The question of what to grow this year has our columnist Nigel Slater thinking back on past failures and hoping wildly for the future. <\/p>
My plans, it turned out, were na\u00efve. My small, thin box of a garden was to have a simple palette of dark-green bones with occasional flashes of white. The \u2018bones\u2019 were yew, ivy and hornbeam. The white flashes were to be Ammi majus<\/em>, cosmos<\/a> and roses<\/a>. I ordered an avalanche of snow-white brunnera, some climbing roses and a pair of white Paeonia rockii<\/em> from a trusted specialist<\/a>, and waited.<\/p> You may also like<\/strong><\/p> My careful plans started to unravel as soon as some of those white brunnera turned out to be blue and the roses sported distinctly yellow buds before the white petals unfolded. To rub salt into the wound, the peonies took three years to flower and their four voluptuous, ball-gown blossoms showed up as a rather loud magenta. The white garden was clearly beyond this amateur gardener.<\/p> And yet I do fail, annually. I could write my disasters off for good, but what to do when you love something so much? <\/p><\/blockquote> I moved on, slightly embarrassed, to an early summer palette<\/a> of apricot, orange and deep wine-red. The introduction of colour<\/a> was going well until I was seduced by pink roses with names as sweet as their perfume and realised I had also inherited my father\u2019s love of carnival-coloured dahlias<\/a>; a mixture that even in the most careful of horticultural hands could look like a nursery school\u2019s playroom. <\/p> Getting colour right (whatever that may mean) is somehow more crucial in a small garden<\/a> because there are no corners to turn. Your eye has no choice but to take in the entire garden, successes and mistakes, in one glance. The brick walls of the house are painted a rusty orange, which would be the perfect backdrop for burgundy-petalled Rosa<\/em> \u2018Souvenir du Docteur Jamain\u2019 and Dahlia<\/em> \u2018Chat Noir\u2019. Yet I remain in a constant dilemma about how far to go with introducing colour into what is a rather uptight garden. \u2018Apricot, white, deep wine-red\u2019 has become something of a personal garden mantra, but also a belt that feels tighter by the year; but then, don\u2019t they all? <\/p> Will this be the summer I finally have raindrops sitting in the folds of my hosta leaves, or can I see the slugs unfurling their napkins?<\/p><\/blockquote> Should this be the summer<\/a> I let in a little yellow or purple, already so successful in spring? Perhaps in the form of Achillea filipendulina<\/em> \u2018Gold Plate\u2019 or the nostalgic Aster x frikartii \u2018M\u00f6nch\u2019. Sadly, the sight of purple and yellow within six feet of each other makes this gardener queasy. I am now leaning in the direction of the richer ochre and purple tones of Achillea<\/em> \u2018Inca Gold\u2019 and Aster amellu<\/em>s \u2018King George\u2019. But still I worry.<\/p> I am learning that the colour choices that please and those that grate are often only a few spins of the colour wheel away from one another. The welcome hue of a wild primrose<\/a> or Rosa banksiae<\/em> is just a short jump from the rather strident Primula<\/em> \u2018Showstopper Yellow\u2019 or Rosa<\/em> \u2018Arthur Bell\u2019, both of which I would probably be tempted to \u2018deadhead\u2019 while still in bud. And why is it I have such deep affection for Rosa<\/em> Graham Thomas (= \u2018Ausmas\u2019) or the trusty Dahlia<\/em> \u2018David Howard\u2019, yet cannot countenance Dahlia<\/em> \u2018Penhill Yellow Queen\u2019? I am wondering too, why do bold and bright dahlias get let off the hook\u2028so easily, like naughty children allowed to run riot in the library? Screeching yellow aside, the dahlias\u2019 exuberance is always welcome.<\/p> Getting colour right (whatever that may mean) is somehow more crucial in a small garden because there are no corners to turn. <\/p><\/blockquote> The application of more colour is right at the top of my ever- increasing garden \u2018to do\u2019 list, but not far behind is my second dilemma, the \u2018let\u2019s try again\u2019 list: plants that I would love to have\u2028here but that have previously not worked. Is it worth having another go, I ask myself. The collection contains many all-time favourites, including the Benton irises<\/a>, single hollyhocks<\/a>, martagon lilies, lupins<\/a> and hostas<\/a>, and curiously, even phlox and asters \u2013 all usually reliable, but ones that have let me down time and again. Failing with Michaelmas daisies<\/a> feels rather like a life-long cook admitting they can\u2019t make a Victoria sponge. <\/p> And yet I do fail, annually. I could write my disasters off for good, but what to do when you love something so much? The soft, powdery scent of phlox<\/a> is such an integral ingredient of my happiest childhood memories and I am frustrated at my own lack of success in growing it, especially as it is hardly a troublesome plant for most gardeners. I can\u2019t help thinking that maybe this will be the year phlox \u2018Monica Lynden-Bell\u2019 has a change of heart and decides my urban space is the place for her.<\/p>