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Roses and a day with Sara Venn 

I’ve said it before. I got into gardening through my parents. They loved their garden and it was something they were proud of. Loved the attention when in full bloom. For years had borders full of roses. Gorgeous scented beautiful roses. Mum picked some. But not a lot if my memory serves me right. I recall her deadheading them. Every time she walked up and down the front path. She was obsessed with deadheading. No bad thing really. Dad did the planting. The pruning. Mum admired. And bought more. 

I spent a day with Sara Venn last week in our garden in Somerset. The person who looked after our garden had sacked us the year before – yes we were sacked. Long story . A very long story and since I had retired ( early – keep repeating it Andrew) I had been doing the work myself. With some success. What I didn’t know I asked. But I was worried about pruning. The roses. The fruit trees. Some of the shrubs. But the Roses. I could hear my mother tutting. A lot. Her saying. ‘Your not like your father’ He would have pruned them all. On time. And properly. She said that a lot. ‘ your not like your father’. 

Last year we were due to start an extension so I didn’t prune the roses. When the schedule was moved it was too late. Sara said. Leave them this year. We had roses. But not as good as in previous years. We were supposed to start the extension in the Autumn. And then the Winter. I could put it off no longer. If I had to dig them up later so be it. 

Sara agreed to come and spend a day with me in the garden to give me advice on how and what and when. But it was more than that. It was the push I needed to get going again. I’d been in limbo with the garden. Would I have another year of the flower beds?. Should I move things. Should I wait. Should I extend the beds? Was this space the right one for my new greenhouse? Don’t mention the greenhouse to Sara. Please. Don’t mention my greenhouse. 

So Sara arrived and we set to work. Talk of a practical. It was practical. Practically exhausted by the end of the day. Talk of a hard task master who encouraged me up a wobbly ladder – no elf and safety in this garden. But it was fun. Practical. Encouraging. And confidence boosting. I hadn’t made a total hash of the garden this last year. 



I always say I garden. I’m not a gardener. The garden is well established. We’ve been here 22 years. But I am rubbish at staking. I don’t plant deep enough. But I’m getting there. Slowly. Like my train journey this week accompanied by Doris. 

It hadn’t mattered I’d not pruned. The fruit trees were ok. Ish. The roses leggy but not dead. So We pruned. Cut back. Laughed. I fought with the rose prunings. They won and it didn’t matter I wore gloves. They just went for the jugular. We tidied up. Had tea and cake. She gave encouragement. Orders. Ate my cake. Took one home for Mr Venn. As promised. 

To be fair if we were being filmed it would have been more ‘Carry on Gardening’! Than big dreams – It was gardening made fun. ‘What do you think you are doing!’ was said a lot. And do you think you can wobble less’ what said I? As in walking or up the ladder? Both! 

The roses don’t look like this now obviously but now have had a severe short back and sides. A proper job. Like my Dad would do! 

Thinkimg of my parents garden got me thinking of their roses again All were bought in Woolworths when Woolworths had a gardening department. All grew well. Flowered strongly. From the department at the rear of the store. Memory is a wonderful thing. Before mum lost hers she could tell you the names of the roses. Each one. Not from the label. So I want some new roses. I looked up to see if I could get the named roses from their 1970’s and 80’s garden as I’d like to have a few. Josephine and Ernest were therir names so I may start there. Along with Superstar. That was my favourite. 

Who knew Woolworths won not one but five RHS Chelsea golds! I didn’t.

Woolworths history
Superstar; Iceberg; Ena Harkness; Blue Moon ! ; Peace; queen Elizabeth ;Just Joey; Josephine Bruce; Ernest Morse. fragrant Cloud; the Fairy. Compassion 

Those are ones I remember. None of that David Austin stuff for them. It was the wonder of Woolies !

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Gardening. Woolies and me. 

I love my garden. The plants. The butterflies. The smells. The colours.  The bees. Not the wasps or the snails -or slugs.

I was asked recently where my interest started. There’s no doubt at all. My parents.

They loved their garden. Took enormous pride in the front borders. Like me a bit of a show off. The back garden was nice. But the colour and the effort went into the front – that’s what people saw and there was always a bit of a competition with Den & Blem next door. Neighbours for over 50 years,  each year they planted the borders to out do each other. Never mentioned. Never admitted. But always there.

Clearing out Dads things we came across some photos from the 80’s and 90’s of the garden. In the 70 s the garden beds along the front path were filled with roses. Beautiful.Tea roses. floribunda roses.  Healthy and colourful. I recall names like Superstar. Iceberg. Ena Harkness. Vermillion red. White. The roses were their pride and joy. Majority  bought in Woolworths in Cardiff.

In the early days there were no large garden centres or the dismal area in a B & Q where there always seems to be a drought. In those days Woolworths had an excellent gardening department. Row after row of seeds. Gardening utensils. Plants.

Disease came to the roses and they were taken out never to return. The same fate for Woolworth in later years.  Gone. But not forgotten.  There is an interesting history of gardening and Woolworth

Woolworths horticulture
So instead of roses Dad grew his own bedding plants. I had begged for a greenhouse to grow tomatoes and cucumbers. He relented and for a few years until I moved out I tended them religiously. He never allowed me to forget that he bought the greenhouse for me to  use but within a space of a few short years I had moved out. As you do. Leaving him with a greenhouse he hadn’t wanted.

He failed to mention the bedding plants. The fact that without ‘my’ greenhouse he would have had to buy the plants. Still in competition  with next door he returned to growing plants from seed. But didn’t admit  that he was enjoying it. The sowing. The endless pricking out. The planting. Him and mum up to their necks in seed trays. But he did. She did. Especially when passing neighbours and friends complemented them on their ‘display’

The beds now became full of annuals. Grown by dad. Encouraged by mum. The awful smelling tagetes. Petunia. Busy Lizzie.  Lobelia. Alyssum. The staples of the 70s and 80s. But they were colourful, bountiful and easy. Hanging baskets aside the door like sentries on guard duty.

We came across these photos when we were sifting  through dad’s  possessions A poignant  reminder of those days. Now the house has been sold and Mum amd Dad both gone.


At the back of the house was the greenhouse. Bedding plants in spring. Tomatoes and cucumbers later. My job each year was to dig the bean trench. Always in the same place. Always the same length.  Only beans. Never peas. Always ached  liked hell the day after. . Now I don’t bother to dig a trench  but every time I plant those beans I get a voice in my head. ‘You’d do better with a trench son’ . Thanks dad but I’m doing ok without! Maybe next year.

So the simple answer to a simple question  is:- my parents.

With dad on the front  door step