ash dieback has arrived in our garden but so far the centenarian examples are still standing proud. But we are reluctant to plant any of the annual seed crop while their future looks threatened. And while climate breakdown is a visible reality it appears difficult to predict the consequences for Scotland. It may continue to get warmer here, favouring the more tender introductions like the glamourous, large-leaved rhododendron species. Or the melting of Arctic ice could affect ocean currents in such a way that it becomes much colder, in which scenario the rowans might continue to thrive.

Insects are not the only creatures responding pragmatically to environmental change. In the last twenty years several Mediterranean bird species have started breeding in the UK. It wouldn’t be surprising if the annual influx of winter thrushes became a thing of the past. Are we humans alone in burying our heads in the sand?

The genie is out of the bottle both in respect to climate breakdown and the introduction of plant material from around the world, a process accelerated by human activity but by no means the only way it has occurred. Ocean currents move viable propagules between continents, and humans are not the only animals to plant seeds. This observation does not excuse gardeners from allowing invasive subjects to escape from their patches, let alone wild planting in areas where management is insufficient or absent.    

The planting of trees is a worthwhile endeavour for all the reasons so far suggested, and still more. Many gardeners will recognise a need to favour food plants over aesthetics, and a warming climate will, for a while, allow a much bigger range of  edible fruiting trees to flourish. In that context it should be mentioned that a fig tree growing outside here has produced fruit for the second year in a row.

Design By Arwen

Large-leaved rhododendron species require a woodland environment in order to thrive. The trees provide shade, some wind protection and a reduced risk of frost damage; temperatures recorded at the bottom of the wood can be 4 degrees C higher than those in the yard. Achieving the optimum balance between shade and exposure is problematic, since a certain amount of light is required to ensure flowering. For many enthusiasts the exotic foliage provides enough reward, with the flowers constituting a bonus, the icing on the cake. Others want to have their cake and eat it.

 Each year we look at the pines and larches towering above our ericaceous buddies and wonder whether it would be possible to fell one or two in order to give the rhododendrons a better chance of firing on all cylinders. The problem, of course, is managing to drop a fifty-foot conifer without damaging the shrub layer. So each year we pass the buck.

Storm Arwen was less reticent. On the morning of 28/11/21 we discovered that we had seventy fewer trees than on the day before. This was by far the most powerful weather event that we have witnessed, though somehow we managed to sleep right through it. The forecast, however, had prepared us for the possibility of damage and so it was with a degree of trepidation that we opened the bedroom curtains.

 The line of large oaks planted around 1985 that runs at right angles from the terrace on the south side of the house, looked different. The first tree in the row seemed unfamiliar, though at that point in the day neither of us commented on it. We moved to the kitchen in order to take a look at the Douglas fir in the corner of the vegetable garden. If any of our trees were going to suffer from strong winds then this one was most likely to be damaged.  Almost every year this tree loses a branch, so a severe storm could have finished it off.

But no, it was still there, with just one of its three leaders somewhat shortened. Momentary relief was quickly replaced by the realisation that something else was missing. A sessile oak, planted in the mid-eighties and distinguished from many others in the garden by its habitual retention of autumnal foliage was lying prostrate along the edge of Ellen’s polytunnel. And from another window it was clear that some damage had occurred in the pinewood, though the extent of it was yet to be discovered.

 In a previous blog I have recorded the trials and tribulations of the shelterbelt that surrounds the two acres added to the garden in 2015. We thought we should begin our investigation  of the Arwen aftermath here, expecting more chaos. And yes, eighteen trees had either been blown over or dislodged, many of them re-staked after previous gales but now consigned to the firewood pile. But the visual effect of these losses was minimal as the survivors far outnumbered the casualties.

On moving round to the 1990 woodland, however, we began to realise what ‘being in shock’ actually feels like. A large hole had been blown out – oak, birch, lime, pine and larch, snapped off, uprooted, on the ground, hanging on the remaining trees. Utter mayhem. And underneath the conifers, a collection of rhododendron species lay almost completely hidden by the confusion of trunks and branches. Arwen had re-designed our garden.

 Finally we arrived at the terrace and immediately realised why the view from the bedroom window had seemed strange. That first oak in the row was previously the second. The closest one to the house lay sprawled across a section we call the Med bed, having just missed the corner of the pergola, crashing through a fence and landing more or less square across a very fine Rhododendron ‘Graziela’, and uprooting the first two layers of steps leading up from the garden.

 It would have been easy to despair but, as we frequently tell ourselves, crofters are tough. We hit on a plan of action which, two months later, is almost completed. By some extraordinary coincidence we had taken delivery of a chipper/shredder just two weeks prior to the storm – the first we have ever owned. We had also just acquired two new chains for the saws; and fortunately had the resources to obtain a log splitter, again, the first to be part of the Airdlin kit. The outgoings, we calculated, represented a fraction of what would have been needed to pay a contractor to do the work. So with all of that plus our two-wheeled tractor, mini-digger and Tirfor winch, the intrepid septuagenarians have made good.

 Damage to the rhododendrons is surprisingly minimal. Light levels in the conifer wood have increased dramatically, but there is still plenty of shelter around the edges. Arwen has achieved what we have not dared to do. Come and have a look. Contrary to my last blog we will be opening the garden again this year, first weekend in June, full details on the SGS website.

A Happy New Year?

Anyone looking for new blogs on this site over the past year will have been disappointed. On the face of it, the lockdown should have provided lots of opportunity for creative writing. As it turned out, we channelled all of our energies into garden projects, some made possible by the absence of visitors. We very much hope that this year the developments in the garden can be enjoyed by many people: at an open weekend at the end of May, and from then on by arrangement until the end of July. This plan is entirely provisional on the two us receiving the Covid vaccination prior to those dates. And, for various reasons, we have decided that this will be our last year opening Airdlin Croft under the auspices of Scotland’s Garden Scheme.

It is customary to begin each new year with something akin to optimism. Perhaps encouraged by the lengthening days and the first signs of new growth, we imagine the opportunities for a fresh start. We make resolutions, usually involving behavioural changes that we identify as potential improvements. Though generally, on the basis of experience, we don’t necessarily expect to fulfill those resolutions. We are hopeful rather than optimistic.

I recently came across two people’s ideas on the subject of optimism. One thought that it constituted a moral imperative while the other declared it to be another word for complacency. I tend to side with the latter opinion, though think that hopefulness, at least, has some virtue.

The danger of optimism, I would suggest, is that it can inspire complacency. The optimist often correctly identifies positive developments while turning a blind eye to everything that is counter-productive. For example, in the case of man-made climate change, it certainly is good news that finally, a phenomenon known about for more than a hundred years is beginning to take centre stage. It may be that Covid-19 has rammed home the reality that humans are part of a biosphere over which they have limited control. Greta Thunberg also deserves enormous credit.

But we could listen to the ambitious targets announced by Boris Johnson – of 60% reduction in carbon emissions by 2030, or net zero by 2050, and think good, he’s got it sorted; but only if we choose to forget that at every phase of the Covid crisis he has over-promised and under-delivered. Likewise, on the other side of the Atlantic, those who believe in Donald Trump overlook an important point: the man is a liar.

A more realistic view on tackling the climate emergency can be found in the Scottish Government’s publication, ‘Net Zero Nation’, which suggests that ‘60% of the changes required to reach net zero will be, at least in part, behavioural or societal’. In other words, we can’t depend on someone else to do that in which we all have a vital role to play. Nor, incidentally, should we forget that the climate emergency is only one symptom of a damaged planet. From the same publication, ‘biodiversity and climate change are inextricably linked. Nature-based solutions to mitigating climate change are integral to achieving net zero’.

