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Abbie’s newspaper columns

My unlikely global study of outdoor furniture made from polyester resin ends in the face of corporate takeover

The raffia or rattan look

The raffia or rattan look

I admit my fascination with polyester resin garden furniture may place me in a small minority. My global study, superficial as it is, may make it an even smaller club. I hasten to add that this curiosity is entirely academic, or is that esoteric? I have never owned a piece of polyester resin furniture in my life and indeed have actively shunned it on aesthetic grounds but this does not stop it being a source of great amusement.

Polyester resin furniture is that cheap, plastic type which hit our stores well over a decade ago. Being low priced and functional, it pretty much took the bottom end of the market by storm as New Zealanders embraced the concept of al fresco living. In those early days, it came in three colours – white, dark green, and for those with slightly higher social aspirations, sophisticated sage green. That was it. I didn’t think about it much until we did a trip to Vietnam about eight years ago. In place of their traditional bamboo and cane furniture, there were the same polyester resin chairs and tables but not in our aforementioned colours. No, the Vietnamese ones came only in French blue and burgundy. Suddenly it dawned on me that this was a global phenomenon and somewhere, maybe, there was a little man in an office who decided which country was to get what colours. Without wishing to overstate my desultory interest, I started to take more notice. On the Sunshine Coast of Australia, polyester resin furniture was all white and cream. On the Greek islands, it seemed to come in old gold and white. Each country visited over recent years appeared to have only two, sometimes three different colours but all in the same design. So it was both a revelation and a terrible disappointment when I pursued this entirely random study in Spain and Portugal recently.

Marbelette or marbeline

Marbelette or marbeline

The revelation was the emerging sophistication. First there was the ubiquitous resin chair (in Cordoba, for those of a pedantic disposition) which came with inset mock marble seat backs. I was entranced, though I felt they should have been Italian in origin. A marbleine finish, a friend suggested, though I thought perhaps marblette. Undeniably naff, but then so is most polyester resin furniture. Is poly resin in a swirly marble design worse than the plain, unadorned poly resin?

Then there were the poly resin chairs of a cut out design which attempted to look like the white aluminium furniture forever branded with the name Enderslea which was in itself an attempt to reproduce the expensive, antique wrought or cast iron furniture we associate with the French provincial look.

I burst out laughing when I came across the poly resin furniture in a Portugese restaurant which emulated the woven raffia look. By this stage my travelling companion, who had started out somewhat incredulous at my fascination, was entering into the spirit of the quest and arranging the furniture for my photographs. Indeed, we even found some more upmarket poly resin chairs in a roadside bar in Seville. These were in a stylish and sophisticated charcoal and a square design. These, I thought, I could actually live with in my own garden but only if necessary.

The global corporate takeover

The global corporate takeover

But sadly, dear Reader, it dawned on me that my sociological study of this global phenomenon was showing too much variation for me to keep with my theory of the little man in an office determining distribution and colour. Not only that, but the true horror of globalisation and corporate sponsorship will see the end of regional diversity sooner rather later. Yes, folks, corporates like Coca Cola and Amstel have seen the possibilities of this ubiquitous furniture as cheap advertising billboards. National differences in colour are set to disappear in the face of the corporate red of Coca Cola or the Amstel colours.

Scientist daughter mentioned in passing that the production of poly resin is highly likely to be extremely unfriendly to the environment, that it is an amalgam of some real nasties and the cheaper the product is sold, the more likely it is to be produced in a country with poor environmental controls over its industry. You could argue that you shun poly resin furniture on green principles but then I always worry about how many little Indonesian orang-utan babies have been made homeless orphans by the continued harvest of Asian hardwoods so I am not sure that the bulk of outdoor wooden furniture is any more environmentally friendly. It is so very difficult to buy ethical and sustainable outdoor furniture these days, don’t you think?

