Amazon.co.uk Review
Trowel and Error is described as a "touch of the memoirs" by the author. Alan Titchmarsh is now a national institution; with his characteristic good humour and charm, he is unquestionably the country's number-one television gardener and presenter with even an unlikely reputation as a sex symbol (a reputation that started as a joke). Apart from his considerable gardening acumen, of course, he has also proved to be a novelist of genuine ability, with such books as Mr MacGregor and Animal Instincts.
Communication is, needles to say, his special skill, and it was to be expected that Trowel and Error (the groan-inducing pun is all part of the Titchmarsh armoury), would be revealing and evocative. Titchmarsh announced to school friends of the age of 10 that he would be the next Percy Thrower, although those ambitions were, he tells us, fudged in some uncomfortable encounters with the opposite sex (Titchmarsh always picked girls who were taller than him, and the relationships didn't last). In fact his Yorkshire childhood in the 1950s is one of the most purely enjoyable parts of the book, with his stamping ground of Ilkley Moor the seat of his passionate love for nature. His first experiences as a gardener at the Royal Botanical Garden at Kew are full of the kind of quirky incident that makes his writing appealing. As his fame grew, Titchmarsh began rubbing shoulders with the likes of Nelson Mandela Julia Roberts and the Queen, and such encounters are highly diverting.
Many a book conceals a rampant ego behind an "aw, shucks" manner, but Titchmarsh comes across as a genuinely nice guy--one who is self-deprecating. This is a truly engaging (and often very funny) autobiography. --Barry Forshaw --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Review
The engaging, witty and insightful memoirs of best-loved gardener and presenter, Alan Titchmarsh.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Product Description
Alan Titchmarsh has had a passion for gardening for as long as he can remember. Aged 8, he announced to friends that he was going to be the next Percy Thrower, although he thought it was no more than a dream.
With the magic touch of a best-selling writer, Alan tells his own story from Ilkley Moor to Pebble Mill and to the final realising of his dream of becoming TV's favourite gardener. Along the way, the cast of characters includes everyone from Auntie Ethel to Nelson Mandela and the Queen.
With great charm, humour and passion, this is probably the best story Alan Titchmarsh has ever told.
With the magic touch of a best-selling writer, Alan tells his own story from Ilkley Moor to Pebble Mill and to the final realising of his dream of becoming TV's favourite gardener. Along the way, the cast of characters includes everyone from Auntie Ethel to Nelson Mandela and the Queen.
With great charm, humour and passion, this is probably the best story Alan Titchmarsh has ever told.
About the Author
Alan Titchmarsh is known to millions through the popular BBC TV programmes Ground Force and Gardener's World. He has written more than thirty gardening books, as well as four novels.
Excerpted from Trowel and Error by Alan Titchmarsh. Copyright © 2002. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
‘My clearest memories of childhood are all outdoors. I am squinting at the sun, or hearing my feet squelch inside my boots, or breathing deeply through my nose and feeling my nostrils fill with ice. Maybe I was destined to lead an outdoor life.’ Samuel Jonas, Rustic Rambles, ....
My small fingers traced the outline of the round, smooth boulder. It was heavier than I was, and covered in a silky brown coating that made it slippery to the touch. It was in about a foot of water, in the River Wharfe at Ilkley in Yorkshire. Age? About seven or eight. I stood facing upstream, feeling the cold water swirling past my legs; spidery legs that stuck out from a pair of shorts. Thin legs, dusted with golden hairs. The curled toes of my freezing feet hung on to the stony riverbed in the hope that I’d avoid losing my grip and I flicked the thick and ever – present fringe of hair out of my eyes, peering past the glittering reflections on the surface of the water to the amber depths around the boulder. It was here somewhere. A catfish. A big one – streamlined and sly, whiskered and wary of the approach of a small pair of hands intent on catching it – its tail twitching to keep it in line with the current. I pounced. Too late – a splash of water and that was it. The catfish was gone, perfectly camouflaged in the beer - brown pool, and I’d nothing to show for my trouble but wet, rolled - up sleeves and soggy – bottomed shorts. I picked my way gingerly to the grassy bank and lay down on my stomach among sweet – smelling foxtail and rye. I looked at the jam-jar containing three bullheads – slower, duller and easier to catch. They were gasping for air, and nudging at the Robertson’s Golly to find a way out. I would let them go. In a bit.