Is it perhaps that optimism, rather than being synonymous with complacency, is just another word for faith? Which is just another word for wishful thinking?

Faith in non-realities has, over centuries, created a gulf between humans and the rest of the living world, affecting how we use or abuse it.. The notion that we are in some fundamental way different, immune from natural phenomena, has in no small measure accelerated our journey to the brink – the position where we are not only trashing a myriad of lifeforms but endangering our own survival. And faith, for countless millions, continues to engender the belief that a higher authority will intervene on our behalf; that it is not down to us, individually or collectively, to get our act together.

If the insidious influence of Big Book is still not apparent to many, simply because it has permeated our culture for so long, the structural role of falsehood in our society has been illuminated only too obviously in the last few years: by Boris’s bus, Trump’s America First, and the social media-driven hysteria of the anti-vaxxers. (I write this as Trump’s deluded disciples run amok in Washington. And it should be remembered that he has used both Big Book and Big Tech to further his personal ambitions. And he didn’t invent Fake News). But over the same period, science has also shone its light, perhaps most spectacularly in the development of anti-viral vaccines and genome sequencing; and, over a much longer period, correctly predicting how anthropogenic climate change would affect our lives in the 21st century.

Incidentally, I am not suggesting that there is anything inherently bad about either historical texts or information technology. It is how they are used which creates the problems.

It is my hope that more and more people are taking notice of the science and paying less attention to mythology. That hope is strengthened by the general consensus that the majority of UK citizens comply with lockdown restrictions once they understand why they are necessary. As the message and evidence of climate catastrophe become clearer, those protesting that nobody is going to tell them what they should eat will become as marginalised as those who currently refuse to wear face masks.

While I find it hard to be optimistic on this score, there are still some certainties which will contribute to a happy new year at Airdlin Croft. Come hell or high water – and some are experiencing both – a percentage of the seeds which we are now sowing will germinate. Some of them will develop into mature plants and produce flowers, fruit and seeds, and that cycle will continue. Likewise, the majority of the trees in our wood and shelterbelts will continue to increase in stature, even though some might succumb to disease and storm damage. It even seems likely, at least in the short term, that our tally of recorded bird species, now standing at 101, will continue to rise.We encourage all who can to come and share our enthusiasm and enjoy the garden which we are still fortunate enough to develop. By doing so you will help us to raise more funds for Fauna and Flora International. But please check the SGS website before arriving.

Thank you.

Airdlin Birds

From the outset, it was our intention to create a garden that was attractive to wildlife, by planting trees, both native and non-native, along with shrubs and ground-level vegetation that provide both food and cover.

Measuring biodiversity is no easy matter, except with respect to the more obvious fauna and flora, of which birds are the easiest to quantify; though we have also kept tabs on butterflies, macro-moths, dragonflies, mammals, and plants.

Our current bird tally is 100, as of 15/10/19, where it has remained since 9/5/16 when a cormorant flew over the garden. This large, fish-eating bird appeared from the direction of the coast, ten miles away, and seemed to be heading to a point somewhere up-river of the croft – taking a shorter route than it would have had it followed the river from the estuary.

Another fish-eater, the osprey, is also recorded here from time to time, carrying its prey from a nearby angling lake to its nest on the Haddo estate.

We figure that 20% of this total results directly from the changes we have made to what was a strictly agricultural environment, compensating us, to some extent, for a very noticeable decline in what are generally regarded as farmland species – lapwing, curlew, oystercatcher, corn bunting and skylark in particular.  This decline is attributed to changes in agricultural practice and has nothing to do with converting five acres to garden!

30% of the tally has been recorded as nesting in the garden, including buzzard, tawny owl, stock dove, and tree sparrow.

Most birdwatchers get particularly excited by raptors. Our ‘garden’ list includes, in order of frequency, buzzard, sparrowhawk, kestrel, osprey, peregrine, merlin; though this order has changed since we arrived here in 1983. Our first buzzard was observed on 16/8/95 when kestrel would have occupied the top slot. Now, this once-common falcon is seen here infrequently, whereas buzzards are a daily presence. It is tempting to assume that this is no coincidence though some ornithologists insist that the dramatic increase in the buzzard population has had no impact on their smaller ‘cousin’.

Rarities hold even more appeal for the average birder and we can list two very odd records: red-backed shrike (17/5/93)  and little auk (26/1/88 and 4/1/16). As mentioned, our garden is located ten miles from the nearest coast but this diminutive oceanic species is occasionally blown inland on easterly gales.

Whilst rarities push the twitching button, the seasonal variation in our avifauna is a more dependable source of delight. Spring is still heralded here by the arrival of oystercatchers (overhead) in March, but our first trans-Saharan migrant nester is the willow warbler, which has turned up on the 21st April in three of the last five years. This year, for the first time, it was preceded by its almost identical relative, the chiffchaff, on the 5th – though this species has never nested here. (I should point out that much of our recording depends on a familiarity with birdsong.)

The first swallow also puts in an appearance around the beginning of the third week in April though it takes another week or so before all of our residents arrive. Sadly far fewer than usual nested this year.

At the other end of the season, when swallows are beginning to congregate in preparation for their African journey, the first pinkfeet can be heard high overhead - this year on the 15th September; though it may be another three weeks before the local wintering geese can be seen and heard on a daily basis, either flying inland from the estuary or grazing in the neighbouring fields.

And now, in mid-October, the winter thrushes – fieldfares and redwings – have arrived from the continent, along with robins and goldcrests which also, amazingly, can traverse the North Sea.

One of the most looked-for birds at this time of year is the waxwing which, due to our east coast location, is an occasional visitor, first recorded here 25/10/04. Having noticed them gorging on Cotoneaster berries on an Aberdeen street we are hoping that by including that shrub in our hedges and shelterbelts we can encourage this flamboyant species to show up more frequently.

So what can we expect to be number 101? Quite possibly it has already put in an appearance. Last year our oak trees, planted in 1990, bore their first crop of acorns, and it was from the wood I heard what I took to be the call of a jay (an acorn-eating bird). On investigation, I saw no jay, just a couple of magpies which, conceivably, could have made a jay-like noise. Being thoroughly objective I have not added jay to our list yet but I suspect it is just a matter of time before they become an Airdlin bird.

Another strong contender to fill the 101 slot is the red kite, which has been re-introduced at several locations in Scotland and would find a very suitable nesting habitat on the nearby Haddo estate (gamekeepers permitting). We are ready and waiting.   

To Tube or Not To Tube

We planted our first wood in 1978. These were not just pre-Internet days. Back then even tree tubes hadn’t been invented.

As far as I can remember we followed a conventional method in attempting to establish a deciduous wood, using Sitka spruce and Scots pine as a nurse crop, to be thinned out once the oaks and other broadleaves got into their stride. All of the trees were planted six feet apart, roots tucked into notches cut into the turf.

The conifers established fairly quickly but the oaks were lamentably slow, struggling to compete with the vegetation which threatened to swamp them. We could not have used herbicides even if we had wanted to, without risk to the trees themselves.

Five years later we moved to Airdlin Croft, from where we can see our first wood which, from a distance of 1.5 miles looks like a conifer plantation. Unfortunately we have not had the opportunity to revisit, even though we did offer to undertake maintenance work free of charge.

Our second wood was planted in 1990. Once again we were keen to establish native broadleaves, but by then the plastic tree shelter (or tube) was available, which eliminated the need for a nurse crop of conifers and facilitated wider planting spaces. So this time we installed a separate block of conifers – equal numbers of Scots pine and the non-native European larch which we intended to thin out at a later date. These were planted without protection.

