| Where memory meets evidence |
| Episode IX Watching the World from Ground Level Why gardeners notice change before most people do. |
| I have always been observant. Long before I became a professional gardener, I noticed things other people sometimes walked straight past. As a child in Australia and Malaysia, I spent countless hours exploring the natural world, looking for insects, watching animals and generally taking an interest in whatever happened to be living around me. Later, my involvement with exotic livestock gave me more opportunities to observe animals closely, though in a very different setting. When I finally became a professional gardener in 2022, I didn’t suddenly discover the importance of observation. If anything, gardening refined something that had been part of my character for as long as I can remember. However, there is a difference between being naturally observant and developing the familiarity that comes from returning to the same piece of ground week after week, month after month, and season after season. A garden is never quite the same place twice, even when it appears to have changed very little. Plants grow, soil conditions alter, insects come and go, and the weather leaves its mark in ways that aren’t always immediately obvious. The gardener who returns regularly begins to recognise those changes, not necessarily because they are looking for something unusual, but because they remember what was there before. It is a form of accumulated knowledge that develops quietly through repetition. I sometimes wonder whether this is one of the more overlooked aspects of professional gardening. People understandably see the finished results: a neatly maintained lawn, a hedge brought back into shape, borders weeded and cultivated, or a garden looking considerably better than it did a few hours earlier. What they don’t necessarily see is the observation that takes place before the first tool comes out of the van. For me, that is where the work begins, and where gardening becomes something more interesting than a succession of practical tasks. Learning to read a garden Whenever I arrive at a client’s property, I take in the garden as a whole before doing anything else. I then walk around it, noting what has changed since my previous visit and what needs attention. Some things are obvious, particularly during the growing season, when a fortnight can make an extraordinary difference to the appearance of a border or lawn. Other changes are subtler. A plant may be growing less vigorously than expected, a previously healthy patch of grass may have lost some of its colour, or an area that was thriving last season may be responding differently to the weather. This isn’t a complicated ritual, and I wouldn’t want to make it sound more mysterious than it is. It is simply a sensible way of working. You look at the garden, walk through it, look again and then decide what needs doing. The important thing is not to take everything at face value. What seems like a straightforward maintenance task may be better approached differently once you’ve considered the garden’s overall condition. Equally, something that initially catches your attention may be perfectly normal for that location or time of year. One benefit of regular maintenance is that problems don’t necessarily have the chance to become dramatic. When you visit a garden weekly, fortnightly or monthly, you build up a working knowledge of how it behaves. You notice the progress of plants you’ve pruned, the development of borders you’ve improved and the effects of changes you’ve made over several visits. Ideally, you recognise and address the little things before they become major problems. I cannot think of a particular occasion when some insignificant discovery suddenly transformed my understanding of a garden. Still, perhaps that is partly because the observational side of regular maintenance is intended to prevent those surprises. This gradual process brings considerable satisfaction. A garden doesn’t always respond immediately to what you’ve done, and some improvements take an entire season or longer to become apparent. You might spend weeks working on an area before the cumulative effect becomes obvious. Then, during an ordinary visit, you realise that the garden has changed quite substantially from the one you first encountered. It is not necessarily a dramatic transformation, but there is a genuine sense of achievement in recognising that the work has made a difference. Across the eighty-plus gardens associated with Earthly Comforts, I have become increasingly aware of how individual those changes can be. Two gardens in the same village may respond differently to apparently similar conditions, while two borders within the same garden can behave as though they belong to different environments. Exposure, shelter, drainage, soil, neighbouring buildings and the plants themselves all influence what happens. General gardening advice has its place, of course, and some principles apply almost everywhere, but applying them without considering the individual garden can lead to disappointing results. The ground beneath everything If there is one element of gardening that I believe deserves considerably more attention from residential gardeners, it is the soil. We spend enormous amounts of time thinking about the plants we want to grow, their colours, their flowers, and where they might look attractive, yet the ground from which they draw much of what they need can become an afterthought. To me, that seems like focusing on a house’s appearance while paying little attention to its foundations. Soil is not simply material that holds a plant upright. It is a complex living environment, containing