My Roots: 60 Years of Wet Hands

It started in a river. I was five years old, knee-deep in African silt, chasing wild guppies with a hand-net. That was the late 60s. Since then, I’ve spent sixty years learning the language of water. By the time I was a teenager, I was diving for marine fish, seeing how the wild really works—no filters, no bottled fertilisers, just the raw balance of nature.

The Rise and the Roadblock. In my early twenties, I went all in. I built three aquatic shops in the UK. This was back in the analog days—before the internet, when your reputation lived or died by the health of your stock and a solid handshake. But then the world changed. The town put in bus lanes and “greenways,” and suddenly, no one could park. My shops were effectively cut off. It was a tough lesson in how the physical world can move the goalposts on your dreams.

The Long Way Round. I didn’t quit; I just pivoted. I spent twenty years running a successful business in a completely different world, but the tanks never left me. Even when I was busy with the “day job,” the hum of a filter was always the background noise of my house.

The Heartbreak and the Soul. Five years ago, a house move forced my hand. Moving fifty tanks of fish is a nightmare I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It was heartbreaking, but I made the call to rehome them with friends and fellow hobbyists. In the quiet that followed, I realised something: the fish were the heart, but the plants were the soul.

Why I’m Here Now. I’ve traded the chaos of breeding and live-animal sales for the quiet, patient craft of the nurseryman. I’m not guessing when I give you advice. Mind you, plants have a mind of their own sometimes. I’ve lived through sixty years of trial, error, and watching things grow.

When you get a cutting from The Wet Room, you aren’t getting a mass-produced plant that’s been pumped with chemicals in a Dutch greenhouse. You’re getting a plant that’s been hardened, cared for, and prepared by someone who knows exactly what it takes to make a submerged garden thrive.

I’m John, and sixty years later, my hands are still wet.