Richard Vine is standing in a cramped greenhouse surveying his vegetables with paternal pleasure, as his assistant Lou bustles in the background with tiny clippers. “This lot is worth £1,500, believe it or not,” he tells me, passing a hand over the tops of the tiny cress and cabbage plants – just a small part of the kitchen garden that the horticultural consultant has created at Lucknam Park hotel near Bath. Outside, more than 30 varieties of fruit and vegetables jostle for space in the eight raised beds that cover almost every inch of the estate’s snug Victorian walled garden.
Until last year, Vine had a successful business supplying baby salads and vegetables to the restaurant trade, employing 15 staff to maintain his three acres of Wiltshire greenhouses every day of the year. “With plants,” he says, “there’s no such thing as a bank holiday.” Friends were already urging him to slow down when what he describes as the “challenging economic situation” hit, prompting many of his customers into the arms of larger-scale operations. Vine, a notorious perfectionist – “I give Lou hell, I really do” – was not prepared to change his working methods.
Instead, after being approached by Hywel Jones, head chef at Lucknam Park’s Michelin-starred restaurant, he decided to sell up and invest in a labour of love, creating a bespoke garden to supply Jones’ kitchen. “This has always been a dream of Hywel’s,” he tells me during a tour of the raised beds outside, “things can be with him two minutes after picking – that’s proper fast food!”
As he hops from plant to plant, proffering a taste of this and a sniff of that, it is clear how much the garden stimulates Vine. “The amount of care and attention that goes into, say, the micro herbs is equal to what these guys do in the kitchen,” he says. “It’s not just a job, it’s creating something unique for chefs who work very, very hard.” His lovingly nurtured produce might end up in a simple risotto of garden vegetables in the hotel brasserie, or garnishing a slow-cooked sirloin of local beef in the restaurant – both menus suggest the kitchen is eager to make the most of its new larder.
Vine plays with produce at home, so he can persuade the kitchen to experiment with things such as bolted fennel, “which any decent gardener would chuck out,” he chuckles. “But then, most gardeners don’t work with Michelin-starred chefs – it makes me want to try harder.” In an effort to better understand “what presses their buttons”, he has even spent time working in a number of the kitchens he has supplied, including a “nerve-wracking” stint at the pass at Maze under Jason Atherton.
“I’ve spent 20 years developing a reputation for the finest produce,” he says firmly, “and I couldn’t give a second-rate product to any of the chefs I’ve worked with – I’d lose heart.” All of his gardens are tended by hand. Automated greenhouses are “horrifying – there’s no skill there. Well, there is in knowing how to programme the computer I suppose.”
This approach means he is in the garden seven days a week, watering, sowing and netting, rescuing infant radishes from unexpected sunshine and getting to the ripe fruit before the birds do. Somehow, he finds time each week to share his skills with local schoolchildren, and inmates in an open prison. “It’s very good for the soul, gardening,” he muses. “You’ve got to pass the knowledge on.”
Vine, who is self-taught, was once master of his own organic farm, but after it folded in the harsh financial climate of the 1980s he found himself working in a factory. Around that time he became friendly with the head chef at King Hussein of Jordan’s British residence, who was looking for someone to supply the kitchen with fruit and vegetables, a challenge Vine could not resist. “It was trial and error for the first 18 months,” he recalls, doing night shifts to pay the bills, working all day in the garden, and then driving three evenings a week to London with deliveries to the few restaurants he had persuaded to take the remainder of his produce. “I’ve killed an awful lot of plants over the years, believe me, but it’s all about pushing each one to the limit, finding out what it can do.”
In this pesticide-free zone, the gardener is not the only one destroying crops: Vine almost proudly points out a bed of savoy cabbages with a caterpillar problem – “the chefs don’t use the outer leaves anyway,” he shrugs, “and why does man have the God-given right to control everything?” A greater emphasis on sustainability, he believes, is vital for the health of the restaurant industry. “[It] can’t go on in the way it always has, it’s just not sensible. People say to me, that piddly little garden, what difference is that going to make to global warming – but it makes all the difference.” He pauses. “And pretty soon, I don’t think it’s going to be optional.”
Once he has trained up Lou to manage the garden at Lucknam Park, he will help other chefs to realise the same “fast food” dream. “Now’s a good time to do something else, because everything in the garden is slowing down – relax, maybe have a day off,” he says. “Although first, I’ve got a chef to see in Ireland ...”