The Gardengoer

Green Thoughts

2011-08-31T20:46:00.035+10:00

I started writing this post in August - it's now September. Over the summer I've enjoyed seeing gardens, and reading about them, without writing about them. And there have been a few other interesting distractions, mentioned below. But recently friends and colleagues have let me know they've thought of me in gardens this summer: at Kew, Powerscourt and the Vyne. Which has spurred me on to complete this quick round-up - but to start with one that got away . . .
Somehow I've so far missed catching Piet Oudolf's garden at Peter Zumthor's Serpentine Pavilion (open till 16 October). Oudolf's description of planting designed to encourage daydreaming sounded idyllic. But in Munich in August I came across a little square of planting next to the Cafe Luitpold which seemed to me to have a similar effect (top and right). Just a couple of weeks ago, also, a neighbour showed me his garden and, by coincidence, pointed out plants new to his garden which I recognised from the Munich patch.

Other memorable gardens that have come my way: at the Hampton Court flower show, I loved an exhibit of water lilies in a boat surrounded by a seaside garden, which had caug ht my eye on Gardeners World because I'd been hoping to see Giverny later in the summer. I was lucky to make it there in time to see the Manet exhibition too - a last-minute citybreak.

At Hampton Court I also found myself drawn, as usual, to plants popular with the Elizabethans: lavender, violas, pinks and carnations . On Gardeners World they'd shown the original viola tricolor but we couldn't find it on the display; elsewhere in the Plant Heritage marquee, the carnations were showy Edwardian varieties, though impressive (click on the photo below to see bizarre candy striped patterns).

By chance, around the same time and out of the blue, I heard that Broxbourne Council was about to bid for the second part of a lottery grant to develop Cedars Park, the site of Sir William Cecil's Theobalds Palace: if successful, they could receive up to £1.75 million.

Funding from the Parks for Peoples programme would enable the planting of 2,500 trees, as well as development of the park for the community, better interpretation of the history of Cecil's palace and the re-creation of the maze garden. This summer, as it happens, I've virtually re-visited Elizabethan gardens, working on the U.S. edition of Elizabeth in the Garden (to be published later this year).

But to go back to where I started: this will be the last Gardengoer post for the time being - new website/blog in development; details to be posted here. Meanwhile, happy gardengoing!
Next on my list is a return visit to Sheffield Park, inspired by reading an article by Robert McFarlane on aerial photographs of Polish forests in autumn.

Round Hill Gardens

2011-07-04T22:41:00.026+10:00

Belton Close

Just a few photos from the Garden Gadabout held the last two weekends in aid of the Sussex Beacon - on the way back from a swim, I dropped in on a place recommended by friends in the road encircling Queen's Park. I asked the owner of a garden centred on a pond about her favourite things; a plantswoman, she singled out two plants, one of which was this erigeron, thriving in a sunny spot. A cultivated daisy, this one looked quite wild in its profusion and variety of delicate white, pink and mauve petals.

Afterwards, I headed for some gardens in the Round Hill area: a wildlife garden that several people had tipped. It was a densely planted and shady garden divided into several spaces leading along meandering paths to a vegetable plot with chickens and compost bins. There were numerous ponds and bird tables (as well as seventeen nest boxes, according to the guide sheet): this blackbird (left) seemed completely at ease less than a few feet away from me.
Also in Richmond Road, a garden on a steep slope constructed on three levels (right), and another where almost everything is grown in pots (below).

My final stop was for a cup of tea in a garden belonging to friends, in Belton Close - and delicious chocolate cake (their recommendation) .

They'd had a good day - it was about three o'clock (two hours to go) and they'd had nearly a hundred visitors. They are also opening
in the National Gardens Scheme in August, by which time their sunflower
hedge will be ready (just coming up on the right-hand side of the arch, beneath the sweetpeas). I sat in the shade of the shed (a table with an elegant parasol was taken) next to a fountain made up of cubes and relaxed in the cool, with the gentle sound of water in the background, looking out on to the drought-defying, lush lawn.

Walking in the Rain

2011-06-20T07:16:00.036+10:00

Knowing my interest in wild orchids, a friend had booked us on an orchid-hunting walk on the Sussex Downs. Although I'd recently seen quite a few at Castle Hill Nature Reserve and hadn't thought about planning to see more quite so soon, I was drawn by the chance to discover more about the Downs; there was also an art installation, and I'd enjoyed Anish Kapoor's Sky Mirror, sited on a hill overlooking Brighton seafront, a couple of years ago.

The walk took us through one of the richest places for fauna and flora on the Downs, our guide, a National Trust warden, told us. He also mentioned that orchid theft still went on in the area, despite the fact that these plants are nearly impossible to grow on, and so this posting will be vague as to their whereabouts. Wild orchids only grow in the ultra stripped-down soil of chalk grassland. It took the National Trust about eight years to clear the area where we walked - cattle and, occasionally, sheep, were then brought in for grazing.

