1,000 Tulips

Or: how to plant 1,000 tulips in a 'very small garden'

According to the estate agent’s floorplan, my garden is 6.00 m by 4.48 m approx. Or, if you prefer (as my new friend, Diana, does) it is 19’8 ft by 14’8 ft.

Now, that’s more private, outdoor space than many people have. Including the people who live in the house behind mine. They extended their house as far as they could into their garden, so that I can practically touch their extension (and yet, still, there is room enough in their sliver of paving for a large tree that dumps its leaves into my tiny paradise). I’ve lost my train of thought…

Right. I’m privileged to have this much space, but I don’t think it is too lacking in self-awareness to say that many (if not most) would consider this a ‘small garden’.

Vita Sackville-West, that marvellous snob, said when giving advice on designing small gardens, “by a small garden I mean anything from half an acre to two acres” (with thanks to Ben Dark’s ‘The Grove’ for this quote). So, by Vita’s standards this is… not even a small garden. It’s almost laughably small. It’s a very small garden.

And into this very small garden I have planted 1,000 tulip bulbs.

Ok, it’s not 1,000 on the nose. It’s more like 1,007 or something. I had been keeping a list of the varieties I’d planted and the quantity of each (is there something intrinsic to gardeners that we love lists for the sake of lists?) and when I realised I was at about 975 the heavenly roundness of the number 1,000 was too close and too tantalising not to find 25 more bulbs. So I did.

The last three varieties I planted were ‘Prior’, ‘Finola’ and ‘Flaming Purissima’. The first was, of course, Estella. In between there were about 78 others.

We’re all thinking it: it is going to be a hot mess.

Absolutely it is. All 1,000 are planted in pots. Well, I say ‘pots’… ‘containers’ is probably more accurate. Two old zinc tubs (one more like a small bath), a large copper boiler pot (copied

Arthur Parkinson

’s) from my favourite place in the world for antiquing, miscellaneous terracotta pots, and (hidden near the house) lots of charming plastic pots in various hues and sizes.

When I ran out of large containers, I used whatever I could find. The more I ran out of money, the more creative I became. Some will almost certainly have issues with balance once they start to get taller, and will topple over. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I even planted some narcissus bulbs (I didn’t only do the 1,000 tulips) into a Meissen ‘work basket dish’ I’ve long kept on a shelf ‘for best’. I don’t think they’re very happy in there but I had to keep the beds clear for the controversial new planting scheme.

I also have one large, ugly raised bed that I bought as a temporary solution last summer and still really want to get rid of. But now it contains hundreds of tulip bulbs. A brief reprieve.

This is all a massive overcorrection after my measly planting last year. But at least (I hope) I’ll have armfuls of cut flowers to enjoy. And I’m hoping some of my weird and wonderful ‘creative containers’ might make for fun table decorations come Easter.

Out of the 1,000, I am most excited about the varieties I’ve ordered from Jacques Amand. I feel like a fraud. Having only grown tulips once before suddenly I’m planting rare, historic tulips that cost up to £6 per bulb. Who do I think I am? But since I’m willing to forgo a nutritious diet in order to afford such obscene luxuries, I am as worthy as any proper gardener. It reminds me of that bit in ‘Hons and Rebels’:

[Muv] once offered a prize of half a crown to the child who could produce the best budget for a young couple living on £500 a year; but Nancy ruined the contest by starting her list of expenditures with ‘Flowers… £490’

Hons & Rebels, by Jessica Mitford

I think about this quote at least three times a week. I find it very relatable.

And yes, I could have stuck to tried and tested pairings. I could have ordered a ‘tulip collection’ by a professional instead of impulse buying tulips of every colour and shape. But where’s the fun in that? Where’s the creativity? Where’s the risk? How will I figure out the best thing to do if I don’t fuck up first? I don’t want everything to be neat and perfect, I want this to be a laboratory of joy.

I know everyone says that flowers are like the paints and the garden the canvas (someone said a pithy thing about it but I can’t think who - Monet? Alan Titchmarsh? Bueller? Bueller?) but I believe this more and more. And if that is so, then ordering a bulb collection is like doing a paint-by-numbers. Nothing wrong with that if that’s what you love to do, but I’d rather be the Jackson Pollock - stirring shit up and pissing off the establishment. It’s obviously going well so far.

I have a true understanding of Tulipmania now. I can’t think about seeing these bulbs blooms too much or I’ll be found rocking in a corner, hugging my knees to my chest, muttering incantations to hurry the time ‘til April, ‘O quickly, quickly run, horses of the night’.

OK well we’re bastardising Marlowe now so let’s leave off.