Tree tubes offered the following advantages: at 1.2 metres high they protected the young saplings from both roe deer and rabbits; they functioned somewhat like individual greenhouses, protecting the emerging trees to some extent from wind and frost damage (which impacted heavily on our 1978 efforts); and they facilitated the use of glyphosate to control weed growth over the first two or three seasons.

The results were impressive. At least 95% of the trees prospered and today many of them have reached 50 feet in height.

The tubes that we used back then were manufactured by a company called Argival Plastics, and didn’t stay on the market for very long. Constructed from a thick, corrugated material they were virtually indestructible and unless removed, using a very sharp knife, they could end up strangling the new tree. We lost one or two that way. But we also discovered that the tubes which had been slit from top to bottom could be used again, despite a certain loss of structural integrity.

However, when we engaged in our third major tree-planting effort in 2015 to establish a shelterbelt around two new acres of garden, we bought the latest types of tree shelter, designed to break up when the tree expanded within. We used the short, net tubes for the conifers (unavailable in 1990) and the 1.2 metre ‘solid’ ones for the broadleaves. But this time we employed a different planting technique, using our micro-digger to strip off a rectangle of turf and break up the soil beneath, before planting and tubing the tree and then mulching with woodchips. No herbicides were used.

The results were more than impressive, with some of the new trees growing so fast that the top growth could not be supported by the embryonic root system, resulting in more than a few blown over in strong winds. Another six went that way just yesterday (7/10/19).

Some species have suffered more than others. Of the broadleaves, silver birch (Betula pendula) has fared worst, victim of its own rapid growth rate. One or two rowans (Sorbus aucuparia) and Norway maples (Acer platanoides) have also succumbed, while the slower-growing oaks (Quercus robur) have remained upright. Of the conifers, European larch (Larix decidua) has proven to be the most susceptible, with little damage to Scots pine (Pinus sylvestris) and none to grand fir (Abies grandis).

Thus in both categories, as might be expected, it is those species with initial fast growth rates that have incurred the greatest loss. While the tube, anchored by its stake, offers all the advantages listed above, it also prevents the ‘wind whipping’ process that seems to encourage adequate root development, creating a dangerous imbalance between top growth and underground development.

I say loss, but the collapse of a tree does not necessarily guarantee its demise. Of the six that fell over yesterday – four larches and two birches – five either broke their ties or stakes and only one snapped at the base. The two birches were re-staked; and three of the larches were amputated a few feet above the ground, leaving some needle-bearing branchlets to support regrowth.

Obviously an amputated tree will fail to become a stately specimen, but in a shelterbelt a bushy, multi-stemmed plant may actually be more useful. An arboricultural friend has suggested that amputation could save more trees than might be conserved through re-staking. Though it is quite hard to take a saw to a new tree.

So – to tube or not to tube? That is the question we have been debating as we attempt to fill the gaps in the shelterbelt and interplant amongst a collection of exotic oaks that is struggling in our harsh climate. Our decision not to use plastic shelters this time is based on the following considerations.

First of all, we are engaged in a general attempt to use less plastic. However, a range of biodegradable, non-plastic tree guards is becoming available; and where appropriate we are re-using old plastic tubes that have been removed without destroying them.

Secondly, grazing pressure in this new two acres is minimal, as the entire area is fenced against roe and rabbit. This hasn’t prevented rabbits from gaining access, via badger holes or gates inadvertently left open; but at this moment in time, we are fairly sure there are none inside this fence.  Voles cannot be fenced out and this year seem to be particularly numerous, causing some damage to unprotected plants; short tubes, or cut-down re-used tubes, minimise such damage. In our opinion, the 1.2 metre tube is only worth using if roe deer are a problem

Third, the tree-planting method recently adopted, using digger and mulch, ensures that the new tree avoids damaging weed competition in its early years and gets off to a very good start.

Also, many of the spaces have been filled with some of the hundreds of birch seedlings generated from the 1990 wood and which we observed to be largely untouched by the rabbits that live in wilder parts of the garden.

In conclusion, it must be acknowledged that tree tubes can be very useful (as can the Internet…) - on unfenced sites, on poorer soils and with species that grow relatively slowly. In such circumstances, we would use them again. 

What's In a Name? (Part 2)

As should be apparent to any visitor to the garden at Airdlin Croft, we like Rhododendrons. In particular, we are attracted to the large-leaved species which need shelter from Aberdeenshire’s relentless winds and which may take years to flower. We also grow a number of the generally hardier and more floriferous hybrids. In fact we have equal numbers of species and hybrids, around a hundred of each. Or do we?

The more I get to know genus Rhododendron, the more I wonder about the validity of the species taxon when it comes to naming them. The capacity to hybridise makes identification from morphology alone well nigh impossible. And yet many ‘experts’, who from experience should know better, attach names to them with 100% certainty. Is this just mildly annoying or could it have serious consequences?

Many of our garden visitors express surprise at our fondness for Rhododendrons. For many people in the UK, ‘Rhododendron’ equates with Rhododendron ponticum (sic), that invasive, poisonous plant that has usurped 100,000 hectares of our countryside since its introduction in the middle of the 18th century.

‘But that’s ponticum’, we say; ‘it’s an exception’ - both assertions now seen as being untrue.

Two hundred and fifty years after its introduction, genetic analysis of UK ponticum shows it to be a hybrid, possessing genes of one or more North American species which were intentionally used by plant breeders to increase the hardiness of these non-native introductions (non-native since the last ice age, that is).

Occasionally taxonomists who are unsure about exact identity attach ‘aff.’ to the specific moniker, indicating an affinity with that species while recognising that it may not conform entirely. Is there a case for a more general use of the term?

Well, you may answer, if you want to be sure of obtaining a Rhododendron that matches the description of the species in every detail, then only purchase it from the most reputable nursery.

Really? Let me provide three examples (there are more) from our own collection which detract from that conclusion:

1/. Rhododendron sutchuenense, conforming in every detail with the description of the species, except that the corolla has a central blotch.

2/. Rhododendron calophytum, conforming in every detail with the description of the species, except that the corolla lacks a central blotch.

3/. A batch of seedlings in the polytunnel, grown from seed described as hand-pollinated Rhododendron macabeanum, showing the same degree of variability as an adjacent batch of open-pollinated Rhododendron arboreum, in which such variability would be expected.

And all of this from one of the country’s best-known Rhododendron specialists.

Now of course, these morphological differences from the species type do not necessarily render the plant unworthy of inclusion in the garden. It is just ‘mildly annoying’ that you don’t have the plant you thought you had.

Much more important is the possibility that your plant differs fom the species in ways that are not apparent to the naked eye – differences which can only be discerned by genetic analysis.

One of the fundamental principles I absorbed as a biology student is that changes to the genotype are not always reflected in the phenotype. In other words, genetic changes that arise from hybridisation or mutation are not always visible in the morphology of the plant – it’s visible form - but may have changed it in hidden ways that give the plant a competitive advantage over its neighbours – for example, in genus Rhododendron, a different location of toxins within the plant.

In a certain West Coast Scottish glen, a Rhododendron ‘species’ appears to be behaving rather like UK ponticum. No say the experts, that species isn’t invasive, it isn’t even hardy. Exactly the same defence was made of UK ponticum once upon a time.

The second greatest cause of biodiversity loss to the planet arises from the introduction of invasive, non-native species. How can rhodophiles avoid responsibility for making the same mistake again?