The atmosphere of secrecy, rarity and intensive preparation mean that catching sight of an especially beautiful wild orchid is like seeing a mythical creature. Above, a common spotted orchid (s0-named for the spots on its leaves) in a woodland area recently cleared and restored - click on the picture to see the delicate markings.

The subtle colours and dainty forms of some of the rarer flowers mean that they aren't easy to spot - we hunted high and low for a bee orchid but couldn't find one, though we found a spider orchid and a few tiny fly orchids.

Apart from the magnificent spotted orchid, highlights of our orchid hunt were this creamy white butterfly orchid, which is bioluminescent (glows after dark), and a fragrant orchid, a lovely light mauve, below (a blurry picture, taken in the rain). Our guide said that fragrant orchids tend only to release their scent towards nightfall and so most of my fellow walkers headed onwards. I stayed behind with a couple of others to admire it a little more, and then a lady knelt down and discovered that it really was fragrant, despite its being only midday. The scent was like honeysuckle.

By that time, the earlier shower had turned into a downpour - yet we followed our guide, who, minus hat and umbrella, seemed happily oblivious to the weather, up a hill in search of Bronze Age earthworks and man orchids. Not being hardcore naturalists like the rest of the group, we left when we'd reached the top, half-way through some intriguing information about the thousands of ant hills (the ants have a symbiotic relationship with the lovely adonis blue butterfly), and took the quickest route back, stopping for a half-pint before the drive home.

Not long after this walk, I was at Penshurst on one of the wettest days of the year - again, a trip booked in advance and so you just had to make the most of things. Yet it was still a pleasure to walk around the gardens - admittedly, it helps to have some Celtic blood - which have been transformed since my last visit a couple of years ago. Everything was thriving, no doubt thanks to the rain, after our drought.

The new herbaceous border was begun three years ago and is in the final stages of development - I made a mental note to return in July/August on a dry day. In the meantime, I went in search of the playful creations I'd seen before, the topiary bear (reached via the orchard) and heraldry garden.
There was a garden planted with symmetrical beds of white roses, which brought to mind an episode in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, in which the gardeners are painting a white rose-tree red (when Alice asks why, one of them replies: "this here ought to have been a red rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake").

Early Summer Colours

2011-05-30T22:18:00.051+10:00

Nymans

Colour combinations in the wild and in cultivation have lit up some of the visits I’ve made to landscapes and gardens lately.

Earlier this month, I visited Castle Hill Nature Reserve to look for wild orchids – I was fortunate to be there with orchids expert Professor Mike Hutchings of Sussex University. As he mentioned, yellow and purple aren’t colours most people would combine in clothes yet they’re lovely in nature and best for pollinators. The photos above show mouse-eared hawkweed side by side with common spotted (purple) and fragrant (pink) orchids. The unseasonable weather meant that we came across quite a few of these orchids, which had only just emerged - the usual time is around mid-June. Some of the yellow wild flowers blending with the pink, purple and blue of orchids and milkwort were familiar, such as cowslips; others were less well-known (to me, at least) - bird's foot trefoil and yellow rattle.

The bold use of yellow as a foil for more delicate hues caught my attention in the following weeks at Nymans and then in a Brighton garden belonging to friends.

Palest mauve wisteria above a wide band of irises, with brilliant yellow Himalayan poppies in their midst, Nymans.

Irises and fennel, alliums and foxgloves, 1 Belton Close.

Although at the time I wasn't thinking about them directly, I realise that my fascination with these contrasting colours comes partly from looking again at Vincent Van Gogh’s iris paintings, and in particular, his "View of Arles with Irises in the Foreground", which he described to his brother Theo as composed of "enormously divergent complementary colours that are exalted by their oppositions".

Muted shades were identified as a trend at this year’s Chelsea flower show – as in the flowing dusky pinks and whites of Luciano Giubbilei’s garden for Laurent-Perrier, designed to evoke rosé champagne, offset by white-grey rocks in the pool. Yet, on what was mostly an overcast morning, I also enjoyed the bright yellows in Jim Fogarty’s garden for the Royal Botanic Gardens Melbourne and in Cleve West’s garden for the Daily
Telegraph, where, in the central circle, brilliant deep pink dianthus cruentus stood alone like a tiny fountain (below right).

Natural and ornamental colours were presented in sequence in Robert Myers's garden for Cancer Research UK. The soft pink, blue-green and white of beach wildflowers such as thrift and kale gave way to deeper colours and lush planting.

Colour can be like music – gentle shades calm; brilliant colours compel your attention like staccato notes.

Works in Progress

2011-04-30T00:57:00.016+10:00

Lately, I've found that several of the gardens I've visited have something vital in common: the National Garden Scheme. All are quite private places which open to the public a few times a year. Preparations for these openings give a new rhythm to the gardening year.

