When we first moved in here, there was a sort of hedge and fence around the garden. Overgrown elder, dead elm, and a mix of fence materials ranging from corrugated iron panels to iron railings to lengths of loosely anchored chicken wire. It was a mess.
We spent our first year getting rid of the scraps of makeshift fencing. We talked to our neighbours and got their agreement to put in a proper fence, one that straightened out the boundary rather than wandering in a wavy line.
The second and third winters we planted a hedge all the way around, both sides and across the top. Bare-root trees; mainly British native species, chosen for a mix of attractive bark, fruits for the birds, nuts for all kinds of wildlife and bright leaf colours in autumn. We planned to keep it trimmed to six feet in height.
It was slow getting going. Six or seven years after the original hedge went in, some of the plants had managed to get to six feet tall. The next we knew we had some seriously tall trees. It’s settled into a constant battle in autumn and early winter – cutting down the plants to as close to six foot tall as we can get. Whoever encouraged us to get dogrose and hawthorn as a kind of natural barbed wire should come back here and give us a hand.
It’s been mild and sunny most of the day, and there’s been bees bothering the flowers on the elaeagnus. I’ve found one borage plant still stubbornly flowering in the hedge, and the honeysuckle’s back in flower. More like early spring than November, and I’m not going to complain.
Julia Chalkley 