tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23458220699175183472011-12-31T20:59:23.583ZEdith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.comBlogger631100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-69435158805846795172011-04-07T19:10:00.000+01:002011-04-07T19:10:36.757+01:00

My dear Friends, Followers and Favourites, The time has, alas, come to say goodbye. Just over a year ago I knew nothing of weblogging. Indeed, I barely new how to open the computer. Encouraged by those close to me, I began to write my garden journal, always promising myself that I should do so for a year. The year has quickly come and gone and I now feel that I can no longer give the time to

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com83tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-23818596236971303752011-02-27T14:17:00.000Z2011-02-27T14:17:54.187Z

Yesterday I found myself taking coffee at Bruxelles-Nord. This station, one of three serving the capital, and built in a somewhat monolithic style during the 1950s was, I felt, looking decidedly scruffy. But not so the surrounding area which, over the past ten years or so, has been transformed into the City's vibrant business centre. Here steel and tinted glass are the order of the day. Office

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com138tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-7727636152864902552011-02-13T15:31:00.000Z2011-02-13T15:31:53.755Z

I love daisies in the lawn. J, my gardener/handyman, does not. And on this point, as with so many others where matters horticultural are concerned, I rather weakly give in to him. Staff, as we all know only too well, are not easily come by these days, in fact not since the War, and so, perforce, he, along with every cook and housemaid, must be accommodated. Now, with these milder February days, J

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com146tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-43112695498535421012011-02-07T14:13:00.000Z2011-02-07T14:13:03.748Z

Which of us does not enjoy a jolly? A day out, usually in the company of a good friend or friends, to some new, hitherto unexplored or, indeed, familiar place is, in my book, an excellent and uplifting way of countering these dark days of winter. So it was that a week or so back, whilst staying with the ever engaging and delightful T and G in their Regency house in Brighton, that we motored

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com108tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-23078230237575581542011-01-31T12:23:00.000Z2011-01-31T12:23:41.838Z

Strong women do not necessarily approach stridently. Some slip in silently, yet conquer utterly! JG, a dear friend, died in the summer of 2007. Her funeral service, attended by so many friends and well wishers, was a celebration of the life of a remarkable woman. Held in the parish church of St. Peter in the village of Peterchurch, Herefordshire on a hot July afternoon, it was a fitting tribute

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com128tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-62010556402929462762011-01-23T14:17:00.000Z2011-01-23T14:17:31.557Z

Flights of fancy are second nature to me. Ordinary life can, rather too often in my view, be just that so I love nothing better than to daydream of yet to be visited foreign lands, to surf the virtual reality of the Blogosphere, or to lose myself in the latest book of a favourite author. It is, perhaps, no surprise, therefore, that trompe-l'oeil has always held a fascination for me. I never

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com145tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-21272022070086581782010-12-14T18:55:00.000Z2010-12-14T18:55:14.020Z

As the year draws to an end I should like to thank you all, dear friends and followers, for your support during my first year of weblogging. May I take this opportunity of wishing you all a joyful Christmas  and a peaceful New Year. I shall look forward to resuming commenting and posting early in 2011. P.S. The 'Madonna and Child' is by Barbara Hepworth  and is to be found in the Church of 

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com85tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-14786969581696385312010-12-05T19:31:00.000Z2010-12-05T19:31:46.107Z

Backed by Sussex Square to the north and flanked by the terraces of Lewes Crescent to either side, the Kemp Town Enclosures, a large private pleasure garden of some several acres, slopes gently down to the sea. Not dissimilar to a London park in miniature, this green oasis is a highly prized asset to those fortunate to inhabit the stucco mansions, now mostly divided into flats, which surround it

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com108tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-3812358851937378662010-11-27T14:04:00.000Z2010-11-27T14:04:25.133Z

Now, permit me to make one thing clear at the outset. Contrary to popular opinion, a sofa is a sofa. Not to be confused with a settle, a chesterfield or, indeed,  an ottoman, a sofa is never [and, please, note the use of colour] a settee or, worse still, a couch. That said, I have recently become the owner of a Knole sofa, bequeathed to me by an old friend and, happily, able to be removed from

