When a hobby comes to find you

 

I’ve always had plenty of greenery in my house, but I would never have called pot plants a hobby.  They are just part of the household, and we get along fine together.  A bit like Nigel.

However, recently Perran left to live in Brussels.  Pot plants very much had been his hobby, but rules forbade the import of his green friends to Belgium. I volunteered to caretake some of his large collection until the day he returns.

His plants are different to mine.  I am ignorant of the names of most of mine as they are propagated from bits friends gave me, or kind donations from the odd stately-home conservatory (‘I tell you, that bit was just lying on the floor!’).

Perran’s darlings however have Latin names and very specific care regimes on their pots.  Also, because he had been preparing to move abroad, they had been somewhat neglected and appeared lacklustre and gloomy.

I took home ten of the fading beauties, and have been repotting and repositioning ever since.  How can a plant demand both bright light, but also not want it ‘direct’?  One plant loves nothing more than wet roots, while another should be kept Sahara-dry.

Generously, Perran has said he does not mind if not all his plants make it.  The only one he really cares about is a crassula (jade plant) which I gave him as a tiny sprout when he first left to live in London.  Through several moves and changes of job, he has nurtured this companion, and like his life, it has grown big and strong.  This is the one he most hopes will be there to greet him when he returns.   I’ll do my best.

Well, I can’t write any more now – I need to get back to my new hobby.

Green Fingers

A while ago Hilary opened our discussion at house group with an ice breaker: 'Are you green-fingered?'

It wasn't something I'd considered until I heard other people's tales of woe. Some murdered plants with neglect. Others with kindness. 

Whereas my plants and I have a live-and-let-live attitude to one another.  They tend to just get on with growing and every so often  I propagate from them. 

I also tweak cuttings from the gardens of stately homes and often they sprout roots.

My proudest moment was when Nigel gave me a single red rose and I accidentally rooted it.

But best of all are the plants that remind me of somebody else. 

A number come from Nigel's mother's garden; many more from my father's. 

Then there's the rosemary bush from Jane and the Solomon's seal from Alison.

In return, I give away bright rudbeckia and fragrant oregano.

So maybe having green fingers is no more than treading the path between kindness and neglect - and not thinking about it too much.