The Enderslea look

The Enderslea look

The final word on this furniture came in a little garden we visited in Cornwall. The modest little afternoon tea set-up had camouflaged poly resin furniture. The tables (are they sometimes octagonal?) had pieces of hand-painted ply on top while the legs were encircled in bamboo stakes cut to size and tied together with jute. As I recall the chairs were draped in fabric and cushions. It seemed such a lot of effort to go to in order to mask the humble origins beneath but maybe she regretted the impulse which had seen her buy this cheap and practical outdoor furniture.

Almost acceptable styling
Almost acceptable styling

Rococo Gardening in Portugal

Just one of the eclectic collection of water features

Just one of the eclectic collection of water features

I had been warned not to expect too much of Portuguese gardens. That is despite Portugal having a much more equable gardening climate than neighbouring Spain. But there are only so many castles, palaces, cathedrals, ruins and medieval towns one can absorb and I am happiest in a garden. So when I reached Lisbon, I had already planned a couple of days of garden visiting. Sintra is a small town in the hills 30 minutes beyond Lisbon and it seemed the place to be with no fewer than three gardens of note in my guidebook to European gardens.

Alas the day did not go to plan. The light rain in Lisbon translated to very heavy rain and wind in Sintra. With the best will in the world, my sodden footwear, lack of raincoat and a small umbrella which was giving up the ghost and blowing inside out were simply not equal to the task. The water was teeming down the roads and visibility greatly reduced by mist. The gardens of Sintra were destined to remain a mystery though I could see why they were lusher and greener than other areas.

With intermittent showers the following day, I was not going to make the mistake of returning to Sintra but opted instead for the gardens at the Palacio de Queluz, a mere 15 minutes by train from Lisbon and hailed, in my guidebook, as “the best rococo gardens in Portugal – perhaps even in Europe”. I vaguely recalled Elton John’s garden in the UK being described as rococo and, had I thought about it, I may have conjured up a mental image of gilded cherubs and heavy decoration in the Baroque style. That doesn’t even hint at the extent if it, although there was no gilding.

Borrowing from all styles of history

Borrowing from all styles of history

Up until my visit to Queluz, Britain’s Prince Regent, George, held the crown of naff in my books with his self-indulgent, OTT royal pavilion in Brighton. Restrained good taste is not synonymous with breeding and wealth. A penchant for flamboyance will triumph and the gardens at Queluz left the Royal Pavilion for dead. To be honest, the whole thing was a little down at heel but European countries have an abundance of historic places to maintain at vast expense, and I am guessing that the palace at Queluz may be rated as less important than other premier attractions in Portugal. The palace was pink. Yes, pink and palatial in proportions, though most of it was only double storey. The whole shebang dates back to the 1700s and the royal family of Portugal used it as a summer retreat, somewhat akin to Versailles in France. The exterior of the palace itself was heavily ornamented and the gardens, the work of a French jeweller of the time named Jean-Baptiste Robillon, were designed to spread out from the front of the palace.

This rococo garden was all about simplicity of form overlaid with elaborate ornamentation. So there were long avenues radiating out and formal gardens, all defined by clipped buxus and pencil cypresses. Form is everything and I was struck by the importance of allowing sufficient space for wide paths. In New Zealand where we specialise in large gardens, too few demonstrate the courage of allowing generous paths, wide enough for maybe six people to walk abreast comfortably. It gives a sense of space and grace in a larger area.

More about style than plants

More about style than plants

Plants were just soft furnishing in this garden. There was nothing of botanical note – some Magnolia grandiflora from America (introduced to Europe around the 1730s but I don’t think these were original plantings), agapanthus, lindens, planes and eucalyptus. Waist high buxus hedges were of clipped sempervirens, shoulder height ones looked to be Buxus wallichiana. Formal gardens were defined by buxus hedges but often the compartments merely held a citrus tree or were left empty. In one area, clipped buxus was planted in a series of serpentine waves. It is all about form and shape, not about plant interest.