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com140tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-1891356618090282772010-11-17T10:58:00.000Z2010-11-17T10:58:08.967Z

Now, it may be, as the age old adage would suggest, that we beware of the Greeks bearing gifts. But this should not, as recent experience so richly demonstrated, apply to the Russians. Last Sunday my two young Russian friends, N and K, came to lunch. Or, to be truthful, they might have been invited for afternoon tea for, as always, and I have come to expect nothing different from them, they

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com104tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-30010488533376168612010-11-08T14:50:00.000Z2010-11-08T14:50:07.105Z

As Mozart is to music, so trees are, in my view, to gardens. Each, possibly, represents the highest achievement of an art form, perfect in every detail, the pinnacle of aspiration. Now, for those of you who have been falsely led into believing that you are about to gain insight into the workings of 'Don Giovanni', or the Prague Symphony, or even 'Elvira Madigan', then I fear that you are to be

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com132tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-91423887763574582802010-10-26T12:10:00.000+01:002010-10-26T12:10:10.262+01:00

Traditionally, at least within the United Kingdom, November 5th. marks the occasion in 1605 when one Guy Fawkes attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. In the past celebrations of this event were largely of a domestic kind - a bonfire in the back garden, topped by a 'Guy' dressed in discarded, outworn clothing, a few rockets, the odd Catherine wheel and, to add a little glitter, a

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com131tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-45934979470803139122010-10-18T16:56:00.000+01:002010-10-18T16:56:02.431+01:00

Since its inception in 1897, 'Country Life' has acquired a reputation, a pedigree even, which is second to none. It is, I venture to suggest, a National Institution, no less so than the playing fields of Eton upon which, metaphorically, the Battle of Waterloo is said to have been won, the white cliffs of Dover over which, according to Dame Vera Lynn, bluebirds will forever flutter, real ale,

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com106tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-77976620359276051422010-10-11T14:01:00.001+01:002010-10-11T16:05:20.790+01:00

Edith Hope was born into the Blogosphere on a wintry January afternoon. Template tweaked, dashboard dusted and a suitably snowy scene scanned, her first posting was polished then pinged. As an infant of the new technologies, EH had little grasp of Netiquette and struggled to acquire the necessary Blargon to join the Commentariat. Alone in her Blogspot, she had no Google friends, no Favourites

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com156tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-60712387594455561002010-10-01T14:31:00.000+01:002010-10-01T14:31:55.455+01:00

The story is told, although I suspect it to be largely apocryphal, that during the slum clearance of the 1920s and 1930s, and when presented with new, modern housing complete with indoor bathrooms the tenants, unsure what to make of the bath, utilised it for the storage of household coal. Whatever the truth, or otherwise of this, it is correct to say that right up until the Second World War a

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com123tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-66862233666413524822010-09-23T12:04:00.000+01:002010-09-23T12:04:31.161+01:00

Handsome, rich and intelligent. Art collector and gregarious host with impeccable manners and a polished charm, Sir James John Trevor Lawrence was a man of many parts with an insatiable love of orchids. Born in 1831 and educated at Winchester, he qualified as a medical doctor at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London and practised in the Indian Medical Service for ten years. He then served as a

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com112tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-44774667219738454432010-09-15T17:46:00.000+01:002010-09-15T17:46:37.253+01:00

Budapest, Diva of the Danube, is as mysterious as she is beautiful. Decades of concealment behind the Iron Curtain has not diminished her loveliness in spite of the scars of peeling plaster, bullet-holed facades and falling masonry. For behind the smoke screen of blackened stucco lies a City of hidden delights, awaiting discovery by twenty-first century aesthetes in search of timeless elegance.