A few photos of two of these gardens, both in Brighton, which will open in the Garden Gadabout and National Garden Scheme this summer: first, 1 Belton Close, part of the Round Hill Gardens, taken mid-March.

There was a sense of readiness in the garden, especially with the carefully wrapped-up banana tree and propagation modules in the greenhouse. Everywhere, new shoots were just appearing, after the long winter.

Next, the Garden House, just before and after the Mediterranean heatwave. First, a few tulips, early April:

Although some had already gone over, still an arresting combination of colours.

Below, species tulips, delicate and subtle colours.

Then, after the tropical weather:

Seeing gardens fast-forward into summer can be disorientating, though a sign of the times. With the unusual weather, gardeners have to be more flexible and inventive - and to work harder to realise their plans. Then, come what may, there will always be something to see.

The Garden Gadabout: Sundays 26 June and 3 July 12pm - 5pm

National Garden Scheme: the Garden House, Fri 17 June, 6 - 8.30pm
1 Belton Close: Sunday 31st July 2011, 11am-5pm (for details, see www.ngs.org.uk)

A Day at the London Orchid Show

2011-03-28T04:17:00.034+10:00

Pressed for time, just wanted to put up a few pictures of the London Orchid Show, held at the RHS Horticultural Halls in Westminster last weekend. I was fortunate to be let in early, thanks to an exhibitor; had a quiet wander around and so could take in the diversity of flowers, which always amazes.

By the afternoon, the place was buzzing (anticipation building up to the 3.30pm sell-off, when there was a chance to buy plants from the exhibits), and the scent from so many orchids in one place was almost overpowering.

A diamond mine design to celebrate the diamond anniversary of the Orchid Society of Great Britain, awarded Most Innovative Display.

McBean's Orchids - an island of cymbidiums and odontoglossums crowned by a palm tree, gold medal winners.

A terrarium, so you can grow plants from all over the world, in an educational display by Helen and David Millner, awarded a gold medal.
Pleiones (bugle-like flowers at the front), by Maren Talbot of Heritage Orchids - there was also a sublime yellow and white one, Pleione Krakatoa (Wheatear), but it wasn't for sale, unfortunately. Still, I came away with a lovely miniature version, though this Himalayan plant needs cool, and so as to stand a chance on my balcony, I'm hoping to put together some sort of wind shield or mini beach hut, maybe.

Looking forward now to going to the spring show at the Glasshouse, Wisley, at the end of next month.

Wisley Wonders

2011-02-21T20:40:00.043+09:00

Each month, Wisley is holding a plant specialist weekend - coming up are hellebores next month and auriculas at the end of April. A couple of weekends ago, I was there for a talk by Jim Durrant of McBean's Orchids and a tour of the orchid collection. I really enjoyed both.

If a pattern - or apparent obsession - seems to be emerging in these postings, just to mention that recently I've been researching orchids for a chapter on plants in a book-in-progress. Also, the Orchid Society of Great Britain is celebrating its diamond jubilee this year, and I've been following preparations for forthcoming shows (more on these in a future posting).

Just a few photos of the orchid house at Wisley for now:

Afterwards, there were the tropical butterflies in the glasshouse. An apt follow-up since orchids and butterflies seem to me to have a few things in common as specialist interests. Orchids are similarly delicate, mysterious creatures, though have obvious advantages as a hobby, not least on account of the element of cruelty in butterfly-collecting. This train of thought originates for me with Vladimir Nabokov's fascination with butterflies.
(A quick digression: while he was research fellow in entomology at Harvard, Nabokov and his wife spent their summers butterfly-hunting in North America and Europe. As a respected lepidopterist who wrote academic papers, he presents an unusual case of a writer who was also an expert in another, seemingly unrelated field. In an interview in 1971, however, Nabokov linked both expertises, saying that although he still continued to hunt butterflies, he no longer published academic papers since "the miniature hooks of a male butterfly are nothing in comparison to the eagle claws of literature which tear at me day and night".)

The most striking butterflies in the glasshouse were black with grey or blue markings. The first I saw seemed to have escaped from the exhibition area; I hadn't been prepared to see a creature about the size of my hand gliding in a slow zigzagging movement through the gallery, obviously a bit lost. When I reached the exhibition walkway, it was fascinating to see how they moved as if in slow motion. Like swallows in extremely leisurely flight. Occasionally, they fluttered out of harm's way.
I thought they were remarkably calm despite the visitor numbers - much calmer than most of the visitors. It was midday, and there were a few traffic jams on the stairs (best to go early, if you're going). There was a real excitement in the air: people stood still, gazing at butterflies and orchids, both strangely beautiful creatures. I heard later from a friend that one of the assistants had brought out a butterfly that had just hatched, holding it on a little stick.