First, let’s be affing you, rhodies. Why not employ a more general use of the aff. suffix which acknowledges that the plant you are buying, or attempting to identify, has affinities with the species but which may differ in some respect that might be important (aff off, I hear the experts cry)?

And, to be on the safe side, avoid planting any Rhododendron in a situation where invasive tendencies cannot be adequately monitored or controlled.

We are gardeners. We care for the planet, don’t we?

What’s In A Name?

When I first encountered the scientific method of naming plants and animals I endorsed it enthusiastically, believing that using the correct Linnaean moniker would always avoid the confusion of identity that resulted from a plethora of vernacular names for the same organism. Also I had ‘O’ level Latin and few other outlets for applying such arcane knowledge.

This system of nomenclature was devised by a Swedish gentleman, Carl von Linne, more frequently referred to as Linnaeus. Known as the binomial system, each organism, once discovered, acquires a generic name and a specific name. In other words it is assigned to a particular genus and defined as a particular species belonging to that genus.. For example, us humans belong to the genus Homo, which these days contains only one extant species – we probably killed off all the others – called sapiens: Homo sapiens, literally wise man (surely some mistake….)

The generic part of the name thus provides a clue to relationship: we are a species of Homo – man, thus closely related to other, now extinct, hominids such as Homo erectus, H. neanderthalis, H. floriensis. The specific epithet is usually descriptive (though not necessarily accurate) but sometimes honours the person who discovered the organism or introduced it to the West eg. Hosta sieboldiana, named after the German physician Philipp von Siebold, who collected plants in Japan while employed by the Dutch East India Company. In this particular example the generic name Hosta also celebrates a human – Thomas Host – honouring him as a botanist of the day. But Hostas were not always called Hostas.

Plants belonging to this genus first arrived in Europe in the second half of the eighteenth century, as seed of two species, Hosta plantaginea and H. ventricosa – the first literally ‘plantain-like hosta’, the second ‘swollen in the middle hosta’. But that is not what they were called back then.

Gertrude Jekyll, an early populariser of the genus, referred to Hosta plantaginea as Funkia grandiflora, because Funkia had superseded Hosta only five years after honouring Mr Host and for the next ninety celebrated a Mr Funk. Not long after Ms Jekyll’s hayday the International Congress on Botanical Nomenclature, in its wisdom, decided that the earlier designation should be set in stone: Funkias became Hostas, again.

Hostas are by no means the only plants whose Linnaean name has changed over the years, as all gardeners will know. Taxonomists – the scientists who create names – are for ever revising the criteria that define an individual or group of organisms. Such criteria have always reflected observable characteristics, collectively known as the phenotype, such as the number of stamens, the length of the pedicel or the presence of hairs on the leaf. Now though attention is being paid to the genotype, examining the precise genetic component through a microscopic scrutiny that should, in theory, result in a definitive, immutable name. Quite possibly the generic title of the plants we know as Hostas will change again.

Ironically, the very unscientific varietal names have a greater chance of survival. Plant breeders, employing various types of jiggery-pokery, have sub-divided the genus and species categories by creating innumerable cultivars of a single genus or species, all of which need distinguishing with a name if deemed garden-worthy.

So, for example, genus Hosta contains around 60 species that can be found in the wild i.e Japan and neighbouring parts of Korea and China. Yet there are more than 10,000 named cultivars, produced either by crossing species (sexual reproduction) or by the vegetative propagation of selected mutations, or sports.

Hostas are prone to throwing sports. New buds, developing on the over-wintering crown, do not always resemble the parent plant. Occasionally a ‘new’ plant appears which, if carefully removed from the parent, can be grown on. These new plants are invariably distinguished by a novel change in leaf colouration resulting from mutation affecting the distribution of the green, photosynthetic pigment called chlorophyll. This mutation occurs spontaneously, on occasion, but can be induced by plant breeders during the micro-propagation process.

Whether induced or spontaneous these new hostas need names to distinguish them from the rest; and Carl von Linne is not around to help.

A non-variegated sport of Gertrude Jekyll’s well-named Funkia grandiflora is the very fragrant, pure white, double-flowered sport called ‘Aphrodite’ - suitably evocative for a beautiful Hosta. But there are only so many names of that calibre to share amongst the thousands of cultivars that require distinction, hence the rapid evolution of vernacular taxonomy.

Some Hostas are particularly disposed to throwing sports, and H. ‘Gold Standard’ (H. used as an abbreviation for Hosta, and the cultivar name ‘Gold Standard’, written in parentheses) is a good example. One of its mutant progeny has a green leaf with a yellow centre and a thin white line separating the two colours. The breeder of this plant called it ‘Striptease’, but at the time of doing so could not have predicted that H. ‘Striptease’ would also become the progenitor of a long line of garden-worthy plants, produced/nurtured in nurseries around the globe.

One of the first of these came from a New Zealand breeder, and he called it H. ‘Kiwi Full Monty’: similar to ‘Striptease’ but the green is bluer. Elsewhere other Hosta enthusiasts naming sports of ‘Striptease’ saw the opportunity to tap into a rich seam of nomenclature, giving rise to ‘Risky Business’, ‘Pole Dancer’, ‘Teeny Weeny Bikini’, ‘Stripped Naked’ and many more in a similar vein.

Linnaeus’s specific epithet has disappeared though the cultivar name is both descriptive and relational. My favourite example of this particular genealogy is a plant I acquired from a friend, labelled as H. ‘Striptease’. It began the season with leaves yellow on the outside, separated from the green centre by a thin white line. Forty-two days later the leaves of this plant were green on the outside, yellow in the centre, virtually indistinguishable from ‘Striptease’. Unwittingly my friend had provided me with H. ‘Strip Poker’ - one of many Hosta cultivars that ‘changes its clothes’ in the course of a growing season.

It seems quite conceivable that the taxonomists will come up with a new generic name for what we now know as Hostas. But is it likely that ‘Strip Poker’ loses its place in the horticultural lexicon? I doubt it.

Hedge Fun

A well-known text suggests that the human race kicked off in a garden and was subsequently kicked out. Inside good, outside bad.

There was a boundary to this garden. In fact, the word ‘paradise’, virtually synonymous with Eden, implies an enclosed space.

Whether or not you take the Genesis account literally there can be little doubt that our species has, for a long time, been involved in the enclosure of land for horticultural purposes, defining the boundary of that enclosed space with a hedge, a fence, or a wall and occasionally all three.

Initially the idea was to deter intruders, human or otherwise, from stealing your crops, or worse. For that purpose a fence or wall would serve just as well as a hedge, as it would were the enclosure used to contain livestock.

In the Airdlin Croft title deeds the surrounding hawthorn hedge is listed as an asset that either has to be maintained or replaced by a stock-proof post-and-wire fence.

However, it was for another reason that that hawthorn hedge attracted us to Airdlin Croft. For the previous ten years we had been involved in an organic market garden project on another croft just a mile away. We had learned – from truly bitter experience – that the main impediment to gardening in this part of Aberdeenshire is the wind.

In 1983 we were looking for another place to garden; and that overgrown hawthorn hedge, along with a line of ancient ash trees, helped us identify the place where we have lived ever since.

A well-kept hedge can keep livestock in the field but even a tatty one can slow the wind down. Over the years that original hawthorn hedge has been pruned with various levels of severity – with some individual members almost untouched, trees of thirty feet or more, and other sections tight-clipped to six feet high. Other hedges have been planted, predominantly of beech, which hangs on to its dead foliage well into the Spring. Our newest hedge runs for three hundred meters alongside our track and is composed of hawthorn, hazel, hornbeam, blackthorn and field maple, with oak standards at thirty meter intervals.

