The Gardening Show as Cozily Addictive as “The Great British B... about:reader?url=https://www.newyorker.com/culture/onward-and...

newyorker.com

The Gardening Show as

Cozily Addictive as “The
Great British Bake Off”
By Charlotte MendelsonMay 2, 2018
6-8 minutos

In “Big Dreams, Small Spaces,” modest,

unwealthy humans try to improve their yards
under the guidance of the charismatic
master gardener Monty Don.
Illustration by Cari Vander Yacht

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Who are gardening programs really for? For

those already obsessed with horticultural
matters, any moments of free time are spent
sowing, sniffing, and tending one’s actual
plants. For non-horticulture fans, why does it
matter whether or not hardy double-flowered
fuchsias thrive in full sun? Unlike food
shows, gardening programs can’t tempt the
casual passerby with lingering custard
shots, or with Nigella Lawson speaking in
perfect iambic pentameter while slicing
mangoes. Plus, they have a cruel tendency
to feature spaces that, compared with the
squashed little patches of city dwellers, are
sickeningly huge. Oh, you’re worried about
which climbing rose to splay over your
restored barn wall, are you, Muriel? You’re
not sure how to ventilate your greenhouse?
Please shut up. Some of us are struggling to
stuff a second chili plant into a single scruffy
window box and our patience is low.
However, true comfort-viewing transcends

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the need for common ground. The brilliance

of “The Great British Bake Off,” the
undisputed zenith of British TV cosiness, lies
in its producers’ realization that a
combination of empathy and Schadenfreude
make anything enjoyable to watch. One
doesn’t need to be a pastry pro to be
gripped when arrogant Nigel’s butterscotch-
and-pear five-layer gingerbread torte
collapses, or to care desperately that the
single mother Sue recovers her self-esteem.
I’ve been watching the reruns; they make life
almost bearable. I’ve also recently
discovered a program that is almost as
charmingly restful: a gardening show for
people without wildflower meadows and
ornamental stonework, for those who simply
enjoy watching ordinary citizens make
mistakes, nurse wild ambitions, and
ultimately, to an extent, succeed. It’s the
BBC’s “Big Dreams, Small Spaces,”
currently on Netflix, and it stars not only

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clueless amateurs with absurdly

troublesome real-life plots, full of tarmac,
rubble, ground elder, and small children, but
also the charismatic jeweller turned master
gardener Monty Don.
Once, British gardening was dominated by
glamorous aristocrats: Rhoda, Lady Birley, in
a peacock-trimmed straw sombrero; or
Nancy Lancaster, hot yet practical, with her
rakish yellow kerchief and cashmere collar,
shimmering with sexual confidence and
fashion-forward pleating. In good news for
democrats and bad news for breeches,
those days have passed. Now we expect
our horticultural celebrities to be no-
nonsense, in easy-wash knitwear and hard-
wearing slacks, and resolutely mainstream.
In the past, though, the appeal of these
British gardeners—a tousle-haired woman,
an avuncular chap—has been, if you will,
niche. Monty Don subverts that. Open about
his struggles (bankruptcy, depression, a

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minor stroke), the owner of a range of

gorgeous dogs and an immense garden in
rural England from which he films his
flagship gardening program, the faintly
boring “Gardener’s World,” Monty combines
reassuring poshness, accessibility, and, to
be frank, good looks. (The man’s given
name is Montagu, for heaven’s sake.) Best
of all, he has a magnificent gardening
wardrobe. Everything he wears—
stevedore’s smocks, fisherman’s sweaters,
cotton jackets like Modigliani might have
worn for photo shoots, rugged corduroy
trousers, braces (suspenders) fit for battle in
1917—looks exactly right: a sort of butch-
dandy neo-artisan, ready for whittling action.
It’s the stuff of Lady Chatterley’s more
suitable dreams.
Even better, “Big Dreams, Small Spaces”
combines this glamour with that essential of
modern television: soi-disant relatability. The
Ordinary People in these shows aren’t

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wealthy silver surfers who have downsized

to just one acre, or hipster chef-gardeners
rearing crops for micro-breweries. They are
modest, unwealthy humans, with budgets in
the hundreds, not hundreds of thousands,
trying to improve their concreted front
gardens, their hummocky suburban yards.
Unlike the “small gardens” of other shows
and magazines, which mysteriously have
room for pergolas and duck ponds, these
gardens are tiny. Better still, their owners are
revolutionaries. It’s not decking they want
but beehives, communal vegetables, urban
jungles, and scented idylls for toddlers with
special needs, and, because Monty will be
coming round to check on them with his
shepherd’s crook and clogs, they’d better
rise to the challenge.
They rarely do. To design anything, one
needs artistry and experience, particularly
when one plans to turn a steeply sloped
rubbish dump into a multi-sensory

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Philippine-style self-sufficient animal

sanctuary complete with ruined mill and
turrets. Monty draws up a plan, recommends
plants … and then watches as his advisee
fails to follow his advice to simplify and
decides, instead, to add a functioning
waterfall. Calmly, with an edge of despair, he
tries to right their wrongs. Meanwhile, the
cosily ominous voice-over (“But will
Geoffrey’s leeks be ready for that all-
important family Christmas buffet?”) and
over-caffeinated village-band soundtrack
(POM pom pom) suggest that the show’s
participants are planning the D Day landing,
not trying to prop up the compost bin before
Monty comes to call. Oddly, one falls for it.
Oh no, Sasha’s overspent on her industrial
sheeting! Tariq forgot the trees!
It’s not quite edge of seat. But, like “The
Great British Bake Off,” “Big Dreams, Small
Spaces” is mildly gripping, deeply soothing,
and, thanks to the invariably awkward group

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celebrations at the show’s end, with iced

biscuits round the guinea-pig hutch and shy
cheering, it is reminiscent of the best sort of
garden parties—the ones the viewer doesn’t
have to be at. Without wanting to objectify
Monty in his indigo sailor’s trousers, he and
his vintage apple-picker are always welcome
in my living room. The next time I am low, or
garden deprived, I plan to slip into my Yves
Saint Laurent pruning jacket and silken
headscarf and begin Season 3.

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