A stroll through ancient woods, and a nose at other garden city gardens

This weekend we took advantage of the pleasant weather, and decided, that, rather than repeat the usual 'weekend with one child'* ritual of shopping in our local shopping center, lazing around, cleaning, and home based play for our baby son, we'd shun reckless expenditure, and instead commune with nature. Well, in other words, we'd go for a walk in the woods. Although my husband still managed to cram in a bit of retail relief at M&S afterwards.

We're lucky enough to have an ancient wood more or less 10 minutes from our house - it's home to some greats of the English countryside, including the Sessile Oak. Along its border is an old railway line, so overall plenty of potential for a pleasant linear walk, or, a more rugged, muddy ramble through the heart of the wood, taking in the ancient trees.

Of course, we arrived with our somewhat feeble buggy, and me in my sandals. So after a brief five minute stroll towards the heart of the wood, where we saw perhaps 10 or so ravens flying around, like watchmen over a lair, the buggy wheels started to complain, and we ran into cloying mud. Towards the railway line we then went.

Now, the railway line is raised (as expected), and runs alongside the wood, but also at the back end of a long row of some of the more, shall we say, exclusive residences of our town. Exclusive in the sense of posh, huge and well fitted out, but also exclusive in the sense of location: merging your (huge) back garden with an ancient UK site of special scientific interest.

Anyway, I digress. This track allowed us not only to contemplate the beauty of an English wood in late spring; squirrels fighting and chasing each other, ferns, nettles, huge towering trees, but also, we had a right good nose at the back gardens of the Garden City Nobility.

I came home full of inspiration for new planting plans for the borders, which, I feel, need more architectural plants, and variations in height and colour. I also noticed that there seems to be a consistent theme of 'cottage' gardening here, which is good to see. So, despite reports to the contrary, we're not yet a race of concrete and gravel loving desert gardeners.

Nowhere else in my extensive travels of this, and other European countries have I seen consistently beautifully cared for gardens like those I see in my home town. Even the pieces of common land, integrated into the newer housing estates are lovingly maintained by a mix of the local authorities and residents, and even those with the smallest section of 6x6 ft soil at the front of their flat do something with it.

There is something contagious about living in a garden city. Without being asked, or indeed, forced to do so, its occupants, young, old, rich and less monied seem to somehow uphold the values upon which the town was founded.

*The weekends where my stepkids are with their mum