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com97tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-68357637965738047592010-09-10T22:27:00.001+01:002010-09-10T22:27:51.944+01:00

  By the time I grew up the Empire, alleged to be the largest the world had ever seen, was slowly but surely receding into history. It was my mother's generation who were witness to its demise and who, watching from the sidelines, observed the whole vain-glorious inheritance become crushed under the feet of the new, uncaring, razor carrying, boot-lace tie, drain-pipe trousered Teddy Boy youth

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com93tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-73482167454242885062010-09-06T11:11:00.000+01:002010-09-06T11:11:54.523+01:00

Once I came very, very close to buying a cottage in the country. Quite what prompted this I can no longer recall. Perhaps I had been reading too much in the way of Mary Wesley, spending too many Saturdays to Mondays with friends in Sussex or, most likely, seduced by the glossy photographs to be found on the property pages of 'Country Life'. Whatever, my mind was made up. I should forsake the

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com94tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-16417721483462286702010-09-02T16:42:00.000+01:002010-09-02T16:42:40.059+01:00

The late Victorian villa of BV and his civil partner MS lies south of the River in a somewhat bohemian enclave home to several artists, writers and the garden designer, Dan Pearson. The occasion must be special to draw me across the Thames but an invitation to dinner was certainly reason enough, especially since BV is such a talented cook. Our first meeting, some ten or so years ago, was in the

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com97tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-313148223394983352010-08-29T12:02:00.000+01:002010-08-29T12:02:56.880+01:00

"I have worked with Chinese Yellow all my life," declares my friend M, and her Chelsea drawing room is testament to this. Shot through with flashes of lipstick red, gilded by French pier glasses and furnished with museum quality C18 pieces, this is decorating with panache and huge style. Seemingly without effort, M's Midas touch has created an opulent yet sunny and welcoming room, perfect to

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com114tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-62130959097124709782010-08-25T13:56:00.000+01:002010-08-25T13:56:15.530+01:00

Even in old age, when I knew her, DP was incredibly beautiful. And she was, like so many of her generation, the most perfect of lunch guests - intelligent, witty, charming, and completely self-effacing. That Sally, her sister, through marriage to Gerald Grosvenor should have found herself totally unexpectedly Duchess of Westminster was something which D herself continued to find both slightly

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com70tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-80532193424707958342010-08-21T12:41:00.000+01:002010-08-21T12:41:38.321+01:00

I should not in any way wish to sound disparaging. But there are, I regret to say, certain things which I am unable to countenance. However, since this is a garden journal, I shall endeavour to restict myself to matters horticultural. And, in the interests of brevity, cite three examples only. Others, dear reader, you may guess at for yourself. First, the ubiquitous Spiraea japonica 'Goldflame'

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com78tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-18069658936982568372010-08-17T13:29:00.000+01:002010-08-17T13:29:31.847+01:00

This is a somewhat sad story of a Fuchsia and a Hosta. Well, not exactly. Rather the sorry tale of a one time celebrity, a fall from grace, a death in unusual circumstances and an afterlife through the plants bearing her name. Fuchsia 'Lady Isobel Barnett' and Hosta 'Lady Isobel Barnett' are both deservedly popular garden plants for their vigorous growth, generous blooms and disciplined habits.

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com89tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-43907737684684715262010-08-06T16:22:00.000+01:002010-08-06T16:22:51.918+01:00

Albany is possibly London's most exclusive address. In the heart of Piccadilly, adjacent to The Royal Academy, Fortnum and Mason's as the local grocer, and Hatchard's bookshop directly opposite, an Albany 'set', for that is what an apartment here is called, is as prestigious as it is sought after. Built in 1770 - 1774 for the first Viscount Melbourne, Albany was converted into 'chambers for

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com103tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-79460381984883905482010-07-30T12:40:00.000+01:002010-07-30T12:40:30.358+01:00

When in Budapest, I buy fresh flowers for the apartment every three days. No, dear readers, this is not an extravagance, it is a necessity since cut flowers whenever and wherever they are bought - the local market, the street flower stall or the florist - simply do not last. For the first six hours they look wonderful. By the second day, they are decidedly drooping with tell-tale signs of decay

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com91tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-51054049595343011932010-07-25T10:24:00.000+01:002010-07-25T10:24:25.586+01:00

"Gladioli are such vulgar flowers," my mother would frequently remark. Along with Harold Wilson's Labour government, Woolworths and collarless shirts, they were dismissed as "common", "lacking in refinement" and "offensive". If she had known that the gladiolus was to become the signature flower for Dame Edna Everage she would, I am sure, have felt totally vindicated in holding her extremely