Add in the ornamentation. At every turn possible. The more elaborate and detailed the better. Goodness only knows how many statues and water features, scalloped pools, round pools, a large rock waterfall (with no water running on the day I visited and stuck in the middle of long vista so it made no logical sense and merely looked contrived), tiling, balustrades, urns – the more the better. Stylistically, the ornamentation is borrowed from pretty much every period in history. The exuberance was overwhelming.

A hint of mausoleum style in the canal garden

A hint of mausoleum style in the canal garden

Gild the lily further

Gild the lily further

The piece de resistance were the tiled canals at the end of the garden. A natural stream had been channelled through paved canals, designed with locks so that the water could be held back to raise the level, apparently to hold barges filled with musicians to entertain the royal family and their guests. Pity the poor peasants downstream whose water could be withheld at the royal whim and then possibly released in a wild woosh.
The canals were lined inside and out with glazed tiles predominantly in blue and white (though sometimes in yellow, blue and white), depicting murals of shipping scenes, courtly matters and still life representations. These have withstood the ravages of time over several hundred years and are still in good condition and quite bright. Apparently the Portuguese, like the Spanish, are happy to gild the lily even further- in a heavily decorated scene, add some more detail – so colourful urns adorn the plinths, statues stand guard and steps are constructed and tiled in a manner reminiscent of a mausoleum. The effect was quite astounding.

This is not a style of gardening that is intended to sit easily in the landscape with boundaries between garden and nature blurring, in the style of the English romantic tradition. Nor does it have anything to do with the Japanese gardening traditions of symbolism, restraint and control. It is a long way from the Moorish traditions next door in the south of Spain which are all about restfulness, shade, cool and controlled use of spaces. This is more akin to the historic version of Kath and Kim: “Look at me! Look at me!” It is an ostentatious show of wealth with a certain frivolity within its extravagance and flamboyance. Decoration and ornamentation are the dominant features. I am not surprised if indeed Elton John has the late twentieth century version of a rococo garden.

As a final thought, when our children were little, Para Rubber used to sell a blue, scalloped shell-like plastic affair for use a paddling pool. Possibly they are still around. I hadn’t realised that these had their derivation in the rococo style, along with the hinged clam-shell style of sandpit.

In the Garden: October 22, 2010

· While Labour Weekend is the traditional time to get the The Great Summer Veg Plant Out done, the lingering cool temperatures, wind and rain have mitigated against it this year. The soils have not had much of a chance to warm up yet. Don’t rush it especially if you are in a cooler, inland area. A week or two is neither here nor there.

· Priority for planting out when conditions are suitable are the crops which require a long growing season which include aubergines, capsicums, cucumbers, both rock and water melons, kumara, tomatoes and corn. If you have starter plants of these in small pots under cover, be careful about planting them straight out in the open in either blazing sun (unlikely) or torrential ran. You may need to give them some protection while they get established. Cut off soft drink bottles can work as can plastic bags held up by sticks if you don’t have a cloche. A single sheet of newspaper will protect them from the bright sun. You can avoid this by hardening them off gradually over several days by exposing them to a few hours of direct sun only.

· If you are not planting out the little plants yet, make sure that they don’t get set back by being held in pots that are too small or by forgetting to water them. They rarely recover well from such set-backs.

· Clematis are rocketing away and most need something to climb up. If you leave them any longer, you will cause a lot of damage trying to get them to grow in the right direction. A bamboo tepee is a quick and easy solution.

Greeblies in the cordyline

Greeblies in the cordyline

· The caterpillars that chew holes in our native cordylines (cabbage trees) are at their most active. These are the progeny of a native moth (which is why NZ cordylines overseas look so clean and smart). On small plants, running your hands up the base of the tufts of leaves can effect a good kill. On larger plants, if you want clean foliage, you will have to spray with an insecticide. If you look, you may be surprised at what other greeblies your cordyline is hiding, including slugs and snails.