All of these hedges help to create a micro-climate that favours horticulture. We are currently attempting to establish a shelterbelt around a new piece of land, outwith the enchanted space enclosed by those ancient hawthorns. At the same time we are tentatively planting out trees and shrubs inside the embryonic shelterbelt – and have sustained losses of plants that grow happily in the hedge-protected, old garden, victims of the relentless winds. We need to be patient.

Even some of the shelterbelt trees have required re-staking, though this in part is, I believe, a negative consequence of growing them in shelters: they can grow too well too fast and the root system can’t support the heavy crown.

Adam and Eve were probably not bothered by the wind but they would have wanted to keep the wildlife out. Perversely, and satisfyingly so, as a consequence of having been severely bothered by the wind, our hedges, shelterbelts and woodland are keeping the wildlife in – where it is wanted.

BIODIVERSITY, INVASIVES, AND THE GARDENER

Increasingly we are made aware of the threats to biodiversity, without necessarily knowing what we can do about it.  As gardeners we can make a substantial contribution to maintaining and increasing biodiversity. Those with a biological background will be familiar with the concept of interactions between soil, the microbes, the four layers of vegetation, and animals--the invertebrates and the vertebrates.  All these affect the biological sphere, or biosphere, and all are collectively affected by changing climatic conditions. How we treat our patch has a dramatic effect on that biosphere.

For those less familiar, we know that some soils are ‘heavy’—these tend to contain more clay and they hold more water.  Others are free draining and will contain more sand or grit. The soil in your garden affects what type of plant will grow there, and basic good gardening includes the addition of organic matter regularly to improve the plant growth.  Organic matter can alter acidity (pH), drainage, available nutrients, and temperature. These all affect the extent to which bacteria, fungi, invertebrates and vertebrates thrive in the soil and the extent of their interactions with the plants and with each other.

As for the plants, some are woody and some are herbaceous (die back at certain times of year).  Plants occupy four main layers: trees, large shrubs/small trees, herbaceous grassy areas, and those which are on the ground.  Different creatures live in each layer, some are exclusive to one layer while others move happily between the ground and the treetops.

The more of these layers we can include in our gardens, the greater the variety of homes or ‘habitats’ we provide for different beasties.  Differing groups of wildlife won’t all have the same tastes and needs for homes and foods. Some birds need trees to nest in, others need rough grassland. Some it seems will nest any old place. Some eat butterflies and others eat seeds.  Some will eat everything. The same is true for insects—some live on trees and some live on or in the soil at or below ground level. So the more layers of vegetation we can supply, the more likely we are to attract a greater variety of insects and birds, which increases the biological diversity, or biodiversity for short.

Our understanding of the interactions within the soils and between soil life and plants is growing fast, and the more we learn the more astonishing are the degrees of complexity that we find.  Some bacteria and fungi (collectively known as microbes) attack plants and cause disease, but equally there are many that attack and control the populations of those ‘bad’ microbes. Plants appear to have methods of providing the nutrients that the ‘good’ microbes require to thrive, and they in turn help to make nutrients available in a form that plants can digest. These interactions are widespread in many soils, and organic matter will provide nutrients to feed both microbes and plants as it breaks down. Chemical fertilizers appear to have a harmful effect on many microbes.

In addition to supplying a range of living quarters, providing an ongoing range of foodstuffs for our garden residents and visitors will help increase their desire to live in or visit our gardens because it will resemble an all-night corner shop.  For example, if they can feed themselves and their young over a long period within your garden or local area (which may include birdfeeders), they will multiply. As gardeners we can meet this need by providing flowers for as much of the year as possible for the insects, and that suits us well as that gives us colour year around.  Think of bulbs (which can flower spring – autumn); early flowering shrubs, grasses, and herbaceous; late spring flowering trees, shrubs, herbaceous; then throughout summer/autumn all of the aforementioned as well as annuals. Flowers are a food source for many insects. Plentiful insect numbers attract birds. Autumn is a good time for fruits, nuts, and berries.  And of course many wild beasties all up and down the biosphere will spot our prize vegetables and make free at various times throughout the year.

We are omnivores which means we can eat lots of different things.  But we wouldn’t do well if we had a diet of just bark and tree leaves. On the other end of the spectrum there are animals and insects that can only consume a very limited diet, possibly just one thing, and they are called ‘specialists’.  They cannot adapt to eat other things. Lots of other animals who may be specialists or generalists (eat a variety of things) may eat the specialists, but if the specialists’ foodstuff disappears then they will die out and those other animals that feed on them will just have to look elsewhere.  Those who are omnivores, or generalists will be fine but others (specialists) will be badly affected. If a few specialists start to die out, other specialists who depend on them are likely to die out, as will more specialists—this is a food chain. Omnivores may also die simply for lack of enough food, though they’ll eat other things when available. Because food chains tend to crisscross they are better described as a foodweb.  So the loss of a single species might have a small effect which we don’t notice or a very large effect in a given area leaving us wondering why for example we no longer hear songbirds in such numbers.

So why should we care about biodiversity?  

After all, we are putting in all the work and while it’s great to see and hear all the animals in the garden there are definitely times when we wouldn’t miss the aphids, beetles, voles, pigeons, raccoons, etc who have no concept of proper sharing.  Why not blitz them so that the plants we cultivate grow and thrive?

The term biodiversity refers to the range of all the living things, and in areas where there is a good range a balance is achieved so that there are no single winners to the cost of everything else.  Populations of wild things will fluctuate but with a good balance what goes up will normally go down again.  As gardeners we need to tread with caution when zapping a population which seems out of control as by destroying one insect we may destroy a lot more in collateral damage.  If the aphids get quite bad on some plants, try moving your peanut feeders when the aphids are partying, and you will find that blue tits will soon find the feeders and also clear the aphids while they are there—they are happy to take a hint.  If we zap, perhaps we also take out a specialist that feeds on them and that may break a link in a particular food chain which resonates throughout the web from soil to tree, microbes to birds. If we zap, perhaps we affect our own gut microbes when we inhale or ingest fungicides and insecticides and upset our inner biodiversity.

An area of all one kind of plant, known as monoculture, will have a limited variety of wildlife associated with it.  If the owner were to burn off a hillside of heather every few years, as happens on the grouse moors, or cuts all the garden heather back (both activities designed to stimulate new shoots and maintain compact growth) the biodiversity of that habitat would take time to recover and re-establish in balance.  Monoculture cropping of acres and acres of farmland with little addition of organic matter has the same effect. Year on year, adding in the effect of regular fungicide and herbicide use, the recovery is slower and not so complete, lowering levels of biodiversity.

How many of us have seen a plant brought from another country settle into a garden or wild area, find itself very happy, and take off like a rocket, spreading so vigorously that it blocks out all the other vegetation around?  Most of these plants have been introduced to our gardens because they are lovely plants and didn’t pose a problem in their own country of origin. Most likely they were controlled in their spread because something ate them or they were kept them in check by other means.  Many of the plants we have introduced have behaved well and not spread unduly, but others have expanded their range to outside our gardens and have had no control imposed upon them by predator or soil conditions or climate. These particular introductions have become a real menace around the world as they colonize large areas so thickly that they blot out the native plants and animals in those areas.  The effect on biodiversity locally can be devastating. Non-indigenous invasive organisms pose the second greatest cause of the loss of biodiversity globally—second only to habitat destruction. Unfortunately, we cannot foresee how a plant will behave when placed in a new environment.

As gardeners what can we do?