minerals, organic matter, water, air and an extraordinary variety of organisms. The roots depend on it for water, nutrients, and physical support, while biological activity beneath the surface contributes to the cycling and availability of those nutrients. Healthy soil can help a garden withstand difficult conditions, although its ability to do so depends on its structure, composition, drainage and the plants growing within it. Poor soil can tell you a great deal, but so can soil that is excessively rich for the plants being grown. Not every plant wants fertile, moisture-retentive ground, just as not every plant will thrive in free-draining, relatively impoverished conditions. Some species are adapted to soils unsuitable for many familiar garden plants. Others require conditions that are difficult to maintain without improvement or intervention. Understanding the ground is therefore as much about recognising what belongs there as it is about trying to make every part of the garden conform to a single ideal. This is where I sometimes think the emphasis on prettiness becomes a distraction. A client may fall in love with a particular plant because of its flowers or foliage, but that doesn’t mean their garden is necessarily the right place for it. We can sometimes improve the growing conditions, choose a more suitable position or recommend an alternative, but there are limits to what can sensibly be achieved. The garden has its own characteristics, and those characteristics deserve consideration before we impose our preferences upon it. I don’t think this is particularly controversial among experienced gardeners, yet it is easy to overlook when the conversation is dominated by what a garden ought to look like. Plants are living organisms, not decorative objects, and their appearance often depends on whether their needs are met. A garden can be attractive and ecologically healthy at the same time, but the two don’t automatically go hand in hand. When familiar gardens begin behaving differently Working outdoors also means developing a close relationship with the seasons, although perhaps not quite in the romantic sense sometimes associated with gardening. The weather influences almost everything we do, from the practical question of whether the ground is workable to the longer-term condition of lawns, shrubs, borders and trees. When you return regularly to the same gardens, you begin to compare their present condition with what you remember from previous seasons. That is how I tend to notice environmental change. I don’t arrive at a garden, see something unexpected, and immediately decide I know which climatic or ecological process caused it. More often, I remember how the garden looked last year, or how a particular plant behaved during a previous summer, and recognise that something is different. Sometimes the explanation is straightforward. Sometimes there are several possibilities, and sometimes I don’t know. Over recent years, the relationship between wet winters and periods of summer heat and dryness has become an increasingly important consideration in garden maintenance. The consequences aren’t uniform, but I have noticed that some more conventional gardens, particularly those relying heavily on plants suited to a fairly predictable pattern of growing conditions, can struggle when those conditions become less dependable. Plants may respond adversely to prolonged wetness, periods of insufficient moisture, or sudden changes between the two. It’s tempting to attribute every struggling plant to climate change, but that’s an oversimplification. A plant may be suffering because of poor drainage, unsuitable soil, disease, root competition, incorrect planting depth or a dozen other factors. Weather can aggravate those problems without necessarily being their original cause. Equally, a single unusually dry summer doesn’t establish a long-term climatic trend. Those distinctions matter, particularly when we’re trying to understand what gardens may be telling us about the wider environment. Nevertheless, the broader climatic picture is changing. Britain’s long-term temperature records show a warming climate, while rainfall patterns, seasonal extremes and the frequency of certain weather conditions are also subjects of continuing research. Gardens respond to these changes, sometimes visibly and sometimes through processes that are much harder to recognise. What I see across the gardens I maintain cannot establish a national trend. Still, it can provide a practical perspective on how living landscapes experience conditions that meteorological records describe in numbers. I think that distinction is important. A gardener can notice a change without necessarily knowing its cause, and a scientist can establish a wider pattern that may help explain what gardeners are experiencing. Neither perspective needs to replace the other. Indeed, some of the most useful environmental knowledge comes from bringing repeated local observations together with systematic evidence. The problem with wanting everything pretty One of the more frustrating aspects of gardening is the tendency to judge a garden almost entirely by its immediate appearance. I understand why people do it. Gardens are personal spaces, and most people understandably want them to look attractive. There is nothing wrong with enjoying a well-kept lawn, a colourful border or a neatly shaped shrub. I enjoy those things myself. The difficulty arises when appearance becomes the only consideration, particularly when achieving a particular look works against the needs of the plants or the wider garden. A garden is not a static arrangement of objects. It grows, changes, ages and responds to its