· Esteemed colleague, George Fuller, tells us that it is not a rust that causes orange blotching on renga renga lilies (arthropodium) but in fact a nematode (or wire worm). These critters can build up in a patch over time so if it worries you, it may be necessary to resort to using a systemic insecticide. A systemic insecticide is one that the plant absorbs as opposed to contact insecticides which only kill with a direct hit. The nematode is actually in the plant and it is the same one that attacks chrysanthemums and black currants, answering to the name of afelenchoides ritzemabosi.

· As evergreen azaleas finish flowering, it is time to trim them. These are a forgiving plant which means you can trim back to bare wood and they will shoot again but do not delay if you plan on cutting hard because you want the plant to be flushing with spring growth to help its recovery.

· It is safe to plant both green beans and runner beans now. These are very worthwhile crops for the home gardener, giving good yields and planting successional crops of green beans two weeks apart will extend the harvest season.

A hot, dry autumn in Spain and Portugal

The ubiquitous date palm was everywhere in the south of Spain and Portugal

The ubiquitous date palm was everywhere in the south of Spain and Portugal

Even as September melts into October, Spain is hot and dry. Alas Professor Higgins had it entirely wrong when he made Eliza Doolittle recite that the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. He certainly was not referring to the plains beyond Madrid where the rain clearly falls on rare occasions at best. They are dry and arid, too inhospitable even for the hardy olive tree. Nearer the mountains (the sierras, but more hills than mountains by NZ standards), it is clear that more rain falls. There were olives as far as the eye could see. Don`t be imagining romantic old olive groves. This was monoculture on an industrial scale (viz a viz Blenheim vineyards). I had to ask about harvesting. It seemed incomprehensible that such vast acreages are still picked by hand but apparently that is the case. Teams of itinerant pickers, many of North African origin, travel the area at harvest time. I suspect I have seen the origin of all the imported olive oil on the shelves of every supermarket at home. Maybe.

The olives are usually planted in groups of three, each leaning outwards to grab its own space, and pruned to around 2.5 metres in height. Presumably this makes picking easier because the olive tree, left to its own devices, reaches higher. We are working to keep our one at home down to about 4 metres.

The olive plantations looked to be corporate farming, much as our dairy farming is headed. The era of the small family farm appeared to be over in much of the countryside that we passed through. Often there were no residences visible for considerable distances and no indications of boundaries to suggest the smaller holdings of old. It was interesting to reflect on the debate at home regarding lifestylers populating our countryside. We had been discussing it before I left and came to the conclusion that, on balance, small holdings and lifestyle blocks add a welcome diversity to the countryside. Without lifestylers planting gardens, shelter belts, home orchards and landscape trees, Taranaki could well become even more of the unrelieved green desert favoured by modern dairy farming methods. In the centre and south of Spain, it is not a green desert but red-brown dirt with multitudinous grey-green olive trees and not a lot else.

In urban areas, living is in high density housing, usually 3 to 5 stories high. I peered at balconies and roof terraces, looking for signs of green-fingered locals which is so evident in British high density housing. It is not here. I came to the conclusion that your average Spaniard does not nurture an irrepressible desire to grow plants and the G.I.Y. (that is: grow it yourself) and back to nature drive that is currently so strong in NZ, Australia and Britain is not to be seen. Any outdoor space is rare. The delightful inner courtyard or patio which has a debt to Moorish ancestors must be the preserve of the wealthy. A mere six, or maybe nine square metres of outdoor space is a privilege in many parts of urban Spain. But in a climate where temperatures can soar to 40 degrees (and stay there), a cool house is more desirable than al fresco living.

Were it not for the public plantings, this would be an even more austere environment. Fortunately, there has been a heavy investment in greening urban spaces in recent times. Not grass, which does not grow here unless irrigated. Ground surfaces are all paved but trees are being planted in abundance. Madrid has the harshest of climates – very hot and dry in summer and remarkably cold and dry in winter – so there is not a large plant palette to work with. The stately plane tree is the most dominant but it was interesting to see the number of Australian plants being used, most notably the good old gum or eucalyptus.