Some countries have laws against planting non-native garden plants into the wild, so for solid legal reasons we should resist any desires to ‘brighten up the countryside’.  Smuggling plants however attractive from other countries is illegal or unethical for the same good reasons.

In the UK one mistake of the past has had major effects on biodiversity, the introduction of Rhododendron ponticum, which escaped into the wild and now covers 100,000 hectares in the UK, including 53,000 hectares in Scotland.  Whilst lovely in flower, it makes a full cover and exudes toxins both of which kill off all the native ground cover where it is established.  It spreads vegetatively and by seed, and is very difficult and costly to remove; and the toxins in the leaf litter create another level of challenge.  Additionally, it is known to carry Phytophthera ramorum which kills larches and many other plants.  Altogether R. ponticum has created a comprehensive onslaught on the biodiversity of the areas it has colonized so readily, and the cost of that is high.

Is it worth it?  

Would not the annual expenditure of £2 billion (as estimated by DEFRA) to tackle invasives in the UK be better spent on something else?  What looks pretty to your eye in the short term may cost others their livelihood in the longer term. We need to observe the effects of what we plant and take responsibility for the results.

With so many plants being sent around the world we are spreading both diseases and potentially invasive species.  Responsible nurseries and horticulture establishments are working hard to test and highlight those plants that pose problems, and they refuse to supply them.  By considering their advice and restricting our purchases to UK grown plants we would show we care about our local biodiversity, and take the precautionary principle seriously.  And the phenomenon of climate change which can both increase and decrease ranges of plant and animal species supports the case for increased caution.

The Precautionary Principle

When our horticulturist predecessors introduced Rhododendron ponticum they could not have anticipated the consequences. The science of ecology, which studies the inter-relationship of organisms within the environment, did not exist as a discipline. The potential for invasive spread of this particular species was not obvious. The Encyclopedia of Rhododendron Species, published 1993 by Cox and Cox, says that R. ponticum ‘spreads by seed and layers, and many gardens are now full of R. ponticum derived from suckers from grafting understocks…..outside the UK (it) is rarely troublesome as it is too tender for large parts of Europe and N. America’. Yet in 2008 it became a registered pest plant in New Zealand, banned from sale, propagation and distribution. And now, in much of Western Europe, R. ponticum is certainly regarded as problematic – has something changed?

Just to spell out some of these problems, the invasive  spread of ponticum has dramatically affected our landscape, as well as impacting on native flora and fauna. Growing in full light or dense shade, it spreads by seed and vegetative growth, out-competing most other plants, either by shading or by the accumulation of toxic leaf litter, or both. Its poisonous nectar kills bees, as well as resulting in honey that is toxic to humans. And its role as reservoir and vector for Phytopthora ramorum has serious economic consequences for the forestry and horticultural sectors. Similar consequences arise from the necessary effort to eradicate it – 53,000 hectares of it in Scotland.

What those early ericaceous enthusiasts could not have dreamt of, in their worst nightmares, was the concept of anthropogenic climate change – which now entirely alters the context of conservation. One way in which it does this is by affecting the geographical range in which an organism can survive, thus giving rise to ‘species shift’, sometimes in a possibly benign way, e.g. Common Cranes nesting in Aberdeenshire, but also with dire consequences e.g. the northerly progression of Xylella fastidiosa ssp. multiplex.

Residents of the island of Colonsay, who have for many years been battling with ponticum, are convinced that a recent upsurge in the spread of this species is a function of climate change.

Climate change is here to stay, but the degree to which it will affect this planet depends entirely on how seriously we address the role of the human activities that fuel it. At the moment it would appear that governments are falling short of their obligations – some more than others – and that the 1.5 deg.C target agreed on at the Paris Conference will not be met. Climate scientists are now talking about the possibility of a 3 degree rise by the end of the century, with catastrophic consequences. How such a temperature rise will affect Scotland is unknown. Right now, the predictions made some thirty years ago seem fairly accurate: wetter summers, milder winters. But if the melting of Arctic ice shifts the position of the Gulf Stream away from our coasts then we may be in for very much colder conditions in the UK.

This uncertainty should not deter us from planting rhododendrons; but given the increased awareness that ponticum planters lacked, there is a valid argument for a careful environmental impact study of any new planting scheme, particularly in public spaces. After all, it is an offence under the Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981, as amended by the Wildlife and Natural Environment Act 2011, to plant or cause to grow in the wild any plant outwith its native range or to allow a non-native species that is not exempt or licensed to spread into the wild.

It is tempting for Rhododendron enthusiasts to insist that ponticum is the only badly-behaved member of the genus. But given that that species has adapted to UK conditions in an unpredicted way it is not unreasonable to assume that one or two of the other thousand species in the genus might do something similar.

As mentioned, climate change has the potential to render a particular environment more or less suitable for any given species. Also, rhododendrons are notoriously susceptible to hybridisation – one authority has even suggested that UK ponticum is itself a hybrid, which might explain its extraordinary vigour.

Gardeners have been aware of the ‘alien threat’ for long enough. Philip von Siebold brought the first hosta plants to Europe from Japan but he also brought Japanese knotweed, around the same time as R. ponticum was enthusiastically introduced as game cover on Scottish estates. Himalayan balsam and American skunk cabbage have since joined the unwanted list, to mention just a couple more. Defra estimates that invasive, non-native species as a whole cost the British economy £2bn. annually. So while we are naturally inclined to try out new subjects in our gardens we should be alert to the possibility of the ‘next ponticum’, particularly if we are to succeed in sharing our love of genus Rhododendron.

Potting Shed Pete asks—should I use glyphosate?

Few gardeners will deny the usefulness of glyphosate – it kills most plants on a single application. If used carefully it can be applied selectively, for example, to eradicate couch grass from a shrub border. There would appear to be only a small health risk to the occasional user of the product, though a much larger risk of collateral damage to plants, insects, amphibians and soil organisms.

Unsurprisingly such risks are downplayed by the manufacturers, like Monsanto, or by other apparently reputable authorities who rebut claims that, for example, it causes cancer in humans – even though Monsanto was forced into an enormous payout, reduced on appeal, to a Californian groundsman who linked his cancer to the use of their glyphosate product marketed as Roundup.

For a chilling insight into how big business operates in the sphere of ‘fake news’, google ‘who finances climate change denial?’ to get a picture of the potential unreliability of reference sources. I tend to trust the information contained within a 20-page document produced by Friends of the Earth; others may not.

All that said, however, it is the agricultural use of glyphosate that underlies an international campaign to have the product banned. Farmers use it in two principal ways: to ‘clean’ fields prior to sowing a crop and as a desiccant applied directly to the crop immediately prior to harvest to enable greater control of that process.

The successful efforts to achieve weed-free fields have resulted in a dramatic decline in biodiversity, and by no means in just the obvious ‘indicator’ species, like the birds, for example. which are rapidly disappearing from our countryside, having once depended on the plants that the farmer has eradicated.

The use of glyphosate as a desiccant, however, puts that substance directly into the human food chain. Defra tests found that almost two-thirds of wholemeal bread contained glyphosate. The World Health Organisation’s International Agency for Research on Cancer suggests that there is no safe level of glyphosate in food. Some scientists speculate that coeliac disease, as well as some forms of ‘gluten intolerance’, may actually be indications of systemic glyphosate poisoning rather than an allergic reaction to gluten (Samsell and Seneff, Interdisciplinary Toxicology, published online Dec. 2013; the same authors have argued that glyphosate may contribute to the obesity epidemic, autism, Alzheimer’s disease, Parkinson’s disease, infertility, depression, and cancer).

