OAMARU

- A gardener makes a few resolutions for the new year.

Every year I see images of dahlias all about, and I think oh, how pretty. Then I discover they are all sold out – because once again I have missed what feels like that split second when they go on sale – and I think oh well, next year. Maybe I will have to have some gentleman in a back alley tattoo this on to my arm, or maybe I have a blimp scheduled to fly past at the appointed time with “Buy dahlias now, you idiot” written upon it in screaming neon font.

The borders of dahlias at Forde Abbey in England are of particular inspiration for me as much as the more modest gardens of people who have dahlias in abundance around the neighbourhood. I like how utterly shameless dahlias are – strange flamboyant bursts upon the landscape, as if William Morris met the Beatles in India or as if Elton John were a flower. They are colourful and loud, and speak to me of summer more than any other flower. Sometimes, I am guilty for picking a varietal of flower which isn’t so common or en vogue. However, I must confess that the dahlia I most want is ‘Cafe au Lait’, a creamy, coffee-stained tuber which seems to pepper a certain type of garden in architecture magazines. They are perhaps the pumpkin spice latte of dahlias, and I want them by the dozen.

Usually, my “must do better” list is quite banal: plant seeds earlier, label seeds (by the time they are seedlings it is often a surprise, like a favourite relative turning up at the door with a nice bottle of wine). Yet, on the more unhinged “must do” side, I find myself wanting very simple topiary in pots: Small toparised balls trimmed just-so set against the terracotta of a very plain pot might do quite well. This impulse has surprised me as much as it might surprise those who know me: highly controlled, formalised gardens with a lot of topiary hold no interest for me.

If – and this is a big if – I manage to fulfil any resolution, I should like to carry a small notebook in my pocket so I can take notes of what plants looked particularly good and when it was. Often things occur randomly that have a very pleasing effect but by the time comes around to replicate it, I have forgotten about it entirely. For instance, I have a dark, almost black pelargonium growing in a pot. Some mint found itself in the pot too, entirely by chance. The effect of the pelargonium’s leathery foliage against the backdrop of the mint’s upright green was so subtle and pleasing, I doubt I would’ve thought of it myself. I notice these little random coincidences all the time, but hardly ever remember them.

This year I erred too tasteful in spite of myself. My friend K made a garden in Auckland – all pinks, oranges, ferns and subtropicals growing under massive tree canopies. There was not a rose in sight. At first I positively did not like the pinks and oranges – the surreal shades of the various bromeliads were anathema to my largely English sensibilities. But then, another friend, who is English, chastised me for some bright yellow daisies I had growing. “Rip those out!” she admonished.

But what’s wrong with bright yellow? Nearly two years into a pandemic, perhaps clashing colours is exactly what we need.

Me and New Year’s resolutions tend to go the way of Douglas Adams and deadlines: I like the whooshing sound as they go past.