One thing that seems to unify British culture—and somehow evade the class structure—is gardening. Or better yet, garden centers. And that’s essentially what the RHS Chelsea Flower show is: one giant, incredibly expensive garden center. It takes place every year within the grounds of the Royal Chelsea Hospital. It’s massive, it’s busy, and it’s oh so incredibly British.
I seem to have an affinity for gardening. It all stems from Covid, when I decided to “renovate” our oversized, overgrown garden. It took me three weeks and remains something I’m still wildly impressed with. I now live in a flat with planters littered with weeds and cigarette butts, but the sentiment remains.
When I realized the Chelsea Flower Show was happening, I begged my editors to let me go. I didn’t have a solid reason why—just thought it would be fun. I’m trying to make use of my job’s glorious press perks.
Naturally, I’m already stressed before I arrive. I got my dates mixed up—my press pass was for the day before, I only realized at 7PM the night prior. Time to turn on the charm. I’m handed a lanyard, instantly transported back to being a student. They scan my pass: ”Access denied.” I play dumb. It works. I’m in.
As per most things in my life, I’m walking into this completely blind. It’s 9 a.m. and already buzzing. As I follow down a winding path, a giant tent emerges from the trees. Not this again. I assume it’s the main space and head in. The smell hits me immediately—nauseating, in a nice way. It smells… floral. As one would expect, though I wasn’t fully prepared. I’m completely overwhelmed.
“Last year we had to cancel because of Cornelia’s wedding” I overhear someone say. I instantly want to meet Cornelia. I feel like her wedding would’ve been a similar spectacle.
I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing here. I wander, looking for something. There are endless rows of perfectly arranged stalls. Huge flowers blooming out of every nook. I pause to recompose and scan the enormous tent.
I’m drawn to the Humid House—it looks like something out of Spider-Man 2. Giant lamps with octagonal petals bloom over a Jurassic-like display. Magnifying glasses hang over nothing in particular—just decor, I presume. I take a selfie with them.
Every other person is wearing a floral summer dress. I admire their commitment to the bit. I’m wearing trousers that are too small and a hoodie. Clearly, I didn’t get the memo. I keep taking photos of the women, and I’m terrified someone’s going to confront me.
I keep walking around aimlessly, smelling the flowers at each stall. Their scents blur into one. Like a child at Centre Parcs, I am drawn to the Fungi Through the Microscope section. I sit down, peer through lenses at fungal cells. I try to take a photo, but my iPhone camera keeps switching between lenses..
There’s an aggressively hideous floral sculpture of a ‘punk’ in the middle of the tent. I’m starting to understand the vibe. This place has a kind of British museum—curated, a little colonial. I can’t explain.
At one stall, I learn that the Colorado beetle is a looming threat to food security. “They can strip potato plants of their leaves in just a few days” a plaques says. They’ve won a gold medal for this., Fair enough. Classic Americans.
Next to the anti-American beetle stand is a robot that picks strawberries. I’m told it scans the strawberries for imperfections as it picks. Automation is truly taking over. There’s a weird Fordist vibe running through all this nature. A bizarre juxtaposition, but somehow fitting.
I stop at the Driftwood Bonsai stall. These guys are from Doncaster. They’ve won a silver-gilt medal, whatever that means. I contemplate buying one before slipping out the back of the tent.
Outside, crowds hover over more stalls. I think they’re full garden arrangements, but I can’t get close enough to confirm. I convince myself Alan Titchmarsh is in every one. He’s the only celebrity gardener I know. I don’t watch enough daytime TV to recognize anyone else. I was told I’d spot a royal. I don’t. Someone messages me later to say Gemma Collins was there. Of course.
The more I explore, the more I realize that this place is really just a giant garden centre. Everyone’s trying to sell me things for an imaginary garden. Ladders. Water fountains. Fire pits. Parasols. Day beds. None of it fits on my tiny balcony. There’s also a giant treehouse that isn’t affixed to a tree. So really, it’s just a glorified shed.
I find all the sculptures here deeply unsettling.
I let the crowds pull me into what I’m calling the High Street Pavilion. Hundreds of tents crammed together, hawking more oddly specific goods. Plant pots, hoses, Japanese garden tools, tweed jackets, birdhouses,rocking horses. I end up at a tent selling tablecloths and instantly think about the time I failed a job interview at Cath Kidston when I was 17.
I hear the crowd erupt into a roar. Did a flower just bloom? I follow the noise and stumble into a scene being filmed for TV. The cameraman counts down from three, and everybody claps and cheers. Everything in life is staged.
Everyone here, like me, doesn’t have a real job. I head to the food garden to realign myself. “Iced, oat, caramel, latte,” the barista repeats to me. Fuck my life—I am a child. It costs me £7.
A man sits at my table and lights a cigarette. I follow suit, half-convinced I’m about to be dragged out. It feels wrong to smoke around all these plants. I glance up and realize everyone is smoking. The man leaves, and two ladies with Pimm’s filled to the brim ask to sit down. They talk about their husbands’ health and scroll through photos they’ve taken of each other.
“How is his heart?”
“Fine.”
“Do you think it actually is depression?”
I respect the stoicism of the British upper class.
There’s an Atis salad stall. I hate myself for even considering it. It’s going to cost £15. I cave and get a Pimm’s, too—everyone else is drinking them, and I’ll feel like an outcast otherwise. I promsie myself I’ll do one final lap with a slight buzz. SIXTEEN POUNDS. My card declines. Any excuse to get pissed. Being British is a lifestyle.
Back outside, I notice there’s a constant hum of fanfare music playing in the background. I lock eyes with every camera I pass, hoping to appear on the BBC livestream. I’ve been here for three hours, and the crowd has tripled. A mechanical dolly glides over my head with a camera strapped to it. I don’t like how it all makes me feel. It’s starting to feel dystopian. I spot a robot lawnmower and make a beeline for it. “How do you trim the edges?” someone asks. She’s so real for that.
The crowd starts to resemble the smoking area of a club at 2 a.m. My head begins to ache, and the smell of flowers suddenly intensifies to an extremity. I need to leave. The Pimm’s has definitely hit me.
On my way out, I convince myself I need to buy a bonsai tree for £25,which feels suspiciously cheap. The man running the stall tells me it’s a pepper tree. I name him Salt. He says it blooms with red flowers. I don’t think I’ll keep it alive long enough to see that happen.