A 2017 study of Government data by Oxford Economics showed that 5.4 million acres of farmland across Britain are treated with glyphosate annually; and US Geological Survey data indicates that glyphosate is present in more than half of all surface waters, soil and sediment.

But perhaps the most insidious aspect of the glyphosate controversy is the genetic modification of plants to make them resistant to the pesticide. ‘Roundup Ready’ crops, including soybeans, maize, canola, and cotton, can be sprayed with the Monsanto product throughout the growing season without killing the crop but ensuring that the harvested product contains the pesticide - a fact that even Monsanto admits to. And farmers are legally prevented from the time-honoured practice of saving a small proportion of their harvest to use as seed the following season. Their traditional renewable resource has been turned into a non-renewable, patented commodity: the ‘intellectual property’ of Monsanto who, along with Du Pont and Syngenta, now controls more than half the world’s seed market. This situation has led to an epidemic of suicide amongst Indian cotton farmers – a link strenuously denied by Monsanto (see www.theguardian.com/global-development gallery 2014).

Whether this wider picture affects the gardener’s view of glyphosate will depend on the individual. But there are alternatives available in the battle to control unwanted plants. Gardens did exist before Monsanto.

At Airdlin Croft we have been experimenting in recent years with various mulching materials, all of which facilitate weed control by excluding the light necessary for growth. Even invasive subjects like Lamium can be eliminated by the simple expedient of covering with a mulching fabric (reusable), though the process obviously takes longer than a few applications of glyphosate (in the case of Lamium, and other undesirables like Bishopweed, a single application of chemical is ineffective).

Our main method though has used cut grass and/or composted wood chips to establish new shrub and tree plantings. Both materials, either combined or used separately, achieve the similar result of preventing the germination of weed seeds in the soil below. Unwanted plants that spread vegetatively are less easy to control this way – it just takes longer – but these can be eliminated by mechanical means in the season prior to planting. Even couch grass gives up the ghost if repeatedly hoed.

Clearly there exists a difficulty in verifying the accuracy of information sources – and obviously, there is a degree of personal sacrifice involved in the decision to renounce the use of glyphosate; but if that decision contributes to a healthier and richer environment then some might consider that worthwhile.

It's the planet, butthead

Charisma has the capacity to conceal a multitude of sins. My response to Bill Clinton’s worn-out, moronic mantra, abbreviated in the title of this piece, is that money is only useful if there is something to buy and somewhere to buy it – two conditions that the multitude of humans inhabiting coastal cities and low-lying areas of the world will have difficulty in applying as this century draws on to its inevitable conclusion.

Gardeners must have an eye to the future, even if in practice they are grounded in the present. Did Osgood McKenzie possess an accurate vision of how his Inverewe garden might look in the twenty-first century? Probably not, though when he began planting trees on his barren, storm-torn estate in north-west Scotland he must have been aware of the potential.

Optimism is in short supply these days. Donald Trump is President of the United States of America and Britain is poised on the starting line of a foot-shooting exercise that makes Monty Python’s Twit of the Year event look like a Mensa qualifying competition.

So why plant trees? And, when so many humans are still struggling to find enough food to eat, what is the justification for converting farmland to garden, as we have done here in rural Aberdeenshire? Also, in a connected conundrum, how should  I have answered the garden visitor who responded to my enthusiasm for growing Rhododendron species from seed by saying that she didn’t have time to wait.

Dealing with the last question first, ‘wait for what?’ might have been an appropriate, albeit provocative, rejoinder. For her question implies some sort of finite, future time slot when the process is finished. True, nothing lives forever, though I don’t think that was the conclusion she was anticipating; and I don’t think that gardeners are  in the business of waiting.

Ok, it may take sixteen or seventeen days for the rhododendron seed to germinate but from the moment those two tiny leaves appear above the surface of the compost – voila, a rhododendron. Depending on which species it may take an additional fifteen years before the plant produces a flower, but every day of that process brings satisfaction to the person who planted the seed. And as anyone whose knowledge of the genus encompasses more than a familiarity with the Cartlandesque, hardy hybrids – wonderful in their own right - rhododendrons offer much more than just flowers. Visit Inverewe if you are in doubt – or Arduaine, Crarae or any other west coast garden of note.

Gardens are never finished – except when buried in concrete; even the set-piece parterre style, as successfully reproduced at Pitmedden, offers seasonal variation. One might contrast the art of horticulture to that of the painter. His or her paint, when dry, results in a fixed image, whereas the gardener’s paint has a life of its own, flowing in unpredictable ways, producing unlooked-for pictures that change from year to year.

Plant a hundred acorns and you are unlikely to get a hundred oaks. Some will fail to germinate and of those that do, a proportion will struggle to out-compete their neighbours. Of the remaining dominant trees it can be guaranteed that no two look alike. But what one can guarantee with a degree of certainty is that these survivors, year on year, will attract a wealth of creatures that by no circumstance would have shown up in the potato field that has become your wood. The gardener’s paint not only has a life of its own, it attracts a kaleidoscope of other life that results in a multi-dimensional landscape of almost unimaginable complexity, ever fascinating, ever changing. I, for one, spend no time waiting.

Yet this tribute to biodiversity doesn’t necessarily answer all the questions raised above. The need for further explanation was brought home to me just a few weeks ago when I was asked by a good friend, ‘what is biodiversity?’

With the benefit of hindsight this is not an unreasonable question. I have been fascinated by the science of ecology from an early age and should not expect everyone else to share that interest. Had this gentleman been discussing any of his areas of expertise I might have been equally in the dark.

But at the time, knock me over with a trowel, I thought – is this much-respected comrade an incarnation of Dylan’s Mr Jones? That seemed unlikely; he certainly is not a thin man (I am, and in this debate-quashing era of political correctness it appears to be quite ok to compare my physique with a long-handled gardening implement but not to allude to the increasingly familiar shape with, say, reference to  a brewery container).

Why is it that ‘something is happening but you don’t know what it is’? Is all else drowned out by Brexit and Trump’s tweet of the day? Dylan, in his Ballad of a Thin Man, was almost certainly not singing about the physical stature of his anti-hero. This apparent digression simply serves to illustrate the ability of the media to shape public discourse and distract from weightier matters. I have the stomach for controversy though no wish to cause offence.

Surprised, and slightly flustered by my friend’s inquiry, I came up with the metaphor of a net: the more connections in the warp and the smaller the spaces in between, the stronger the net. Thus it is, I suggested, in the natural world. The larger the number of organisms in an ecosystem, the smaller the chances there are of any disruptive element – predator or parasite, for example – of destroying that system. A healthy environment is biologically diverse, within which a wealth of different organisms ensures an optimum of checks and balances. The antithesis of biodiversity, I continued, is the monoculture, a method of farming that is only sustainable in the short term through the use of chemicals that further reduce biodiversity in the soil that supports the crop.

No-one can blame the farmer who has been encouraged to apply the method, to increase his acreage, to invest in larger machinery and extend his loan to the bank. This, he has been told, is the only way forward – to increase his yields, to remain profitable. And it is what most of his neighbours are doing. ‘It’s the economy, stupid.’

Short-termism is the prevailing philosophy. Brexit is only being discussed in terms of jobs and the economy, by almost all sides of the argument. Even the online petition producers seem locked into the same straightjacket. Has everyone forgotten the formative rationale for European union? Has there ever been a greater need for global co-operation and harmony?

But now, in pre-Brexit Britain, where a substantial proportion of farm income takes the form of subsidy, we are told by our completely reliable Minister of the Environment that, once out of Europe, subsidies will not be paid in proportion to acreage, but rather as a consequence of how the farmer uses his land.