Clipping the street plantings of orange trees to lollipops in Cordoba

Clipping the street plantings of orange trees to lollipops in Cordoba

We just do not grow plane trees well at home in Taranaki (we are too wet and they are inclined to drop limbs too readily) so we don´t get to enjoy their wonderful bark. There does not appear to be any fear of large trees. The bigger the better for they provide welcome shade.

Cordoba has a milder climate and orange trees dominate as a street tree. Flowering time must be magical with the strong scent of orange blossom hanging in the air. I briefly indulged a fantasy of the entire local populace being able to gather tree-ripened oranges in season. After all, they have nowhere to grow their own. No. I was told that it is a bitter orange which is harvested commercially and shipped off to the jam factory!

By the time we reached Cadiz on the southern coast, it was the palm tree that prevailed. As far as I can work out, (and I freely own up to the sparsest knowledge of palms at best), it is almost exclusively the common date palm which Google tells me is Phoenix dactylifera. It is certainly a most handsome palm and remarkably tolerant of salt winds, growing even on the waterfronts. Mind you, it is so common that locals may well take a scathing attitude similar to Taranaki people with our adaptable pohutakawa.

The cordyline australis had seen better days on the Algarve but had done well at some stage to reach this size

The cordyline australis had seen better days on the Algarve but had done well at some stage to reach this size

Crossing to Portugal, it became clear that more rain falls. I even saw a little green grass with no evidence of irrigation. In Lagos where I write (prounced Lagoosh and not to be confused with Lagos in Nigeria), the date palms continue but the real delight is the large number of blue-as-blue jacaranda trees which continue to flower even as autumn starts. The New Zealand cabbage trees interplanted between the date palms by the river do not look such happy campers, alas.

Yuccas and oleanders flourish everywhere – both plant families which prefer drier conditions. But just to prove that bad taste crosses all borders, the new cultivar of oleander favoured in public plantings in Seville was a thoroughly nasty novelty selection – yellow and green variegated foliage with dirty pink flowers. I think we saw a new spirea sporting a similar colour scheme in the United Kingdom last year.

Tales of the gardens I have visited will have to wait until after I return. Yes there are gardens and the historical gardens of Andalucia are rooted in impossibly romantic Moorish architecture. At the time of writing, I have yet to see the famous gardens of Lisboa and Sintra in Portugal. I have contemplated an Outdoor Classroom on the DIY Moorish garden but the prospect scared me. The likelihood of achieving something unbelievably naff is greater than the likelihood of successfully adapting such a unique and culturally distant style to home!

Just as well we don't need yew wood for longbows here

Taxus baccata fastigiata - no longer fastigiate in our rockery

Taxus baccata fastigiata - no longer fastigiate in our rockery

A little piece on yew trees in our local newspaper garden pages started us talking about them. They are a most interesting plant. It is just a shame they are not generally happy in Taranaki conditions and there are reasons why they have never featured large in New Zealand gardens and plantings.

We have one feature yew tree still surviving here, a venerable specimen of what is probably widely known as the Irish Yew – Taxus baccata fastigiata. At some point it keeled over at an angle and decided to stay there so we clip it tightly once a year and it resembles a kiwi body (minus any head) as a feature in our rockery. I say venerable, but that is venerable by New Zealand standards – as in probably 60 years old – not venerable by British and European standards where yew trees can survive for a very long time. Many hundreds of years is common and the oldest known tree at Fortingall in Scotland is thought to be somewhere between two and five thousand years old. Astonishing. We used to have many other yew trees here. Mark’s parents were as heavily influenced by English gardening traditions as others of their era and yews are an integral part of that. But over the years, many have, as we say, whiffed off which is our way of describing plants that die from root problems. If you look at where yew trees thrive, it is generally in colder, drier climates and their natural habitats in Britain are on chalk soils. We occupy the cheese side of the chalk and cheese equation – nothing even remotely resembling chalk soils here, thank goodness. We would not try planting more yews here – there are other plants we can grow better in our conditions.