surroundings. Sometimes the most beneficial course of action may not produce the prettiest immediate result. A shrub might need corrective pruning, a struggling area of lawn might require patience and improvement rather than a quick cosmetic treatment, or a border might benefit from a different planting approach rather than repeatedly replacing plants that fail in the same conditions. Clients don’t always see these matters in quite the same way as the gardener, and that is understandable. They live with the garden and have their own expectations, preferences and budgets. My role is to maintain it, offer advice where appropriate and explain why I think something might work better. Ultimately, however, it belongs to them. I can recommend a different approach, but I cannot insist that everybody adopts my particular view of gardening. This becomes especially relevant when wildlife enters the conversation. A garden that supports insects, birds and other small creatures doesn’t have to be neglected or visually chaotic, but it may require a little more tolerance for natural processes. Fallen leaves, seed heads, less frequently disturbed areas and varied planting can all contribute to the opportunities available to wildlife. Some clients welcome that approach, while others prefer a more controlled appearance. The challenge is often to find a sensible balance rather than treating attractive gardens and wildlife-friendly gardens as opposing ideas. The wider environmental consequences of individual choices may seem insignificant when considered one garden at a time. Yet residential gardens collectively occupy a substantial area of our towns and villages, and how they are managed influences habitat availability, soil condition, water movement, and opportunities for wildlife. Each garden is a small part of a much larger landscape. Although it would be foolish to draw sweeping conclusions from any single property, it would be equally foolish to imagine that what happens within those boundaries has no wider significance. Observation without assumption Throughout this series, I have returned repeatedly to the importance of distinguishing memory from evidence. Gardening has reinforced that lesson because it regularly demonstrates how easily appearances can mislead. A plant may look unhealthy for reasons that aren’t immediately apparent, while another may appear perfectly content until changing conditions reveal an underlying weakness. What looks like a simple problem may have several contributing causes, and the obvious solution isn’t always the right one. Nature has certainly proved me wrong during my gardening career, though I cannot immediately name one occasion that stands above the others. I don’t regard that as especially remarkable. If you work with living things, you have to accept that they won’t always respond as expected. Experience improves your judgement, but it doesn’t make you infallible. There is always something more to learn, and occasionally the most useful thing a gardener can do is reconsider an assumption rather than stubbornly continue with an approach that isn’t working. If I were training somebody to become an Earthly Comforts Garden Butler, one of the first things I would want them to understand is the importance of looking properly before acting. Practical skills matter enormously, but knowing how to use a tool isn’t quite the same as knowing when, where, or whether to use it. I would want them to take in the whole garden, walk around it, notice what has changed, look again and only then make their plans. That might sound like simple common sense, but common sense is not always as common in practice as we would like to believe. When you have a list of jobs to complete and limited time, it can be tempting to begin immediately. Yet a few minutes spent understanding the garden can prevent wasted effort, unnecessary intervention or work that fails to address what actually needs attention. This also offers a broader lesson about environmental observation. We should be willing to notice things without immediately attaching a grand explanation. A gardener may see fewer insects in one garden, but that doesn’t establish that insects are declining everywhere. A shrub flowering unusually early may be responding to local conditions rather than demonstrating a national seasonal shift. Conversely, when similar observations repeat across many places, and long-term records support them, they become far more meaningful. Gardens are already telling us about environmental pressures. They show us how plants respond to water availability, temperature, soil conditions, management and habitat change. What they cannot do, individually, is explain every cause or tell us how widespread a particular change may be. For that, we need to look beyond the garden gate and consider the evidence gathered by people working across much larger areas and longer periods. The reality of working with nature Another side of professional gardening deserves mention, particularly because articles about working outdoors can sometimes make the occupation sound like an endless succession of pleasant afternoons surrounded by flowers and birdsong. I wish I had discovered professional gardening when I was younger. I genuinely adore it, and there is something deeply satisfying about spending your working life helping gardens develop and flourish. But it is physically punishing work, and after four years I have certainly felt the consequences. There is a considerable difference between enjoying gardening as a pastime and earning your living from it, particularly when your working day involves repeated bending, lifting, carrying, cutting and maintaining gardens in all sorts of