It all came about in an unusual way. The Robinsons were about to be married and knew that, eventually, they would take over the big house at Moor Wood. They decided that they needed a good theme to resurrect the two-acre garden and adapt it to modern exigencies. This was a time when Plant Heritage, then known as the National Council for the Conservation of Plants and Gardens [NCCPG], was looking for people to establish National Collections (‘I lost my heart to a hosta’, July 22, 2015).
The Robinsons’ friend Andrew Lyndon- Skeggs showed them a list of the genera for which the NCCPG was hoping to find custodians and the Robinsons realised immediately that rambler roses were a perfect choice for the Cotswold stone of their walled garden, fitting with the wild, rather romantic effect they thought they could create. Ten years later, the 100 different roses they had planted were recognised by the NCCPG as the National Collection of Rambling Roses. Still expanding, it now stretches to more than 150 ramblers—Multifloras, Wichuranas, Ayrshires, Sempervirens hybrids and more.
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Save our family farms
IT Tremains to be seen whether the Government will listen to the more than 20,000 farming people who thronged Whitehall in central London on November 19 to protest against changes to inheritance tax that could destroy countless family farms, but the impact of the good-hearted, sombre crowds was immediate and positive.
A very good dog
THE Spanish Pointer (1766â68) by Stubbs, a landmark painting in that it is the artistâs first depiction of a dog, has only been exhibited once in the 250 years since it was painted.
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Best of British
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Old habits die hard
Once an antique dealer, always an antique dealer, even well into retirement age, as a crop of interesting sales past and future proves
It takes the biscuit
Biscuit tins, with their whimsical shapes and delightful motifs, spark nostalgic memories of grandmother's sweet tea, but they are a remarkably recent invention. Matthew Dennison pays tribute to the ingenious Victorians who devised them
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On a visit to the Gainsborough Museum in Sudbury, Suffolk, in August, I lost my husband for half an hour and began to get nervous. Fortunately, an attendant had spotted him vanishing under the cloak of the old mulberry tree in the garden.