Afterwards, I asked one of the RHS guides, Connor, also a tree expert, who was directing people traffic outside the glasshouse, what he would especially recommend seeing in the grounds. Armed with a couple of seasonal tips for a tour, I was about to set off when I came across a friend who had also been at the orchids event - she and her mother had just toured the glasshouse. We stopped for lunch, by which time the weather had picked up. The morning had started grey and rainy, not garden-visiting weather, though I'd reminded myself on the way up that I'd be inside most of the time, for the talk and tour - yet there we were in glorious sunshine, coats off.

We headed first for the lake bordered by willow and dogwood stems, silver-grey, red and golden: I'd wanted to see them because I'd recently seen photos of coloured tree barks in the winter garden of Anglesey Abbey (the Garden House in Brighton were organising a tour there). We had to search a bit to find his favourite planting. Following the path round, where we caught sight of swans, there they were: silver birch trees underplanted with winter aconites. For me, this cluster of golden flowers outshone everything else in the landscape. (I realise that the shot below can't do it justice, though - in any case, it's well worth seeing for yourself.)

Then we walked through a woodland area - the wild garden - towards the rock garden. You could almost be in real woods (just have to close your mind to the distant din of the A3). We had a relaxing time slowly ascending Battleston Hill, planted with gigantic snowdrops, some doubles, as well as a whole host of other bulbs, all of them out, and I forgot to look out for the plant of the month, Iris "Katherine Hodgkin". Maybe it was because I'd had my fill of irises already: there had been deep purple dwarf irises in the beds outside the Clore Centre; elsewhere, in the wild garden, there were statuesque mauve irises. It was also a little overwhelming to see so many brightly coloured flowers when, by comparison, Sussex gardens and parks were still barely struggling out of winter, with only snowdrops and a few crocii on show. A walk around Wisley was a kind of fast-forward into spring.

My friend spotted our iris, fortunately, since it had slipped my mind - surrounded by a small crowd. It was set amongst some rocks, beneath a bonsai'd larch tree near the top of the hill. The petals were a delightful grey-blue with delicate yellow and black markings. The flower seemed to emerge from the earth - its tiny stem hidden somewhere. We'd been admiring the flowers for a while when it dawned on us: Iris "Katherine Hodgkin", plant of the month.

Just out of curiosity, I looked for it in the plant shop. An assistant said she wasn't sure they had any left - checking the system, she saw there were two but that could mean they were sold-out. There were none to be seen in the racks outside, though I hadn't thought about buying in any case. (I've since heard that the plant centre has sold 500: sold out in just over a month. Although it's unlikely there will be any new stock in the near future, they will come in again in August, as a dry bulb.) Instead, I picked up two lovely winter aconites. Close-up, their glistening flowers were sunflower-bright as well as jewel-like - a powerful colour for such a tiny flower. Described as an "early flowering plant" (January), it was a good memento for a day spent in an early flowering garden.

Spring Thoughts

2011-01-23T04:43:00.033+09:00

A few sunny spells are enough to bring spring to mind. I've started looking forward to seeing a few places that will come into their own before long: Gatton Park for snowdrops, Eltham Palace for its moat planted with spring flowers (as recommended by John Watkins, Head of Gardens and Landscapes at English Heritage) and Ightham Mote for bluebells.

This January has been darker than usual: since our unusual weather last year, I've become more interested in weather forecasts, and so far this month quite a few reports have remarked on dark skies in the mornings. There seems to have been a lot more cloud this year. In the first week of the year, at 7 it still felt like the middle of the night. Nature writer Paul Evans recently summed it up: 'January looked glum'.

But the god of January, Janus, looks forward as well as back, and those sunny spells point the way forward. I first came across Janus, the two-headed gateway god, in a medieval book on agriculture: each chapter began with a beautiful woodcut of a month. What impressed me about the woodcuts for the winter months was that there seemed to be more of an acceptance of the dark times of the years, an appreciation of the seasons. Janus had a particular vitality - the worst was over and a new year promised new opportunities.

As the gateway god, Janus might seem like a wintry god yet he holds the key to the future. The god in the above Roman image now used on an Australian coin, strikes me as steely and determined, rather than glum. In his prime, you could say. It's no accident that he sports a luxuriant beard since the first month of the year is traditionally associated with age (as with January, the old knight in Chaucer's The Merchant's Tale, although, admittedly, the story mocks foolish old age). On a less serious note, these days, post-Christmas, there's less heed paid to clean-shaven looks (less maintenance seems required in general, which comes as something of a relief to many).

A fortnight ago, I went to Gatton Park, in Surrey, where I heard that a return visit would be worthwhile for the snowdrops. I was there for a meeting of the Orchid Society of Great Britain; Gatton Park last belonged to Sir Jeremiah Colman, of Colman's Mustard fame, who was one of the country's first orchid growers. He started to hybridise plants in 1900; by 1905, he had twelve glasshouses, where thousands were hybridised.