Childhood summer holidays seemed always to be like this – lived out in the open – and they must be the reason that I’ve grown up the way I have, a direct result of both nature and nurture, the perfect hybrid. The world indoors has never held any attraction for me, except in the worst of weathers. I rise early – always have – anxious not to miss out on anything. If the sun is shining and I have to stay indoors, I become irritable and eager to escape. A childhood in Wharfedale is to blame. But I’m not complaining.
On the north side of the valley were the woods, carpeted with bluebells and wild garlic in spring; knee deep in rusty oak leaves and black mud in winter. To the south were the moors, looming over the town, purple with heather in late summer, orange with bracken in winter, or else almost black under heavy rain clouds. At the bottom of the dale, the silvery river snaked its way between playing fields and houses, separating the two wilder parts of the town. With no television to watch for the first few years of my life, that was the choice in fair weather, and often in foul: woods, moors or river.
The moors with their unforgettable fruity tang of bracken and heather, bilberry and crowberry, provided the scenery for imagined Westerns where, without a horse but with a rhythm of hoofbeats, I would gallop along paths of silver sand and then shin up massive lumps of millstone grit to survey the scene below. Genteel Ilkley became Arizona, Rocky Valley on Ilkley Moor a cowboy canyon. Occasionally these imaginings would be played out with a friend, but more frequently I travelled solo, or with our dog, a corgicairn - and - border – terrier – fluffball called Cindy. She would shoot through the bracken so that only the quivering fronds could offer a clue as to where she was heading, and I would breast my way through the greenery in pursuit, running madly downhill and often falling headlong on top of her in fits of mad laughter. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
My small fingers traced the outline of the round, smooth boulder. It was heavier than I was, and covered in a silky brown coating that made it slippery to the touch. It was in about a foot of water, in the River Wharfe at Ilkley in Yorkshire. Age? About seven or eight. I stood facing upstream, feeling the cold water swirling past my legs; spidery legs that stuck out from a pair of shorts. Thin legs, dusted with golden hairs. The curled toes of my freezing feet hung on to the stony riverbed in the hope that I’d avoid losing my grip and I flicked the thick and ever – present fringe of hair out of my eyes, peering past the glittering reflections on the surface of the water to the amber depths around the boulder. It was here somewhere. A catfish. A big one – streamlined and sly, whiskered and wary of the approach of a small pair of hands intent on catching it – its tail twitching to keep it in line with the current. I pounced. Too late – a splash of water and that was it. The catfish was gone, perfectly camouflaged in the beer - brown pool, and I’d nothing to show for my trouble but wet, rolled - up sleeves and soggy – bottomed shorts. I picked my way gingerly to the grassy bank and lay down on my stomach among sweet – smelling foxtail and rye. I looked at the jam-jar containing three bullheads – slower, duller and easier to catch. They were gasping for air, and nudging at the Robertson’s Golly to find a way out. I would let them go. In a bit.
Childhood summer holidays seemed always to be like this – lived out in the open – and they must be the reason that I’ve grown up the way I have, a direct result of both nature and nurture, the perfect hybrid. The world indoors has never held any attraction for me, except in the worst of weathers. I rise early – always have – anxious not to miss out on anything. If the sun is shining and I have to stay indoors, I become irritable and eager to escape. A childhood in Wharfedale is to blame. But I’m not complaining.
On the north side of the valley were the woods, carpeted with bluebells and wild garlic in spring; knee deep in rusty oak leaves and black mud in winter. To the south were the moors, looming over the town, purple with heather in late summer, orange with bracken in winter, or else almost black under heavy rain clouds. At the bottom of the dale, the silvery river snaked its way between playing fields and houses, separating the two wilder parts of the town. With no television to watch for the first few years of my life, that was the choice in fair weather, and often in foul: woods, moors or river.
The moors with their unforgettable fruity tang of bracken and heather, bilberry and crowberry, provided the scenery for imagined Westerns where, without a horse but with a rhythm of hoofbeats, I would gallop along paths of silver sand and then shin up massive lumps of millstone grit to survey the scene below. Genteel Ilkley became Arizona, Rocky Valley on Ilkley Moor a cowboy canyon. Occasionally these imaginings would be played out with a friend, but more frequently I travelled solo, or with our dog, a corgicairn - and - border – terrier – fluffball called Cindy. She would shoot through the bracken so that only the quivering fronds could offer a clue as to where she was heading, and I would breast my way through the greenery in pursuit, running madly downhill and often falling headlong on top of her in fits of mad laughter. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
