When I first heard that garden centres are facing a wave of closures, I immediately thought of the one around the corner from where I live. On a recent Wednesday afternoon, the car park was full and the cafe was bustling with people my parents’ age and older, chatting over milky coffees and slices of cake. The retired ladies who talk to me in the gym changing room love to come here for a jacket potato after their aquafit class.
Yet, as I stepped through the automatic doors, the plants weren’t immediately visible. First, I had to pass a bright deli counter, an area filled with homeware and crockery, shelves of fragrant toiletries, and a section of children’s toys before anything remotely connected to gardening came into view. I waded through gloves, power tools, pesticides and outdoor furniture, and then, finally, I found the annual bedding plants and potted shrubs. Here, all was quiet. The gardening section was quite unlike the busy cafe; I was alone but for one member of staff.
