A tale of four garden centres

(I noticed that puns are all the rage in the world of post titles. So I thought I'd get involved. Sorry.)

I love a garden centre trip. I have really happy memories of them from when I was small - we lived near a large one - mum would let me choose plants, we'd wander around looking at everything and I was obsessed with the random sweet collection at the tills. There I had my first encounter with a kendal mint cake. They have a very distinctive smell, garden centres. Halfway between freshness and rot. But sort of delicious. Peaty and alive. And minty. Mmm. Forest Lodge, Farnham. Halycon days.

Since I've lived in London, I've usually gone to the Camden garden centre - a really nice place, and home to an excellent charity. Like most London ones it's not huge, but I've bought some lovely plants there. And pots. They have a good selection of pots.

I did have a brief visit to one of London's less salubrious options a few years back. On a birthday. If I had gone alone I would now doubt it's existence. Think I'd dreamt it. But my mum was with me and assures me it was real. Mum will likely appear a lot in this blog! She is my trustiest gardening buddy. Back to this unreal place. It's in Limehouse, at least it was. Hidden away behind the station. I don't know if we visited during a blip, but it was a bit like the Marie Celeste. Dusty and deserted. Plants either dead, overgrown or spilled. If we'd been prone to petty thievery I'd have gone home with quite a haul. While we wandered through this shadowland, we became increasingly convinced that we may stumble across the cobwebbed skeleton of the unfortunate owner, struck down and undiscovered in his forgotten kingdom. But we didn't. What we found, when we picked our way back through the tangle to leave, was a locked gate and a note in the bars (intended for those outside), explaining that said owner was in the caff round the corner, and to call for entry. Or egress as it was. Which we did. And once the happily alive old boy ambled up, we showed our gratitude by purchasing some twine. Seemed the safest option. If it still exists and you're in the area, hunt it out. It may not be the most fruitful garden centre trip, but I guarantee it will rate high in the realms of the weirdest.

And so to the original point! I went to a new garden centre this week. New to me that is. The N1 in De Beavoir town (an unlikely and excellent place name!) is smaller again than the one in Camden. But beautifully kept. I had intended to get some boring bits and pieces - coir fibre, compost, vermiculite. But 2 of the three they didn't have, and the bags of compost were too big to carry home. So instead I bought plants. Naturally. I'm determined this year to make a sensible plan for what I should get for the balcony, and then shop accordingly. I was also planning to not buy any plants until I've properly tidied up out there, and got things in order a bit. But temptation won, and I came home with a couple of new green friends. I was sensible though! I bought herbs. Herbs are innately sensible. Here they are. I've done a little before and after sequence for your viewing pleasure...

Don't they look happy in their new homes? And hasn't that sneaky switcharound made my hi-tech transformation sequence all the more magical? I love how the thyme makes a puffy little cushion. And the bay looks so healthy and happy. I also sowed some (slightly out of date but fingers crossed) chive seeds to keep them company.

Looking forward to watching them grow! And eating them. Which sounds a bit sadistic. Sorry herbs.