weather. Then there is the business itself. Anyone imagining that running a small gardening company consists entirely of tending plants is in for a surprise. Legislation, administration, employment responsibilities, paperwork and the seemingly endless complications of operating a business can create headaches that have very little to do with horticulture. Some of those responsibilities are necessary and important, but that doesn’t make them any less frustrating when what you really want to do is get on with the gardening. I sometimes joke that the greatest lesson gardening has taught me is not to become a gardener again. There is a little more truth to that than I might have expected, though it shouldn’t be mistaken for regret. If I could go back and discover the profession earlier in life, I suspect I would still choose it. I would prefer to have made that discovery with a younger body and perhaps a better appreciation of just how demanding the work can become. And yet, if tomorrow I could no longer work professionally as a gardener, I know I would miss some things enormously. I would miss the fresh air, the changing seasons and the daily opportunity to be surrounded by nature. I would miss the familiarity of returning to gardens and watching them develop over time, and the quiet satisfaction of seeing the results of work that may have begun months earlier. Above all, I think I would miss what I can only describe as the uncanny quietness. It is a curious expression because gardens are rarely silent. Birds may call, insects may move through the planting, leaves may rustle in the breeze, or you may hear the distant sounds of people going about their lives. Yet there is a particular quality to being outdoors, especially when you are absorbed in what you’re doing, that can make the wider world seem temporarily less intrusive. It isn’t the absence of sound so much as a different relationship with it. Perhaps that is one reason I have always felt comfortable observing nature, from the Australian bush and Malaysian vegetation of my childhood to the gardens of Kent today. What the garden remembers When I began this series, I wanted to explore whether the changes I remembered across my lifetime were supported by evidence. We have considered summers, autumns, seasonal calendars, wildlife, insects and the landscapes of my childhood. Some memories have stood up well to examination, while others have needed correction or placement in a wider context. What has become increasingly apparent to me is that observation remains valuable even when it doesn’t provide an immediate answer. A garden offers a particularly interesting place from which to consider that idea because it is both a natural environment and a human creation. We choose what to plant, what to remove, what to encourage and what to discourage, but we never exercise complete control over what happens next. Soil organisms continue their work beneath our feet, insects arrive and depart, plants respond to conditions beyond our influence, and the seasons move forward whether our gardening plans are ready for them or not. The gardener occupies an unusual position within that process. We intervene constantly, yet we also spend an enormous amount of time watching the consequences of intervention. We see what thrives, what struggles, what returns and what disappears. We become familiar with small changes that might escape somebody who visits the same garden only occasionally. However, that familiarity can also make us susceptible to assumptions if we fail to question what we think we know. Perhaps that is why I believe gardens can tell us something about the changing world without pretending that every gardener is a scientist or every garden a research station. Their value lies partly in the opportunity they provide for repeated observation. A gardener who has worked the same ground for years carries a memory of that place, its plants, its seasons and its responses to different conditions. That memory may be imperfect, but it gives us questions worth investigating. I have spent much of my life looking at the natural world, sometimes as a curious child, sometimes through my work with animals and now as a professional gardener. The subjects have changed, the places have changed, and my understanding has certainly changed, but the curiosity itself remains remarkably familiar. If gardening has refined anything, it is the understanding that observation requires patience and a willingness to look again. A garden rarely reveals everything during a single visit, and neither does the wider natural world. Both reward familiarity, both occasionally contradict our expectations, and both remind us that what we see today is only one moment in a much longer story. For all the physical demands and frustrations of the profession, I remain grateful that gardening has allowed me to spend these last four years so closely connected to that story. I may not always appreciate the aching muscles or the paperwork waiting at home. However, I still appreciate the privilege of stepping into a garden, taking in what is there and recognising that something has changed since the last time I looked. And perhaps, after all these years, that is still what I enjoy most: simply being there to notice. |
| About our writing & imagery Most articles are grounded in our real gardening experience, observations and reflections. AI may assist with research, drafting and editing, but the experiences, opinions and editorial direction are our own. Featured images may include our photography, original AI-generated visuals or, where stated, images credited to others. All published content is reviewed and shaped by Earthly Comforts before publication. |