Added to that, another reason why yew trees have never been a big hit in New Zealand is that we still have very strong rural roots and yews are deadly to stock. We know. The remains of our golden yew killed four of our beefies when they got into the paddock with the fire heap in it. This is not at all a suitable tree for country folk to plant here.

Mark's little collection of treen turned from yew

Mark's little collection of treen turned from yew

The fact we can’t grow them well does not stop them from being an interesting plant. They are pretty sacrosanct these days in Britain but if you ever come across anyone cutting down an old yew, get down on the timber. Mark pretty much destroyed a chainsaw cutting into one many years ago (it wasn’t the yew that was the problem – it was the metal stake that somebody had driven in to support the plant and left there to be hidden as the tree grew). But when he came to turn the timber on his lathe it was not only one of the very best woods he ever used – he described it as being like turning hard butter – it also had one of the richest and most varied grains and markings you will ever see. We still have an assortment of treen turned from that one tree. Unusually for timber, the pale sap wood is also durable.

While there are other yew species from Japan, Canada, China and North America, it is the European form of baccata, also known as the English yew, that is the most widely used. It belongs to the family of conifers and its leaves are needle-like. These days it is highly rated in its homelands as a garden plant for specimen, hedging or clipping because it grows slowly, doesn’t ever get too large, it sprouts from bare wood and so lends itself to long-lived topiary and formal hedges where its fine, dark green appearance acts as a splendid punctuation mark in the garden. It is one of the main topiary candidates in English gardens. It is most commonly found with a spreading habit, not upright. In fact the vertical yews which make such splendid pillar shapes, are a far more recent addition dating back just two hundred years to a mere two trees selected in Ireland. No doubt other forms have been discovered since, but the so-called Irish Yew is identified as fastigiata (fastigiate just means tall and narrow) and is traced to those two specimens.

In its natural state, the yew is dark green but it can sport to a yellow variegation and in a country with a long winter, British gardeners continue to value yellow foliaged plants for a spot of colour whereas we tend to shun them in this country. Our most recent yew to kick the bucket (and not greatly mourned) was a specimen of the Golden Irish Yew. I don’t care if yew trees are all class, I still don’t go for yellow variegated conifers.

It may be as garden plants that the yew family are valued nowadays but that was not always the case. They have a history steeped in warfare. For it was the development of the longbow that made Britain a military force and yew wood made the best longbows. As far back as the thirteenth century, England was importing yew wood from Europe and the local supplies were under huge pressure. Within a hundred years there was a serious shortage and in 1350, Henry 1V basically nationalised all the yew trees in Britain so they could be harvested to meet the needs of the royal bowmen. Not only that, but trade with Europe was dominated by the supply of yew timber and within the next couple of hundred years, Bavaria and Austria were stripped of all their native yews to supply bows for the King of England’s archers. The move to firearms at the end of the sixteenth century had more to do with a lack of adequate supplies of yew wood left anywhere in Europe, rather than technological advances. Given the warmongering tendencies of the Middle Ages, it is a bit of a miracle that any yew trees survived in the wild anywhere in Britain and Europe.

Many, if not most of Britain’s significant yew trees survive in churchyards and there are many theories abounding as to why they are such a common tree there. It may just be that a respect for the church meant these specimens could not be plundered for the making of longbows.

There was considerable angst amongst conservationists and historians when researchers first found that Taxus baccata had natural compounds which could be used in the manufacture of a new drug to treat cancer. It seemed that the future of the remaining yews could be under threat because it takes a vast amount of raw material to yield a small amount of the compound. The loyal British gardeners rose to the occasion. When the call went out for them to gather up their yew clippings to contribute to research, apparently they did so in droves. It was sufficient to progress the research to the point where the compound could be manufactured synthetically in a laboratory.

The future of the yew tree seems secure.