Furthermore, as the ICCC has just announced that the levels of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere have reached a point not seen in the last three million years, and that the window of opportunity for doing something about it is almost closed, it seems reasonable to assume – in spite of the millions invested annually by the denial industry – that something might change.

At this point in time, planting trees appears to be one of the best approaches to decarbonising the atmosphere. Also, as the livestock industry is second only to the burning of fossil fuels as contributor to anthropogenic climate change, it would also appear that  the unsustainability of modern farming practice is more than just a myth perpetuated by a super-annuated hippie.

In this context, the conversion of farmland to garden seems less of a heresy – perhaps just a form of diversification. But I would argue that there are more reasons for doing what we have done here at Airdlin Croft.

First off, within the protective environment of our shelterbelts, in the lea of our hedges, behind the wind barrier of our wood, we have this year harvested thirty different kinds of vegetable – from asparagus to zucchini – and eleven different fruit crops; most of which could not have succeeded in the wide, wind-whipped spaces of the Buchan farmscape. And though it was just before my time, I remember it being said that the war-time Dig for Victory campaign demonstrated that the intensively cultivated allotment produced more food per acre than the most productive of farms.

Secondly, apart from the climate-changing consequences of livestock production, growing crops to feed to animals to feed to humans is an inherently inefficient way to  feed a burgeoning human population.

Climate change offers another incentive for encouraging biodiversity. Many of our familiar native plants and animals are on the move. So while global warming is not of itself responsible for the onslaught of ‘new’ pests and diseases that threaten the landscape – the chief culprit is global trade – nevertheless it has a role to play. Will, for example, the ash go the same way as the elm? And is ‘native’ a concept that needs down-playing? After all, the category as currently framed only tends to consider the last ten thousand year, post-glacial period in its definition - a fraction of the ICCC’s three million years.

And climate change is directly responsible for a species shift that birdwatchers cannot fail to notice: great white egret this year at Loch of Strathbeg; cranes nesting near New Pitsligo. Whatever next?

Our super-intelligent species is wiping out life-forms that we haven’t even had time to identify, let alone evaluate their role in the global ecosystem, or even their potential use to humans, as food source or medicine. Why not take advantage of the plant-hunters’ spoils, especially here in Scotland? Many of these guys were, and are, of Scottish descent.

And yet, in my view, there is an even more compelling justification for transforming three and a half of my neighbour’s three and a half thousand acres. The clue lies in the wisdom of that most-owned, least-read text, the Bible: ‘man (a generic term, I hope)  does not live by bread alone.’ That is to say, gardens can offer a therapeutic value that transcends the more obvious physical benefits – an insight I once might have interpreted as idiosyncratic, but now, having been encouraged to open our plot to the public under the aegis of Scotland’s Garden Scheme, recognise to be almost a universal.

I hesitate to differentiate physical from spiritual – from my perspective the distinction is invalid. But whatever the terminology, the outcome defies denial. On our open days I tend to man the nursery, a halfway point in the tour where I can read the smiling faces and soak up the positive commentary. Is Eden in our genes? Is it really surprising that in this angst-ridden world of our own creation that an attempt at Paradise (literally ‘an enclosed space’) should not provide for some basic need?

Now I am not for one moment suggesting that the country’s farmland be subdivided into tiny plots. But gardens can have a role to play in the necessary evolution of land use. And I would certainly support the re-evaluation of gardens and the profession of gardener in the twenty first century.

One initial target might be an attempt to persuade the National Trust for Scotland to take its horticultural heritage more seriously. And since they might legitimately claim that they can’t get the staff I would encourage the Holyrood government to reallocate part of the education budget to the colleges which once had a horticultural faculty. And in order for that to happen, gardening needs to become a properly paid and seriously respected profession.

No horticulturist should experience the response I received when, at a social function recently I replied to the question, ‘what do you do?’ When I informed one good lady that I was a gardener, she said ‘well, someone has to do it, I suppose.’ And, from a besuited gentleman of commerce: ‘well, I guess that’s ok.’

It is more than ok, I thought. I would argue that it is the best job in the world. But I remembered Mr Dylan’s immortal lines: ‘Businessmen they drink my wine, ploughmen dig my earth. But none of them, along the line, know what any of it is worth.’

That state of affairs, I would suggest, needs to change – and fast.

Flowerpot Men

Gardening and writing are similar in a number of ways, and complement each other. Words bear a resemblance to seeds. Acclaimed authors are often heard to describe their craft as a mystery, as if some secret force within is guiding the pen. They might start with a basic plot and some notion of the characters required to inhabit it, but soon find their fictional people becoming larger than life, as real or even more real than their family and friends. These actors on the page begin to write their own story, one which the apparent author becomes obliged to merely record rather than direct.

My mother-in-law, a retired professor of English literature, once gave me good advice on the subject. If you want to write, she said, then sit down with a pen and paper; nothing will happen unless you do. Even if you have little or no idea what it is that you are trying to inscribe, just sit down – and watch the words appear.

The analogy hardly requires spelling out. Suffice it to say that you won’t end up with a wood if you don’t plant the trees. Definitely do not worry about whether you will be there to observe your creation when it matures. Just enjoy the process for as long as you can.

When given the opportunity to talk about the garden at Airdlin Croft I often highlight the happy association of rhododendrons and hostas. Not all rhodies are naturally woodland plants though the large-leaved species generally do best within the shelter of trees. Hostas are also mostly shade-tolerant plants. Growing the two genera in close proximity allows a spacing of the woody plants that takes into account their potential height and spread while providing ground cover with their herbaceous companions. Left alone, the ericaceous component will ultimately smother the physically-challenged neighbours. I refer to this inevitable dynamic as a strategy for old age.

At some time in the future – hopefully a long way off – the ability to garden at the current output of physical energy will decline; there is no getting around it. Right now, the maintenance of a collection of hostas, in the greenhouse and the garden, requires a good deal of work; whereas once established, rhododendrons tend to take care of themselves. They just get bigger and better. So when physical infirmity gets the upper hand I plan to slacken off a bit; but hopefully will still manage to muster the mental acuity for writing. That’s the plan. I have elsewhere suggested that optimism is a necessary component of the gardener’s DNA.

However, there is no need to discover decrepitude before picking up the pen (and I still do use a pen for the first draft, preferring to minimise the proportion of waking hours facing a screen). One of the consequences of gardening in these latitudes is a necessary submission to the seasons. In mid-winter here we enjoy barely six hours of daylight, and even during those the weather can render outdoor activities less than pleasant, freeing up much time for scribbling.

Furthermore, as any gardener knows, much of the inevitable work outside is repetitive and fairly mindless – a fact that probably prevents the non-gardener from getting involved but to the green-fingered pragmatist becomes another string to the bow: an opportunity to think about something else, to daydream, to put together thoughts and ideas that a more demanding schedule might prevent - the skeleton, perhaps, of a poem, a novel, or autobiography that can be allowed to materialise once one is forced indoors. Of course, not all introspection is necessarily advantageous to pursue; but at least some of the ingredients may turn out to be worth combining in hard copy.

Hostas and rhododendrons; gardening and writing; bread and butter – having unwittingly arrived at that last metaphor, and in so doing proved a point made above, I should admit that this strategy for old age contains a compromise willingly undertaken when a long time ago I chose the life of a gardener. This was unlikely to be  a sure-fire route to a fat pension – and so it has worked out, with no world cruises or flashy cars on the agenda, and perhaps a rather flimsy safety-net should old age cut up rough. But no regrets either, yet.