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com104tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-15119242227514426682010-07-20T13:05:00.000+01:002010-07-20T13:05:01.720+01:00

We went by bus. T. had insisted. To travel by motor car would, he informed, be to deny the spirit of the place. And so, in true Bloomsbury style, we alighted at the top of the farm track and made the walk, alongside fields of ripening corn, to the house. Charleston, nestling in the footholds of the South Downs, is quintessentially English. A mellow farmhouse of uncertain date, rose covered,

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com90tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-76202058380648756272010-06-23T17:58:00.000+01:002010-06-23T17:58:59.746+01:00

It is too many years ago to remember when exactly I met The Count. An exile of Poland, his family mansion had been requisitioned by the Soviet Army. Given only the right to remain in Great Britain, but with no passport, The Count would often travel to Folkestone to gaze longingly out to sea and ponder a return one day to his native homeland. The Count and his partner, R, a former ballet dancer,

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com93tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-63211883518358690072010-06-18T12:51:00.000+01:002010-06-18T12:51:12.021+01:00

Over the years I have established a regal collection of peonies. Not a commoner amongst them, they rule graciously over the mixed herbaceous border throughout June. The snow white doubles, 'Duke of Devonshire' and 'Duchesse de Nemours', rub shoulders together and 'Baroness Schroeder', the blush pink of her blooms turning pure white as she ages, adds to the great houses of Europe represented.

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com87tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-25830603060815157412010-06-13T08:38:00.002+01:002010-06-13T09:13:08.444+01:00

It should be noted that the Irish do not have drives. The approach to their houses is always by way of the avenue. Think for one moment of those great  Anglo Irish houses, Aragon, Garonlea, Sorristown, which inhabit the fictional world of Molly Keane, M.J. Farrell, or those which appear on the pages of such consummate writers as Elizabeth Bowen or William Trevor. Whilst the lodges may be in

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com99tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-83683210226396139892010-06-08T17:38:00.000+01:002010-06-08T17:38:40.211+01:00

As if to prove that true quality never dies, it merely becomes reinvented, Sir Hardy Amies, or rather his writing since he died in 2003, has enjoyed a revival of late. I, for one, applaud this since although the waspish humour of the Queen's late couturier is not to everyone's liking, there is a good deal of fun and sometimes sense in what he has to say. For example, in his 'ABC of Men's Fashion'

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com88tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-47488135605392740922010-06-04T21:55:00.000+01:002010-06-04T21:55:15.273+01:00

My absence since the end of April from the world of blogging was intended to be brief. However, a planned short visit to a very dear old friend turned into an unplanned extended stay as, on arrival, I became aware of her terminal illness and her wish to die at home. Without any family to support her, my role was clear: first, the daily tasks of running the house; secondly, the duties of nurse;

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-55525684820564423212010-04-18T10:17:00.000+01:002010-04-18T10:17:41.828+01:00

Vincent Van Gogh immortalised the Sunflower, Monet captured the Water Lily for perpetuity, and Redouté is synonymous with the Rose. And now, waiting in the wings, paintbrush poised to render the Auricula into the annals of art history is J, my gardener/handyman. My 'significant' [although never to be counted] birthday at the end of last month was marked by a charming gift from J. Brown parcel

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com94tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-11551681075404214542010-04-14T12:12:00.000+01:002010-04-14T12:12:39.372+01:00

Mostly when I alight from a London taxi it is not to be greeted by a handsome young waiter proffering a glass of champagne. But such was the case a little while back when I stepped onto the pavement outside of 1, Poultry, Lord Palumbo's modern office building in the heart of the City. The occasion, the fortieth birthday celebration of my friend, N. Now, I should not have expected anything less

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com86tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-58893872675428681592010-04-10T12:32:00.000+01:002010-04-10T12:32:59.657+01:00

Once I aspired to be one of those people, [we all know the type], who is capable of rendering a whole room of noisy chatter to silence, can stop others in their tracks with their mere presence and is able to command an audience with just an enigmatic smile. But, following the advice of my mother, who in turn learned from that most original of society hostesses, Emerald Cunard, such people are not

