One of the more remarked upon contents of The Queen’s Speech, during the State Opening of Parliament this week, was not so much what Her Madge said… as who was sitting on her right hand side. 

Yes, for the first time in 17 years, HRH attended the State Opening alongside his mama, and alongside him was the Duchess, looking really rather splendid. You may have heard the news that the Queen is planning to do a little less this year. While this will doubtless be a disappointment it does rather make sense. We certainly don’t do abdications Dutch style but it’s rather nice, and quite right, as your parents get older, to be able to help share the load, is it not?

Anyway, I was reflecting on all this as I was cycling down the Mall the other day.  You will of course be familiar with the stony grey hulk of Buckingham Palace at its western end, simultaneously one of the most famous and most ugly of the London landmarks; and you will of course know that Prince Charles lives at Clarence House, the Queen Mother’s old house, just next door, which is rather more beautiful being designed by Nash (like the back of Buckingham Palace, before it got refaced by Blore and then in that heavy Edwardian dress by Aston Webb a year before the First World War).

But I wonder if you’ve spotted a quiet revolution that’s been going on in the Mall for a few years now? Yes, it’s the least revolutionary address in Britain, I suppose – but this is real.

I can’t quite remember when it was that I first noticed the wonderful wildflower meadows that now stretch all along the tall brick walls of Clarence House and Marlborough House Gardens.  Certainly three years ago, maybe a couple more. It was a sight of quiet beauty back then, and year after year it’s just been getting better and better.

Regular readers of this blog will know that I’ve got a thing about Cow Parsley… let’s face it – probably the most beautiful flower on earth (May 2011, May 2010, and lots of other posts around about the same time of year)… So it is with particular fascination that I’ve been watching what I am sure were once neatly mown regimental lawns… turn in to this:

Incredible, no?

The camassias are perfect touch, a counterpoint to the paler blue…

But the black and purple tulips are even more spectacular

Queen of the Night tulips are like jewels against the light. The trick, I think, is to plant the bulbs very deep if you want to naturalise them in grass. Of course Prince Charles is rather a master at creating tulip meadows, as we know, with the famous wildflower meadows at Highgrove, so none of this should be any surprise to anyone at all.  

If you’ve been drinking in the quiet beauty of the Clarence House planting, it’s all the more of a shock to turn the corner in to the flowerbeds surrounding the giant Victoria Memorial, that fronts Buckingham Palace. 

See what I mean?!

Now we all know that I’ve got nothing against tulips. I love them. And I’ve got nothing against wallflowers. I adore them as much if not more. Let’s face it, I even love tasteless flower colours – my ever-too-slightly-salmon-orange tulips at the Parsonage being a fairly good case in point. I don’t want to be the pot calling the kettle black.

But I am afraid try as I might I do have something against that planting combo. I’d actually be quite interested to see the scarlet tulips and the forget-me-nots growing out of the dark red wallflowers; and the yellow tulips out of the lemon wallflowers, perhaps with a bit of darker yellow wrapped in there… but HELLO!?!?!?! This is bonkers.

But I somehow suspect The Queen finds it very very cheery to look down upon such a display. I bet she peers out of the tall windows of Buckingham Palace just before David Cameron is coming for tea and feels, well, a little less gloomy. Better, after all, to be looking at some riotous tulips than riotous subjects. 

Well, my hunch tells me – than in time to come these beds will subtly change. Or even radically. Yes… if I was those vivid tulips and wallflowers I’d be feeling a trifle nervous seeing Prince Charles sitting at the right hand of The Queen at the State Opening of Parliament. And taking a little more role in the life of the nation…

I’d be even more nervous if I was this bit of desolate lawn to the South of Buckingham Palace and Victoria Memorial. Can it be so very long before this is a glorious, beautiful, soft, mixed meadow grassland? I think that I’m rather looking forward to the future. 

