A pleasant memoir about Woodward's attempt with his wife Vez to create a serious garden, and about the people who help them with the work, and his relationships with his mother, father and grandmother. You have to commit to the garden project to enjoy the book, and there's no particular reason to commit to it—they're just hipsters with too much money. But Woodward is certainly self aware, and not arrogant, and his writing and attitude is light-hearted and funny, occasionally pushing a little deeper. He deals with endless rocks, sheep, rain, his own personal mistakes, even cancer—and always keeps an even keel. I loved Woodward's memoir on learning to fly, "Propellerhead." This was not as compelling to me, or as funny, and it has more characters described in less detail (Woodward respects the privacy of his family, so we mostly get capsule portraits of outsiders). I enjoyed it anyway. ( )

Book starts off oddly with author's mother forcing him to steal plants.

The author, his wife, and children move from the "...airless Tupperware skies of London"
to Tair-Ffynnon, a small holding near the top of one of the Black Mountains of South Wales.

Evocative drawings enliven the text and readers may wish for many more.
The photographs are of unimpressive quality and do not include the oft-mentioned 'stream across the lawn.'

Driven by how Antony Woodward intensely competes to be included in the Yellow Book of outstanding gardens,
the story is interesting, but not compelling. He is so 'full of himself,' wasting tons of money that could have
been donated to the Yellow Book charity by having a decrepit old train car hauled up his mountain. His claims
to want to be "authentic" translate into making life as difficult and expensive as he can arrange. The authenticity
feels contrived and very selective.

Yes, the book has its charms and inspirations, but ultimately is disappointing as a garden book, being too filled
with construction blunderings barely related to gardens at all. Competition, based on a strangely selected deadline,
drives the plot rather than a deep and true love for plants, flowers, trees, and seeds. He gives no reason for not
waiting another year to get into the Yellow Book, a year when he actually might have had gardens and experience,
rather than hubris.

And why he would not have a better system than one easy to forget gate to keep the everlasting sheep out of his
only garden is totally bizarre.

Critical details are often left out, like how a dry stone fence is actually built. ( )

What a delightful book! On a day that began at -20 F I settled down in front of the wood stove with Woodward and more or less stayed right there until bed time. Thumbnail: The Woodwards, Tony and Vez, buy a hilltop farm in the borderlands of Wales and are determined to get into the Yellow Book of the National Gardens Scheme, a charity, and open for garden visits as soon as possible which, if I have my reckoning right, was a year (or maybe two?) and a half later. My spouse and I didn't do all the things in this book, no dry stone walls, for example, and no bees, and no hauling about of a railroad car (though we have dreamed of it and we did build me a work building that is quite similar to one) but we have done much of this basic homesteading stuff in our time. The amount of work to be done was staggering and, indeed what could be more pleasurable than to read about other people working insanely hard on a day too cold to think about going outside (at least until the thermometer went into the positive). I finished up this morning with their grand opening and felt as proud of the Woodwards' achievement as can be. Along the way the book is laugh out loud funny and full of wry observations and learned wisdom about 'how things get done' (or not). ***** ( )

This is a book for gardeners but also for dreamers. Antony Woodward, a writer for Tatler and Country Life, as well as of Propellerhead, wanted out of London in the worst way. He wanted to live in the Welsh mountains with peace and quiet, space and solitude. So he and his wife began the long process of looking for their dream farm (in the middle of the foot-and-mouth disease outbreak), finally finding Tair-Ffynnon in the Brecon Beacons National Park. Despite accusations of madness, he single-mindedly pursued this property until fate smiled and it was his.

With lovely humour ranging between that perfect English dryness and a touch of slapstick, he tells the tale of settling in to this old stone house while trying to become a genuine man of the land. The local characters are a delight, whether teaching him bee keeping or the art of setting a hedgerow. His constant battle with the sheep becomes all out war as Antony decides to make it into the Yellow Book, that famous gardening book of England: gardeners open their gardens once a year to fundraise for charity but to get in to this book, you have to be either really good or have a garden with very unusual features. Antony decided to go for one of the highest gardens in England while not knowing very much about gardening. Now it must be noted that he took this very seriously, working hard to create water features, stone walls, proper gates, etc. He even moved a railway car on to his property at great effort and damage to neighbours' properties, to refurbish it as his writing studio.

I don't think one has to be a gardener to appreciate this lovely book but as I am one, it amplified the experience for me. There were times when I groaned out loud or snorted in disbelief or felt murder wouldn't be out of line. Reading it out loud to Himself failed to elicit a similar response so I think he was reaching me on the level of gardening kinship. Or perhaps it's that when it comes to gardening, being a diehard romantic and dreamer has to be in there somewhere.