Gnome alone

Vertically challenged, bearded and rosy-cheeked, cheerful gnomes might make for unlikely cover stars, but-says Ben Lerwill-they've long graced books, album covers and even The Queen's private garden

- Ben Lerwill

CHARLIE approached the South Pole at 2am on February 4, 1977. His beard was as white as the Antarctic ice and his mouth was curved into a smile. This was history in the making. As the polar sun shone overhead and the frozen plains lay unyielding in the sub-zero wilderness, his momentous hour had arrived. Charlie had become the first garden gnome to reach the southernmost point on earth.

Our eccentric obsession with gnomes is a remarkable thing. Here in Britain, their perky hats and bulbous noses peek out of shrubberies from Portobello Road to Penzance. They appear in films, books, video games and advertising campaigns. They are potbellied perennials, chortling through winter downpours and summer heatwaves. And, as evidenced by Charlie—who had a helping hand on his chilly expedition from owner Henry Sunderland—they’re also prolific globe-trotters (or should that be gno-mads?)

Demand for garden gnomes shot up during the pandemic—headlines were made when a shipment of them got caught up in the Suez Canal blockage—but their story is a long one. Their roots are woven into age-old folk tales of pixies, goblins and fairies; by the 18th century, the word ‘gnome’ had emerged as a term for busy underground creatures thought to be guardians of the earth’s treasures. Even today, their lawn-dwelling descendants are seen by some as protective charms.