We are pleased to announce that normal service has resumed. No more politics, no more sadness. It was a beautiful early Summer weekend in Dorset and the blog contains nothing more than images of the garden, of houses and landscape. Which is really what we all like. I had my old boss and friend Charles Morris and his wife staying, and their friend Charlie, and Will.

We went for a walk to Abbotsbury and the coast. The grass seemed particularly vivid after months of turning shades of brown; there’s something about that moment when the trees finally break that is magical; and clouds quickly scudding over the folding hills. 

I love the walk to Abbotsbury, and the moment where the land suddenly falls down to the coast and to Chesil Beach. 

Like so many Estate villages, Abbotsbury is picture perfect. Nothing jars. But what I was liking most of all was the little gardens and allotments tucked about the place, ready for Summer.

We returned via Waddon House, to show Charles and Rachel the perfect proportions of the Portland stone facade.  Waddon is a fragment of a much larger house of which the central section and left wing burned shortly after it was built… I have written about it before. It is my dream house.

Back to the Parsonage in time to catch late afternoon sunshine in the garden.

On Sunday, we went to Chettle House, up towards Cranborne Chase; a beautiful, romantic, English Baroque house  in a gently decaying village where not a lot has changed since the 19th century. The house, by Thomas Archer, is strange, restless; I love its curious detailing and tall sash windows with ancient glass. The curved corners used to be at the ground floor only, and it would be so good to see the upper floors removed… a different house altogether.  To be honest, it is collapsing a bit now. How do we define that moment  when romantic decay gets too much? I think that Chettle may have just slipped over that edge. “It’s looking a little Chettled” is a phrase that might make its way into my language.

From Chettle, we made our way through villages and via the Museum at Farnham (The Museum is an excellent pub, in case you were wondering) to Rushmore Park, where a very long time ago I’d been at school. The soft expansive beauty of Cranborne Chase always takes my breath away.

Monday was bright and brilliant. I spent all day in the garden.

I put up my bean poles, and planted beans and peas, sweetcorn and lettuces, courgettes and squash.

The tulips are putting on a crazy display at last. But I suspect will soon be over.

And the auriculas are just turning, as irises and aquilegia come through. It feels like it’s been the shortest spring ever, rather like being in New York, where winter suddenly turns to summer with just a week of spring in between.

But it was, basically, a perfect weekend. Normal service has resumed.

A lighthearted midweek post. Honest. 

For those American readers who’ve never heard or understood of weird British politics, let me explain a few things. We’ve got two main political parties, just like you. Labour and Conservative. Both of which turn every year more and more American; in style, image and lack of substance.

But unlike you, we have a lot of minor ones. Because no one wants to vote for the major ones, the minor ones are rattling the cage of politics right now. Right now, in fact, they hold the balance of power: our Coalition government is a mix of two groups (the Conservatives, who have teamed up with the Liberals) who, charmingly, pathologically hate each other, it seems to me, more than either of them hate the other side. Weird, but true. Are you with me so far?

Well, there’s a new kid on the block. They are called UKIP. In fact they’re a very old-fashioned kindof kid, but in the last 3 minutes they’ve been making rather a lot of hot air because no-one had ever taken them seriously before and suddenly they are… if not quite winning votes…  at least stopping the Conservatives from winning votes. Because they are almost more conservative than Conservatives, without necessarily being crazy religious gun-totin’ gay-hatin’ fruitcakes, like your Conservatives over there in the New World.

So all sorts of conservative folk have decided the Conservatives have let them down (by teaming up with those Liberals) and they’re going to take their vote elsewhere, thank you very much too.

UKIP stands for the UK Independence Party and for years they’ve stood on the basis of one thing only. They want Britain to get out of Europe. And they hate the Euro, and they really hate Immigration. What I’ve always found odd about this is that my gut feeling is that by far and away the biggest supporters of UKIP seem to be a variety of fat, rather crude, doubtless charming-under-the-surface-but-I’ve-never-quite-seen-it, retired English people who’ve decided to live their latter years in Spain and spend the whole time complaining about the friggin locals. Which, of course, they can only do because we’re part of Europe, otherwise they’d still be scrabbling about in the cold and rain in some desperate suburb of a northern city.

