| Episode 1: The English Garden Is Changing – And So Must We |
| There are moments in gardening when two completely unrelated conversations somehow come together, making you stop. This week was one of those moments. On separate days, with two different clients who had never met, I found myself hearing almost exactly the same question. After we’d finished discussing the usual maintenance jobs and walked slowly around their gardens, both said something very similar. “Rory, we’d like to start thinking about how we can adapt the garden for the future. We don’t think the climate is what it used to be.” Neither conversation was dramatic. There were no grand statements about climate change or environmental policy. They were simply practical observations from people who have lived with their gardens for many years and know them almost as well as I do. They had noticed plants struggling through prolonged dry spells, borders that seemed to need watering far more often than they once did, and lawns that had become increasingly unpredictable during the summer months. They weren’t asking me to redesign everything overnight. They were asking whether it was time to start thinking differently. Then, almost as if to reinforce the point, Suze returned from our allotment with concerns of her own. This time the conversation wasn’t about ornamental borders or shrubs but about vegetables. Crops that once seemed to follow a fairly dependable timetable now appear to have minds of their own. Some race ahead during periods of intense heat, while others simply stop growing and wait for kinder conditions. Water disappears from the soil almost as quickly as it’s applied, and familiar growing schedules suddenly seem less dependable than they once were. Three conversations in a single week. Three people are looking at very different gardens. Yet all arriving at the same question. That isn’t something I can easily ignore. As gardeners, we spend an extraordinary amount of time looking down. We notice weeds appearing before anyone else. We see the first signs of disease on a leaf that most people would walk straight past. We recognise when a shrub is beginning to struggle long before it actually fails. Observation becomes such a normal part of the job that we sometimes forget how much we are seeing. Perhaps that’s why gardeners often notice gradual change before they notice dramatic change. If someone asked me whether English gardens have changed over the last two or three years, I might hesitate. But if they asked whether they have changed over the last twenty years, I don’t think I could honestly answer anything other than yes. The seasons don’t always seem to arrive quite when we expect them. Spring occasionally appears eager to get started, only to be interrupted by an unwelcome frost. Summers seem increasingly likely to deliver weeks of dry, relentless heat before suddenly changing their minds entirely. Winters, meanwhile, often feel less predictable than they once did, bringing periods of exceptional rainfall rather than prolonged cold. Of course, gardening has never been entirely predictable. If it were, we’d all be able to retire after reading a seed packet. Nature has always enjoyed reminding us that she has the final say. Yet there is a difference between the occasional surprise and the feeling that the familiar rhythm itself is slowly changing. One of the things I enjoy most about this profession is that every garden tells its own story. Some have been lovingly developed over fifty years, each owner adding another chapter. Others are relatively new, still finding their character. Some are formal, others delightfully relaxed. Some are filled with carefully chosen ornamental planting, while others have quietly become havens for birds, insects and wildlife almost by accident. Despite their differences, they all have one thing in common. Every one of them exists within the same changing environment. That thought has stayed with me all week. For many years, gardeners have understandably focused on individual problems. A shrub needed replacing. A hedge had become too large. A border required redesigning. We solved one issue at a time because that was all the garden usually asked of us. Now I wonder whether the questions themselves are becoming broader. Instead of asking, “What should we plant here?” perhaps more people are beginning to ask, “How should this garden evolve over the next twenty years?” That feels like a very different conversation. It isn’t simply about replacing one plant with another. It’s about understanding that the conditions in which our gardens grow may no longer be quite the same as those for which they were originally designed. I don’t say that with any sense of doom. Gardens have always evolved. If you could step back into an English garden from a hundred years ago, you would notice countless differences. Some plants we now consider indispensable would barely have featured. Gardening fashions have changed repeatedly. New introductions have transformed our borders, our vegetable plots and even our expectations of what an English garden should look like. Change itself isn’t unusual. What feels different is the reason for it. Throughout history, gardens have often changed because gardeners wanted something new. Today, they may be changing more because the gardens themselves are asking us to adapt. I don’t think that means abandoning everything that makes an English garden so distinctive. Quite the opposite. Some of the finest gardens I’ve ever worked in have succeeded because they respect their surroundings. They don’t fight the landscape; they belong within it. They recognise the local soil, weather, and natural character of the place. They feel settled rather than imposed. Perhaps that has always been the real secret. Not copying somebody else’s garden. Listening to your own. The more I reflected on those conversations this week, the more I realised that neither client had asked me for immediate answers. They weren’t expecting a list of drought-tolerant plants or a complete redesign. They simply wanted to begin thinking ahead. In many ways, I think that is the most sensible response any gardener can have. Gardening has never rewarded panic. It rewards observation. Watch carefully. Notice what succeeds. Notice what struggles. Notice which parts of the garden remain healthy during difficult periods and which consistently require extra intervention. Those observations often teach us far more than any gardening book ever could. I also suspect that many of us will become slightly less attached to doing things purely because we’ve always done them that way. Gardeners can be wonderfully traditional people. We treasure inherited knowledge, pass techniques from one generation to the next and take quiet satisfaction in routines that have served us well for decades. There is real value in that. But tradition has always worked best when combined with curiosity. After all, every experienced gardener was once someone trying something for the very first time. As I finished work this week and thought back over those three conversations, I found myself asking a question I hadn’t really considered before. Perhaps the future of the English garden isn’t about learning entirely new gardening skills. Perhaps it’s about learning to observe with fresh eyes. The gardens themselves may already be telling us what they need. We simply have to be prepared to listen. In the next article, I’d like to explore where those observations might lead. If English gardens are beginning to change, what practical changes might we make—not to abandon their character, but to help them flourish for another generation? Because I don’t believe the English garden is disappearing. I think it’s preparing to write its next chapter. |
| About our writing & imagery Most articles reflect our real gardening experience and reflection. Some use AI in drafting or research, but never for voice or authority. Featured images may show our photos, original AI-generated visuals, or, where stated, images credited to others. All content is shaped and edited by Earthly Comforts, expressing our own views. |
Earthly Comforts 
Interesting observations, Rory. And it’s not just gardens. So many things are changing, and its enough to chill the blood. We can always try to keep up with these changes, but we can never stop them from happening…
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