Sir Jeremiah was a kind of orchid ambassador; he spread the word about orchid growing by sending plants around the world to encourage people. One plant sent to Honolulu was used in a beauty queen's crown.

The grounds of Gatton Park were laid out by Capability Brown - they had that indefinably dreamy look of a classic Brown landscape. A midnight blue lake in a haze surrounded by trees, viewed from a plateau of perfect lawn sloping down to it.

Gatton Park is part-managed by the National Trust and looked after entirely by volunteers. Recent initiatives include restoring vistas by removing trees. Wildlife is encouraged in every way: I heard that there were twenty-five pairs of herons - a major feature of Gatton Park, the original heronry on the lake was known as "the grand water menagerie". Other attractions include a Japanese garden recreated as part of Channel 4's Hidden Gardens series and a rock garden, where you'll find the snowdrops.

There was a fabulous display of orchids grown by members of OSGB in one of the greenhouses. Orchid names can be as colourful as the plants themselves, like the irresistible Paph Red Glory x Voodoo Magic (left).
These hothouse flowers also come into their own in the springtime, with forthcoming annual shows: the London Orchid Show, in March, and the RHS Chelsea Flower Show, in May.

- Gatton Park is open to the public on the first Sunday of each month, 1pm - 5pm (www.gattonpark.com).

Memories of Woodstock

2010-12-21T02:18:00.111+09:00

The antiquity of Woodstock is not measured by a thousand years and Blenheim is heir to all the memories of Woodstock - Winston Churchill

Last Sunday week, I went to Blenheim Palace to explore the grounds as part of some research about gardens as entertainment venues. I also wanted to search out the site of the medieval palace of Woodstock, where Elizabeth I was kept under house arrest as a princess. She had been granted liberty to walk in the gardens and often re-visited the palace as Queen, having appointed her Champion Knight Sir Henry Lee as keeper. The above dusky photo shows Sir John Vanbrugh's monumental bridge taken from across the River Glyme at the site of the ancient palace of Woodstock, with Blenheim in the background.

Spring or summer would obviously have been better choice for a visit, but last week was my last chance to see an exhibition on "Gulliver's Travels" (Blenheim is the location for a new 21st Century Fox film, starring Jack Black, Jason Segel and Billy Connolly: see www.gulliverstravelsmovie.co.uk for a fun trailer - opens Boxing Day). Sunday was the exhibition's closing day, and, as I discovered when I arrived, the final day that the house was open this year - it re-opens in mid-February.

I was lucky with the weather - that Sunday there was a thaw, with temperatures around 6', till lately what we'd have expected for December. The mild day made quite a contrast with the end of the week, when, along with much of the country, Brighton had been snowbound. There was even some lovely sunshine, and the low sunlight on the golden stone made the palace look more beautiful and strangely mirage-like.

About half an hour from Woodstock, I stopped at some services, reluctantly. Sitting there with a Starbucks, feeling both disorientated and coming to, thanks to the caffeine, there floated over the sound of a silver band - "Joy to the World", of all things. Only in Oxford . . . they even have classy services . . . The band was made up of amateur musicians who obviously played for the love of it (and had clearly been together a long time) - and, so I heard, donations helped keep them going.

By coincidence, another reason I'd wanted to make it that Sunday was that Blenheim was holding special festivities to end the season in style, with the City of Oxford silver band playing in the Great Hall and two choirs in the library (from Marlborough and Cranford House).

Approaching the palace, there were Christmas trees for sale outside, and in the grand courtyard it was fun to see trees between the columns. There was a huge crowd of visitors, but thanks to the enormity of the complex, there was just enough space, and people were in a good mood.

It was a little incongruous, in some ways, though, to see Christmas trees and cannons together. Maybe, a sign of progress, though?

The "Gulliver's Travels" exhibition alone was worth the trip. The high ceilings were hung with miniature red and white striped air balloons with tiny, cube-shaped wicker baskets. Holly wreaths crowned the busts like haloes, comically transforming their solemn appearance. There were Lilliputian homes (dolls' houses) and costumes from the film. My eye was also caught by something not part of the exhibition, a case of miniature lead soldiers from France, modelled on a selection of regiments who fought under Napoleon, which Churchill had wanted displayed in the palace.

The exhibition's star attraction was the sumptuous feast for a giant in the saloon: the enormous table was decorated with gold to replicate the banquet scene filmed in the Great Court. (Photographs weren't allowed but, hopefully, I'll be able to add some official ones soon.) There was a huge chair at the end of the table, an outsize plate and cutlery and a huge flute glass. In the film, so I heard from one of the helpful guides, the table stretched from the palace's front door to the centre of the courtyard, and Gulliver's chair was suitably massive (in the novel, an inhabitant of Lilliput measures the height of your hand; Gulliver was as tall as the tallest trees there).