Of course, my dear mum threatens to vote UKIP all the time, but I wonder if she ever has?

My politics has always been pretty simple. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. You leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone.  Let me do what I want in the bedroom and I won’t try and stop you from fox hunting or wearing a brass cross around your neck at work, if it really is important. You be civilised to me; I’ll be nice back.

Oh, and my second rule, is always try and look at every problem from the opposite point of view.  Clearly no good if you’re looking for a strong leader, but luckily I spend my weekends pottering around in my veg garden instead of deciding how to lead. It’s the politics of understanding. 

Without wanting to get personal, I’ve only ever voted Labour in my life. Which is weird because if you looked at me you’d think I was a nice true blue Tory (that’s slang for a Conservative, for the American audience. You see, it’s all being explained here). Well, I probably am a true blue Tory, at least by nurture, if not by nature. Like: obviously I should want lower high rates of taxes and all? Yes, but I always think it’s a bit more… interesting… not to vote in one’s own personal interest. Don’t you?  Voting just for yourself seems, hmmm, rather narrow-minded.   

OKAY OKAY I HEAR A COLLECTIVE YAWN, why de F**K is ben pentreath ranting on again?

Well, back to UKIP, if you will. 

Yesterday, I happened to discover a rather weird video that some nutcase supporter of UKIP has placed on You tube.  At time of writing, it has 64 views. Obviously I expect that number to rise dramatically now that I’ve brought it to the attention of thousands of metropolitan sophisticates just like you.

Here it is.  If you’re in your office, please put your headphones on. The swelling soundtrack is critical to the mood of the film.  If you’re reading at home, please turn up the volume button.

Why am I so fussed? 

Because 38 seconds in to this piece of drama, BUILDINGS THAT I HAVE DESIGNED OPEN THE FLIPPING FILM. HELLO!?!?!??!?!

As the dramatic music swells, the dreadfully-filmed video swoops around a group of houses called Woodland Crescent, that I designed years ago now, in Prince Charles’s development in Poundbury. The grainy film effect is slightly sinister, a little creepy. The score makes me wonder if by 1 minute and 7 seconds I’m about to witness some dreadful murder. No: we are just learning that this is how UK Independence Party wants Britain to look.

Okay, okay, I appreciate that once you’ve put a building up – it belongs to everyone. A fact that from time to time I think might be forgotten by one or two Starchitects, who I sometimes think are just designing for themselves. But nonetheless, this is rather taking it too far. At 1 minute 35 more buildings that I’ve designed (this time in Scotland) pop up.  

At which point, I couldn’t help thinking: GUYS, please leave me alone, if I leave you alone!!

So. I know that for centuries buildings have been political things. No more so than in the 20th century: Mussolini, Albert Speer, Stalin, I know, I know, Classical architecture is deeply totalitarian blah blah.  Oh god, even worse, then there are the counter arguments, about meaning in architecture, and 20th century modernists using everyone as little lab rats, and the fact that Greece was the original democracy…….. and…. well, you can see why I want to throw myself off a cliff when politicians and pundits start talking about architecture and vice versa.

For me, I just want to design a few nice houses. I want them to look nice, I’d quite like them to fit in, I want people to be happy there, I want them to be well-proportioned and well detailed and I want the people who are building those houses to feel a little sense of pride that they’ve made something worthwhile at the end of the day.  (I’m not sure that if you’re a bricklayer for a volume house builder you necessarily feel that).

What’s this all about? The trauma, perhaps, of finding out suddenly that I’m a poster boy for a political party that I think is a joke?  Needing to get a few things off my chest?  Or merely proving the rule that you should never drink 4 glasses of wine while composing a blog about politics one evening? 

We had a good laugh about the UK Independence Party in the office this morning. But, in all honesty, I’d sooner they’d leave my buildings out of it.