The National Garden Scheme

I went to a beautiful garden last weekend. Seeing all the bright spring bulbs in flower I thought to myself, is it perhaps just possible, maybe, please God, that winter really is now over?

I think we are all tired of this winter. It seems to have been endlessly cold, wet, gloomy, with more snow than we have seen in years. I am sure that I am not alone with these thoughts. It has been really bad news for the seriously depressed, and those with SAD, (seasonal affective disorder).

Everyone has been looking for the first opportunity to get out and about at the weekend and this garden was packed with visitors enjoying the colourful displays, the mild weather and the tea and cakes with a view.

What brought everyone out to enjoy this garden? We have a scheme in the UK called the National Garden Scheme. Every year people open their private gardens up and down the country for the public to come and view, to raise funds for charities. In the last 10 years the scheme has donated more than £23million to different national and local charities, including for example Marie Curie Cancer Care, Macmillan Cancer Support, Help the Hospices, and other major charities, and more than 1000 local charities nominated by garden owners.  Add to an interesting garden the teas and home made cakes which are almost invariably available, and a pleasant afternoon is guaranteed. The gardens vary from the tiniest town plots to the largest estates. They are all different, all show off different features, and very often the owner is on hand to answer questions. If you are not already a supporter, I can strongly recommend that this year you obtain the little yellow directory for your area (often available in garden centres or nurseries - otherwise obtainable by post- see the website) and try a few for yourself. 

Do other countries have similar schemes? Do let me know.

I leave the last word on spring to William Shakespeare, from Love’s Labours Lost 

When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
“Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.


When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
“Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.