The tricks of scale were fun, and I enjoyed listening to people's comments. On the huge wine glass - "I like the glass . . ." and "How many bottles would fit in that?" On Gulliver's chair: "That's a big chair"; a little girl beside me repeated "gigantic" in an awed voice, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

In the Red Drawing Room, I took in John Singer Sergent's portrait of John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough clad in black armour and looking darkly handsome, as well as the chimneypiece adorned with Cupid and Psyche by Sir William Chambers. There was a magnificent view of the lawn, which in classic Capability Brown style seems both to sweep up to the house and roll to the horizon at the same time; and just above the window ledge you could see white roses.

A lady came to join me at the window and, turning to me, said, "Imagine having that as your view in the morning". An unfathomable thought. When visiting Blenheim, I wondered how many people imagine what it would be like to live there - for some reason, though, the idea of actually living in an historic house doesn't occur to me. I tend to be more drawn to speculate what it might have been like to have lived there originally - and also how the current family live there now. Or, if it's owned by the National Trust or English Heritage, how it's looked after and presented to people, as well as enjoyed.

It was interesting to come upon the bed of white roses on the way back from a wander round the grounds. And that what turned out to be my favourite planting of the day was something I'd first seen inside the house - white roses giving on to baroque gardens and a view of the lawn. The purity and delicacy of the frozen roses struck me as an unlikely but satisfying counterweight to the stately arched windows of the facade.

The last time I was at Blenheim (my second visit there) was to give a talk at the Independent Woodstock Literary Festival a couple of years ago. Afterwards, I walked to the ha ha at the edge of the great court, pictured left; it was a very warm summer's day, and the sheer scale of the place then deterred me from venturing into the grounds. But I knew I'd be back.

So it was satisfying this time to see the gardens properly - though obviously not at their best, they're architectural, with statuary, paths and topiary.
I was more interested in the woodland walks and the lake, in any case. Top of my list was Brown's newly restored cascade, which cleverly conceals the mighty dam. I was also determined to explore the site of Woodstock Palace and, if possible, to go in search of Rosamund's well, where Henry II rendezvoused with his mistress the Fair Rosamund. This was an elaborate banqueting house, with a water garden inside a garden: John Evelyn's delicate drawing memorably captures the chain of pools.

This posting has run on a bit, so I'll just show a few more pictures and try to cut down on the comments. (More details to follow in another shape or form, maybe.) First up, the cascade, which you hear before you see, since the path leading down the slope is curved. At a distance, the sound is gentle, a kind of rustling, then as I drew nearer, it became a torrential rushing of water, crisscrossing ravines. The pictures here can't do it justice, you have to experience it for yourself, but the sound effects are magnifed thanks to Brown's ingenious design, and disporportionate to the apparently modest scale of the cascade.
The dam holds back 570,000 cubic metres of water from the River Glyme, and the resulting 45-hectare lake is 7m deep in places. There was ice on the rocks; the water was clear, the foam snow-white and the yellow stone glowed. I was also impressed by the wildlife (plenty of happy ducks in the pool below the cascade).

There's a new path leading up to a viewing platform. Seeing the cascade from above is quite vertiginous (again, you have to see it for yourself), but it's the acoustics that really impress: the sound is ferocious. As the notes explain, the rocks were placed "so as to create as much movement and noise as possible". It's a kind of hydraulic conjuring act, you could say. There's a sense of the astonishing power of water - yet, after all the sound and fury, when I wandered up a woodland path on the other side of the dam, the lake above was as still as a mirror.

On the way back up to the palace, I walked through vivid red woods (copper beeches). Just to the left, the lake was eerily motionless. There was some novel planting in the shape of bamboos next to bull rushes. You feel miles away from everything yet soon enough the path rears up and you see the towers of Blenheim just above the trees.

A quick few last pictures to finish: a highlight from the point of view of looking at the garden as a venue of kinds, the Temple of Artemis (Diana, the huntress goddess), where Winston Churchill proposed to Clementine while they were sheltering during a downpour, 10th August 1908. They had just been for a stroll around the rose garden. This stately little Greek temple is certainly situated in a lovely spot. There's a dreamy view of Brown's magnificent lake, which moves from wide to narrow, resembling a river in the distance, one of the designer's trademark optical illusions.

I'd had such a good time, dusk was falling by the time I crossed Vanbrugh's bridge in search of the site of Woodstock palace. It was a wonderful vantage point for the bridge and palace; I also loved the little island planted with russet trees in the middle of the lake (which again, Brown the conjuror at work, resembles a river at this point). A couple of swans, luminous in the twilight, completed the romantic picture.
According to my map, Rosamund's well was somewhere by the water's edge and looked fairly off the beaten track (for its probable location see the clearing between trees, on the opposite side of the bridge to the site of the old palace, pictured below). Light was fading fast, and so it would have to wait.
On the way back to the car park, there was a happy atmosphere. Blenheim is so huge and there's so much to see that you're bound to end up tired out, in good way - which is how everyone seemed to me on the way homeward.
In the springtime, I'll return to see more of the gardens, especially the Secret Garden (restored in 2004), and for further exploration of the memories of Woodstock.

