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    The Low Road - Hardy Heathers and the Heather Garden
    The Low Road - Hardy Heathers and the Heather Garden
    The Low Road - Hardy Heathers and the Heather Garden
    Ebook115 pages1 hour

    The Low Road - Hardy Heathers and the Heather Garden

    By D. Fyfe Maxwell

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    About this ebook

    This vintage book contains a complete guide to growing heather, with step-by-step instructions for growing a variety of heathers as well as handy tips and useful suggestions on maintenance. Profusely-illustrated and novice-friendly, "The low Road" is highly recommended for anyone with an interest in growing heather or gardening in general. Contents include: "Preparing the Ground for a Heather Garden", "The Building of the Mountain Heather Garden", Planting a Heather Garden", "The Taller-Growing Hardy Heather", "The Dwarf Winter-Flowering Heathers", "Erica Ciliaris-The Dorset Heather", "Erica Tetralix-The Cross-Leaved Heather", "Erica Cinerea-The Bell or Fine-Leaved Heather", et cetera. Many vintage books such as this are increasingly scarce and expensive. We are republishing this volume now in an affordable, high-quality edition complete with the original artwork and text. First published in 1927.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHome Farm Books
    Release dateSep 6, 2017
    ISBN9781473341203
    The Low Road - Hardy Heathers and the Heather Garden

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      The Low Road - Hardy Heathers and the Heather Garden - D. Fyfe Maxwell

      THE LOW ROAD.

      INTRODUCTION.

      You tak’ the high road, and I’ll tak’ the low road.

      —Old song.

      GARDENING to-day follows two distinct roads.

      Some people prefer the high road of artificial magnificence, while others find more pleasure in the low road of natural simplicity.

      The high road has a perfect surface and is used almost exclusively by the owners of large high-powered touring cars, who, speeding along, have not the ability nor desire to examine beauty in detail. To appeal to the tastes of its users, the high road is bordered with large patches of vividly-coloured flowers, the last word in the creative and selective art of the modern hybridist and nurseryman.

      Here is a stretch of gaudy Dahlias. A new variety with flowers at least half-an-inch wider than any kind previously introduced. It is, however, not an atom less vulgar. There is a border of the latest Rose. No other Rose can approach it for size or colour, but it is scentless and without soul. Further along a new variety of Tritoma is seen, in a mass. Perhaps these Red-hot Pokers recall a Christmas holiday during childhood? An evening of merry laughter at the pantomime; a Harlequinade, the clown, a comic policeman? Harlequin and Columbine dance across your mental vision. You laugh—back through the years—at the old perennial joke of Old Joe doddering along the stage, two inches in front of the business end of a—Tritoma! These Red-hot Pokers, however, are a very different matter, a modern introduction, and remarkably long in the red-hot portion!

      In front of these flaming fire-irons is a stretch of scarlet Salvias. The system of mass formation that produces such wonderful splashes of colour robs the plant of its individual beauty. How can one appreciate the beauty of a Salvia when dazzled by a sheet of scarlet? Had these Salvias been intermingled with a plant having silvery foliage, such as Centaurea gymnocarpa, they could be looked upon with pleasure without the aid of smoked glasses. That, however, is not the way of the high road.

      Hard by, may be seen a patch of golden orange-coloured Calendulas; a veritable yellow peril of Marigolds.

      And so the road goes on, a smooth-surfaced strip edged with borders containing masses of flowers of brilliant colours.

      To maintain this road at so high a standard is a very costly business. The soil in the borders must be deeply tilled. Manures—and generally lime—must be supplied in exactly the right quantities to suit the tastes of the pampered pedigree plants that are to grow in it. Much costly labour will be required for planting, weeding, hoeing, staking, watering, and removing the dead flowers.

      Will you tak’ the high road? Or will you do me the honour of exploring the low road in my poor company?

      The low road is not a road for powerful cars, but must be traversed on foot; thick boots and a stout stick are necessary companions. It is a by-way, and little money has been spent on its upkeep. An old man, who talks with the brogue of the countryside of a generation ago, cuts back the brimbles and does the hedging and ditching. He can neither read nor write, but has a memory that never fails him. His mind is a perfect card-index of local events, and contains also, the memory of a few happenings of national importance. He would doubtless remember the dates of the death of the late Queen Victoria and the outbreak of the Boer War, in fact any news that would come to him by word of mouth. About such items as an epoch-making speech by a Cabinet Minister, that could not be discussed by his mates with interest or understanding, he would know little, as the printed sheet could convey no information to him.

      Supposing one said to him: Do you remember the gale that blew down the big poplar by Farmer Grigg’s old barn? he would probably reply, That I do, sir. He would then turn over the cards in his mental card-index. "The wind it were ter’ble, we thought as the thatch were coming off our cottage. My missus would get up and make a cup o’ tea. If aught alarms her she do allus make a cup o’ tea. That would be eleven years ago come November. And that do remind me, sir, of——" and, with a further turning of the cards, he would recall local events for the few weeks before and after the great gale. His powers of observation are such as no town-bred man can acquire. He knows every creature and flower of the fields and hedgerows, and is familiar with their ways and habits. He has quaint old country names for them all. He can say—with wonderful truth—whether it will rain or whether it will be fine, and during the light of day he has no need of a watch.

      He is an old man of no education but great understanding. This old countryman shocks his grandsons—who have migrated to the great towns—with his respect for the King and his love for his Country. Unlike them, he does not feel a sense of degradation at the occasional use of the word sir in his conversation.

      With purpose have I laid bare the soul of Old Sam. For what purpose will be shown in the last chapter.

      The low road stretches away, cutting through an oak wood. In the Spring this is dotted with Lent Lilies, Bluebells and Primroses, while the Wood Anemones form the foundation of Nature’s magic carpet. If one but knows the mystic words that will summon the Slave of the Carpet, fairyland is not far off. A tiny stream tinkles its way along ’neath the pale green fronds of the Harts-tongue Fern, and there are Violets to be found on the bank if one but look closely. This is surely a corner of God’s own garden.

      As one journeys on past fields and an old thatched farmhouse the character of the land changes; the soil becomes poorer, less ground is under the plough, and there are few hedges. As the crest of a small hill is attained a very different view is seen; the road stretches like a ribbon across moorland, which in late summer and autumn is a sheet of purple.

      Nature—that great landscape gardener—invariably uses Heather when she wishes to garden on a grand scale. We, with our puny abilities, cannot hope to compete with her, but we can at least try to learn from her. We can capture the breath of the Pines and bring the atmosphere of the moor and hillside into our gardens.

      On the moor the scene has changed. Spring—with its wealth of golden Broom and Gorse—has passed away, and summer, under the ripening influence of the sun, is beginning to mature. A mantle of purple is, day by day, being draped across the landscape; and the bees, making merry music, hum the overture to Nature’s great play. Lo! the curtain rises; the scene is set with the Heather in full bloom; the royal purple mantle has stretched away up the hills into the distance, and is meeting the golden sunset, as old Sol retires to rest behind the hills.

      In yonder hollow is a little thatched cottage, with smoke rising from its single chimney. By the open doorway stands an old woman, looking out across the moor. She catches sight of a man trudging his way, knee-deep, through the Heather, and waves to him. He returns the signal with his red handkerchief. Old Sam’s supper will be ready for him!

      You have seen the high road with its trim borders and brilliant colours, and you have tramped the rough low road

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