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com116tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-21961938493644670312010-04-06T09:47:00.000+01:002010-04-06T09:47:28.779+01:00

Maggie Smith, or Dame Maggie Smith, as she has become, as the eponymous heroine in the film version of Muriel Spark's highly entertaining novel, 'The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie', refers to chrysanthemums as "such serviceable flowers". My mother, who never became a Dame, regarded dahlias in much the same way. Suitable for decorating the waiting rooms of doctors and dentists, and for distributing

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com120tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-69043528287415602622010-04-02T10:43:00.000+01:002010-04-02T10:43:33.645+01:00

As a small child in the 1950s, the end of Lent was always time for celebration. Of course, the hot cross buns and chocolate Easter eggs were welcome, especially as sweets were still rationed, and the drifts of golden daffodils carpeting the countryside were magical after months of dreary winter weather. But, it was for something else that my excitement knew no bounds - new clothes! A summery

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-5689127277807948072010-03-21T12:05:00.000Z2010-03-21T12:05:51.445Z

Dear Followers, Readers, Newcomers, and those who have stumbled  across my weblog by mistake, My computer and I are to part company for a little over a week. Me to a round of visiting friends; my computer to a sanatorium. There will, therefore, be an intermission during which time I shall not be posting and will, very sadly, be unable to comment on others. I anticipate that normal service will

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-20722656382586417812010-03-18T09:36:00.000Z2010-03-18T09:36:36.677Z

Life is a compromise. Or so it is for my young friends, T and G. Upon moving to Brighton, T set his heart on a modern apartment which, in contrast, would be filled with antiques. G, on the other hand, vaguely imagined something much older, resplendent in original details, but barely furnished at all, minimalist to the extreme. Their C18 Regency house is a period piece, lifted entirely from the

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com81tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-62830193750303687832010-03-15T08:52:00.000Z2010-03-15T08:52:25.305Z

Today is a Hungarian National Holiday. Throughout the country, in every city, town and village the red, white and green tricolor is proudly flying. From the Parliament in the capital to the tiniest of artisan dwellings, the flag flutters in the chilly March breeze. Here in Budapest each train, tram and trolley-bus, even the Metro, is not without this symbol of National unity, nor so the

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com64tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-33384290891775157022010-03-11T10:08:00.000Z2010-03-11T10:08:35.062Z

'Tablescape' is a word not of my invention. But, if truth were to tell, then I rather wish it were. In fact it owes its origin, or so I believe, to that master of interior decoration, most imaginative of garden designers, connoisseur of the decorative arts, author of innumerable books, the late David Nightingale Hicks. Whether at work inside or out, DH's concern was always for classical

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com66tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-49484480806274193592010-03-07T11:32:00.000Z2010-03-07T11:32:52.610Z

We live in litigious times. It is no longer uncommon for a patient to sue a doctor, for an attacker to sue a victim acting in self-defence, or for a child to sue a parent for 'wrongful' correction. You will, therefore, share my concern as I look from my windows to see J hurling himself, minus a hard helmet, goggles and safety harness, on to the roof of one of my garden pavilions. The question of

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com83tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-63344694106467757692010-03-04T10:01:00.000Z2010-03-04T10:01:17.218Z

My great chum, B, adores pink, especially in her garden and, most particularly, in her rose garden. Come summer, blush pink, salmon pink, lilac pink, cerise and silver pink blooms merge into a candyfloss cloud to B's absolute delight and pleasure. Unsurprisingly, Hybrid Perpetuals feature prominently here and although B prefers a somewhat laissez-faire approach to all aspects of her gardening,

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com63tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-74948534690192617932010-02-28T09:30:00.000Z2010-02-28T09:30:00.593Z

To topiarise, or not to topiarise? That, as Hamlet might have put it, is the question. Friends T and G are in love with yew, Taxus baccata, and box, Buxus sempervirens. Moreover, following a round of garden visits last summer, they are now in love with topiary. Or certainly with the idea. Their latest thoughts are to create button finials to mark the end of the yew buttresses planted to conceal