Sweet Gum Sunset

2010-11-22T19:43:00.011+09:00

A quick slideshow of my recent trip to Kew. The last Saturday but one, I was there for a talk on wild orchids. On the way back, my route led me through plant identification beds, past prairie planting (which now meant something to me, after Sussex Prairies) and on through the Alpine garden, which was mesmerising in its stillness - there was no one else around. I loved the cascade (more like a mini-waterfall, if that's possible, because of its vitality), where the air was clearer and purer, an invigorating place to pause for a while, and sloping paths flanked by beds of exquisite, tiny flowers.

Finally, the slightly grey day opened up into a dreamy dusk and beautiful sunset pictured above. It was the "magic hour" beloved by cinematographers. Two russet pink trees called "Sweet Gum" (Liquidamber styraciflua, USA), framed the red brick Queen's House behind which unfurled a deep crimson sunset.

An immaculate patch of prairie planting, right:

I didn't have long before the talk and, apart from enjoying soaking up the atmosphere and sampling a few of the "100 gardens within a garden", I'd decided on one "must-see" destination. This was the Rhizotron and Xstrata Treetop Walkway, 60 feet above ground, created a couple of years ago.

It took a while to find - trekking westwards made me realise just how huge Kew is - and when I arrived, for one reason or another, my first impressions weren't so good. From ground level, the structure looked like an ungainly rollercoaster, more than a little out of place in the centre of graceful sweet chestnuts, limes and oaks, their thinning autumn leaves making it seem even less likely to be the immersive canopy experience I'd hoped for.

I realised later that I was letting my personal experience of rollercoasters cloud my judgement. Not to digress too much, years ago, I foolishly suffered a car crash experience at Blackpool on what was then the theme park's most extreme rollercoaster. Since then I never use the phrase "rollercoaster ride" as shorthand for an exhilarating experience, and when I hear others use it, tend to think they have no idea - yet anyone who can get away with marketing sheer undiluted horror as family entertainment deserves some credit . . . I should have known better, of course - as children, on a daytrip on the south coast one summer, my brothers and I survived a brush with death on a derelict, rickety old rollercoaster with the world's dodgiest brakes.

But I'd come all that way and, though I was tempted not to bother (and wondered if it was really for children from its fairground appearance), decided it was worth seeing if the walkway looked better in the treetops, as you'd expect. In a nutshell, I wasn't disappointed. It was something else up high, a marvellous piece of engineering and craftsmanship. After the vertigo-inducing climb (although dizzying on the way up, and I've a head for heights - I passed one poor guy clinging to the railing as he inched his way up one step at a time - once you were on the walkway, it was fine, and the descent was no problem either), as soon as you'd progressed past the fairly sparse foliage of the first clump of trees, you were in another world.

Quickly, for now, a few action photos of people on the walkway and one of the carved inscriptions, which reminded me of the botanical garden in Montpellier. Undeniably, the walkway was an exhilarating experience - people looked relaxed, happy,
leant on the bannister to gaze at the trees and views, pointed things out to each other. And there were great views of Kew landmarks - the Pagoda and the Palm House.

I suppose it goes to show that a different perspective, literally, in this case, is often all that's needed. Or, as in my twilight walk back through the grounds, a change of light can alter a landscape beyond recognition.

Gardens ask that you give them time - the opposite of our instant gratification culture. From one moment to the next, they change. You never step into the same river twice, as the philosopher said. The same goes for gardens: give them a little time and they usually surprise you, as I found in the treetops and on the sweet gum sunset stroll to the exit.

Adventures in Sussex Prairies

2010-11-15T07:17:00.000+09:00

A fortnight ago, I headed out towards Henfield to see the Sussex Prairies garden. Will add to this post later, but just to say, there had been a frost mid-week which had stripped the place of most of its colour, but this gave it a lunar beauty. And what remained stood out even more strongly - vivid glittering golds and reds. It was an unearthly place in the brilliant sunshine - again, I was very lucky with the weather. A still, bright golden day in mid-autumn and, since it was October, as one of its creators Paul commented, not many people had it in their minds to visit a garden, so I had the place almost to myself. Spanning 6 acres and surrounded by fields, it felt like another country.

Just to post a few pictures for now - will add more comments later. I liked the view shown to the right for the contrast between spiky modern planting and soft Sussex trees and the old gate in the background - so different yet so close together, and somehow it works.

Then there were the quirky cut-out sculptures of bison crossing the lawn . . .

But, best of all, the paths cut into the beds - sometimes, these made vistas, but most of the time, they were alluring routes into the unknown.

