Although privet was an integral part of a Terroir childhood, it was many years before I realised the stuff had pyramidal spikes of white blossom, or experienced that heady, heavy, almost sickly perfume which emanates from the flowers.  I suspect I caught up with the follow-on black berries even later.  How come I was so ignorant of such basic aspects of this native shrub (Ligustrum vulgare)?

 Flower image: © David Birch Privet flowers DSCF5484 https://www.flickr.com/photos/hedgerowmobile/328836044

Berries image: © versageek European Privet (Ligustrum vulgare) https://www.flickr.com/photos/versageek/1563369131

Like so many of us, I was a suburban child.  The only privet I knew was the privet hedge which formed the boundary to so many semi-detached front gardens.  In our area, Ligustrum ovalifoilum vied with Golden Privet (Ligustrum ovalifolium ‘Aureum’) for most-favoured hedge status.  A 1950s and 60s summer did not hum with the sound of an electric lawn mower, but rattled with the sound of a push mower, and a pair of shears chopping the privet hedges into perfect vegetable rhomboids.  No flower was ever allowed to appear on these hedges, so no whiff of potent perfume or tell-tale berries. 

As a nearly-teenager I spent more time at the overgrown, more distant, end of the back garden.  Here a neighbouring privet had been forgotten and run wild.  Here I discovered the privet secrets of flower and scent.  Such was the universality and uniformity of the sterile front garden privet hedge, that the shock of the fecund floral discovery was akin to finding out how babies were made!

My childhood privet landscape was one of inter-war, speculative, private housing development. 

The urgent need for housing following WW1 created vast acreages of suburbia.  The ‘Addison Act’ of 1919 and subsequent Housing Acts in the 1920s and 30s, ensured the construction of over a million local authority houses. 

In 1923, the speculative builders of private houses joined in, adding a further 2.8 million ‘middle class’ homes.  This was my domestic inheritance landscape: a ‘Tudoresque’, three bedroomed semi-detached, of brick cavity wall construction, with pebble dash and tiled roof, small front garden and bigger back garden. The house was fitted with electricity, gas, tiny kitchen, bay windows at the front, topped with a gable, French doors at the back, an inside bathroom and separate toilet.  Two designs were often offered: ours had a curved bay and arched storm porch while Granny and Aunt J (Scary Great Granny’s daughter and grand-daughter - see the Booth Blogs) had a rectangular bay and matching storm porch.  Subtle.  Garages were an optional extra and ours had been built of asbestos but with the classic wooden double doors.   Looking back, and looking at pictures of ‘typical’ spec-built estates, I realise that chez Terroir was at the smaller end of the size range; indeed my bedroom was not much more than 6 foot by 6 foot square. 

From memory, the classic front garden featured a low brick wall, topped off with either looped chains or backed by the aforementioned privet hedge.  By the 1950s, the uniformity was already being eroded.  The low brick walls lasted well, but I have only faint memories of the looped chains and the privet hedges were definitely on the decline. 

The images below are a classic selection of inter-war speculative private housing, in this instance as found in Terroir’s current home town. These all have the classic gable, over the two stories of bay windows, something which was missing form Terroir’s childhood estate. On the other hand, these tend to have a single, shared access to garages behind the houses. The density was often lower in the childhood estate, offering space for a garage beside the house, sometimes with a side passageway through to the backgarden, as well. Obviously, there have been significant changes to the front gardens, although low walls and hedges are not completely absent.

Since achieving some sort of adult status, Terroir had not given the suburban privet hedge much thought.  Interest was revived recently, however, by the discovery that some of Sheffield’s allotments are surrounded by privet.  We don’t mean neat, waist high hedges around the external site boundary.  We mean that every two allotment plots are corralled within massive privet ramparts, at least 4 metres high and a couple of metres wide.   Thankfully the plot sizes are generous, as nothing grows within the shade of these evergreen barbarians.  

Now on constant hedge alert, we soon saw that the remains of privet hedges are alive and well.  Not just in Sheffield but throughout the towns and cities of England and Wales. 

Finding information on the history of the privet hedge has been tricky, however.  Histories of modest 20th century domestic architecture are not difficult to find.  But details of standard garden finishes, are much harder to track down.  Were the looped chains a figment of my imagination?  What sort of fencing was used to divide the residential plots?   Was that front garden privet hedge a hangover from the 19th century or was it a purely inter-war feature?  Why did Sheffield plant them around their allotments?

Some references we have found.  Ian Waites, in his evocative book ‘Middlefield – A post war cou ncil estate in time’, talks of cut-throughs – ‘narrow channels of privet, wall and fence’ - where children would disappear and reappear as they crossed this Lincolnshire estate.  The Municipal Dreams website (https://municipaldreams.wordpress.com) remarks that ‘The privet hedges remain a characteristic feature of Nottingham’s interwar council housing’ (Nottingham’s Council Housing by Bus and Tram Tuesday 19 June 2018) and ‘Some original privet hedges survive to mark the plot boundaries’ (Lincoln’s Early Council Housing 16 June 2015). 

We will continue to research the history of the privet hedge but we would be grateful for any further information, whether circumstantial, anecdotal, or academic, which readers can contribute.  If the comment box below is not visible, please click on ‘read more’, scroll down to the bottom again (sigh), and share your knowledge.  We look forward to hearing from you.