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com78tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-56308077818822104582010-02-23T20:09:00.000Z2010-02-23T20:09:20.299Z

Keleti pályaudvar, Budapest's Eastern railway station, does not rank among the world's greatest termini. It has neither the enormity of Grand Central Station, New York, the imperial thrust of Milan's homage to the Roman Empire, nor the glitz of London's newly renovated St. Pancras. Yet, not withstanding its peeling paint, its shattered glass roof and dusty Art Deco booking halls, it conjures up a

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com64tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-91678363644949003102010-02-20T15:05:00.000Z2010-02-20T15:05:10.649Z

I am a creature of habit. I suspect that many of us are. Around four o'clock each afternoon I treat myself to a pot of Earl Grey tea and, more often than not, a teacake. This is a little ritual in which I have indulged for a number of years. To this pleasure has been added, in recent weeks, another. For it is at this time of the day, or possibly morning in Canada, that Teza, of Teza's Garden,

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-16224771313557527492010-02-18T09:35:00.000Z2010-02-18T09:35:42.415Z

I feel a little let down. Or, at the very least, disappointed. My friend, B, who was staying with me recently, says that I strive too hard for perfection. That is all very well coming from her whose own Hampshire garden is anything but perfect. It is not unfair to say, and I certainly have no wish to be unkind, but maintenance is not at the top of her list of priorities. My problem arises from

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com60tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-68160283143953871042010-02-15T09:11:00.000Z2010-02-15T09:11:17.333Z

One of my hellebores is a member of the peerage. Or, to be exact, carries the name of someone who used to be. Helleborus orientalis 'Lady Bonham Carter' is a plant of impeccable pedigree. Clear pink, netted in dusky wine, this cultivar was raised by a famous Yorkshireman, Ernest Raithby. That he named this hellebore after such a remarkable woman is an indication, I feel, of the esteem with which

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com60tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-45125352053116389102010-02-11T11:04:00.000Z2010-02-11T11:04:25.157Z

My Alpine House is J's retreat. A refuge from inclement weather, a bolt-hole for enjoying his sandwich lunch, a den for seed sowing, taking cuttings and potting on and, perhaps most importantly, I suspect, an escape from me. At its farthest end is to be found the 'Cabinet of Curiosities', as J and I refer to it. In a number of terracotta pot and pans, small rarities are nurtured and, upon

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com70tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-29908889697696827562010-02-08T11:20:00.000Z2010-02-08T11:20:53.817Z

Sharp, oiled and menacing, my secateurs lie in wait. Mass execution is the order of the day. But allow me to explain. Below my dining room windows, which overlook the front garden, is a long border of some 25 x 4 feet. It has always proved troublesome, largely on account of its shady aspect and a tendency to be on the dry side. Being in the lee of the house wall, rain does not penetrate as much

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com74tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-23444100805273187052010-02-05T09:55:00.001Z2010-02-05T09:57:19.482Z

Lights, camera, ACTION! The Laskett is going public. For the price of an admission ticket, the intensely private garden of Sir R S is shortly to be exposed to general scrutiny. Not so many years ago I had the privilege of a private invitation to this 3 acre garden set in the rolling Herefordshire countryside. Chronicled by Francis Kilvert, the C19 diarist, this is a land of pedigree cattle, cider

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-25046550811352411892010-02-02T14:10:00.000Z2010-02-02T14:10:36.505Z

I don't do rocks. That is to say, I have no interest in climbing Everest, the Eiger, not even Richmond Hill [for those of you who know Putney]. I have never followed rock bands, nor attended a rock concert. I avoid seaside rock, the exception being the novel by Graham Greene, and my collection of diamonds is piteously small. Edinburgh, Kew and Wisley are the jewels in the crown of British rock

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-58143583432896053632010-01-31T10:00:00.000Z2010-01-31T10:00:41.540Z

Brighton is under an hour by train from London. Yesterday I was there, visiting my young friends, T and G. As I may have already mentioned, they live just off the seafront in Kemp Town, or 'Camp' Town as they very naughtily refer to it as. I am presently engaged with assisting them with the design [to date] and planting [in the future] of their garden. T and G's house is quite charming. On the

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-66228451558610910262010-01-27T09:51:00.000Z2010-01-27T09:51:12.121Z

A fortnight ago, or thereabouts, I had no idea about 'Blogs' or 'Blogging'. Had I been asked , I think I might have assumed they were to do with felling trees. The same could have been said of 'Posts', always associated in my mind with letters and The Royal Mail, of 'Dashboard', the instrument panel in a motor car, and of 'Reading List', book titles distributed by my local public library. '

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com54tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-86704463332991899992010-01-24T12:20:00.000Z2010-01-24T12:20:42.878Z

I am rather fussy about my hellebores. In fact, I am probably rather fussy about most things. I like order, and especially I like order in the garden. Not for me the unraked gravel, the untamed shrub, the untrimmed hedge or edge. T and G refer to me as a 'Control Freak' which, in the light of their meticulously maintained garden, is a little unfair. I know that I miss out on frosted seedheads,

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-48677738643315738272010-01-20T09:30:00.000Z2010-01-20T09:30:16.555Z

"No garden is, or should be, what it was. It is a living, growing, changing thing". These are not my words but they are my sentiments. A great garden cannot stand still or be preserved for ever in aspic. It should evolve. But what makes for a great garden?  Why is it that some endure for decades, yet others disappear overnight? Why do some become famous, whilst others fall into oblivion? Why are

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com62tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-10838119620993172482010-01-18T17:02:00.000Z2010-01-18T17:02:37.742Z

I long to grow lemon trees. In pots, of course, but I have nowhere suitable to site them. And I am not sure that they would over winter in my east facing Garden Room. My friend, M,  in Chelsea has two. Indeed, she seems to have two of everything believing that things placed in pairs are always more satisfactory, both inside and out. These trees she keeps all year round on her sunny, sheltered

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-63644623052729752912010-01-17T10:21:00.000Z2010-01-17T10:21:57.406Z

Yesterday was the day of my little lunch party. Just ten of us in total - a nice number to fit comfortably around the table. The liveliest members of the group were my young friend T, who drove up from Brighton with his boyfriend G, and my old school chum, B. T and G are very keen gardeners and are making a highly formal, courtyard garden behind their Regency terraced house just yards from the

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-14663215900432545342010-01-15T18:35:00.001Z2010-01-15T18:45:39.590Z

My mother had a great gift as a flower arranger. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s she became a follower of Constance Spry, shown in the picture in 1953, and of Julia Clements, poring over such titles as 'Floral Roundabout' and 'Fun Without Flowers', later graduating to Edith Tangye's 'Flowers For All Occasions'. Unhappily I do not share her talent. I know nothing of the general principles of

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-82043361565647781242010-01-14T10:52:00.000Z2010-01-14T10:52:20.372Z

I have yet to finish planting my tulip bulbs. Events in autumn somehow overtook me and now, since Christmas, this dismal weather has curtailed any outside activity. Happily, I am unconcerned. Past experience has shown that a late planting simply results in a late flowering. So, all will be well. The pots, which I like to place either side of the hall and garden doors, were completed on time in

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-18983244479342275592010-01-13T07:40:00.002Z2010-01-13T15:43:18.539Z

Winfield House has been the official ambassadorial residence since 1954, having been a gift to the U.S. Government from Barbara Hutton, heiress to the Woolworth fortune. There is a charming statue of her in the grounds close to the house. The 12 acres of garden include mature trees, sweeping lawns and magnificent flower borders all immaculately maintained by the Head Gardener, S.C., and his team

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2345822069917518347.post-9948264943363951652010-01-12T19:14:00.004Z2010-01-13T15:43:56.248Z

For the first time in years the London parks have transformed themselves into a winter wonderland. I took a walk recently in the Regent's Park - absolutely magical! One of the greatest kept secrets of the Capital is, of course, Winfield House, the home of the American Ambassador just a stone's throw from the Regent's Park yet absolutely hidden from prying eyes. The private garden, second only

Edith Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14155038749736611011noreply@blogger.com0