Away From It All

2010-11-14T22:39:00.000+09:00

I realise it's been a while since I posted anything. But I went to a garden yesterday and, two weeks ago, took in three in a weekend. So it's not for lack of material, or inspiration, since yesterday was Kew and the earlier trilogy consisted of Sussex Prairies garden, a friend's place on a Brighton hill-top, featured in the National Gardens Scheme and Garden Gadabout, and Glyndebourne. About a month ago, I went to Nymans, in East Sussex - so that's five yet to write up . . .

Gardengoing can become more than mildly addictive. Until yesterday's trip to Kew, I was feeling withdrawal symptoms (it had been a fortnight since my last excursion). Be warned - once you get in the habit of going to gardens, you could find yourself becoming a little enslaved to their pleasures. Yesterday, I gave in to the urge to go in search.

I'd been meaning to see Kew again for a while, and my whirlwind tour happened to coincide with a talk I'd hoped to make, so it was double whammy: a wander round a great garden and an enthralling talk by wild orchids world expert Professor Mike Hutchings (more on this in a later epistle). And, after a lengthy absence from new and strange outside spaces, going to Kew was double the pleasure of a usual garden visit.

So what's kept me? The usual - deadlines, followed by more deadlines. I have to admit that catching up on these postings today, though a pleasure, is partly motivated by a kind of internal deadline. Talking with a friend lately, when asked how often I post something, I said about every two weeks. But posting dates on Blogger are there for all to see, and it's been nearly a month. So to stay credible, I'll try not to let it slide again . . .

I also mentioned that I'd left it so long before writing about the latest places I'd visited that they'd really all be virtual gardens by now - after last Wednesday's rain and gales, they'd have all blown away.

With five gardens to report on, I thought that the next few postings after this would more closely resemble slide shows than the Burroughsesque routines to receivers I promised at the outset. Contrary to my initial plans, however, this next has ended up as a lengthy posting, maybe making up for lost time.

So cut to the chase. First off the blocks is the magnificent Nymans, which you can't easily skip through.

A number of promptings led me to Nymans at the end of September. A glaring omission that I hadn't yet been, I realise. But when it comes to gardengoing, I'm a late developer. As with most places I go to, Nymans came my way through recommendations. In an interview with "Sussex Life" earlier this year, Andy Sturgeon singled out Nymans and Great Dixter as two great Sussex gardens to visit for their plantsmanship.

A friend and fellow National Trust member had urged me to go to Nymans more than once (incidentally, we've got a date to see Standen together, at some point, d.v.). And then the clincher was when a conversation with another garden devotee (it's no coincidence that this was over lunch on a beautiful lawn on one of our Indian summer afternoons in early September) touched on Montpellier (a friend of hers had told her of a masked ball she'd been to there that summer - confirming my suspicions that it's definitely a place to be . . .), Giverny and Nymans, and I took away from this that while Nymans is lovely in the spring for fritillaries (in the grassy areas in the Wall Garden), you can go at different times of the year. That sealed it for me. Only a matter of time, I thought.

The last Saturday in September - it was a gorgeous day, and while the chores needed doing, I couldn't face them. I brought my parents, and we arrived at 2. Great timing, as a tour was just starting. I'd been looking forward to my picnic, hastily made before I set out. At the end of a working week and start of the weekend, I couldn't face a possibly slow-moving tour. My parents were delighted to catch it, though, and later told me their guide was wonderful . I'll have to go on one on a future visit, when I've plenty of time . . .

So I left them to be happily educated in the knowledge of plants and colourful stories of its owners (the house was famous for its bohemian parties, so I heard later) while I had a picnic in the sunshine, looking out over the most beautiful views of the countryside. And then I could wander at will, now and then dropping in on the tour, and checking up on my parents, hearing snippets about the place's talented former residents (so as not to appear rude, I mentioned that I'd really come out for a walk that day . . .).

Later, my father told me what they'd learned about the planting in the Wall Garden ("the heart of Nymans", according to the guide book, and the first phase of the garden laid out by Leonard Messel): plants from South America, mainly from Chile, line the south-facing wall; opposite are plants from the Himalayas. I'll have to investigate that next time.

Everywhere you looked, the planting was clearly superb. Later, I showed some of my camera phone snaps to a lady in the nursery shop who enthusiastically identified a few things for me.

The exquisite flowering shrub at the top of this page and above features on the website for Nymans: Eucryphia, from South America and Tasmania. I thought I wouldn't see it when I visited. A slightly defeatist attitude, perhaps - too late for anything that spectacular, I'd imagined. So it was quite a thrill to come across it, by accident. Surprisingly, maybe, the lady at the nursery hadn't seen the actual flower herself but confirmed that it was indeed the same as that on the website - and she had heard that this flowering shrub lined the paths on the way to the house, where I'd found it. As I've since discovered, it flowers in late August - the advantages of round-the-world planting, again . . .

We were urged to come back in May since they all "wait and wait" for a special magnolia to flower at that time. Good to know that the best is yet to come . . .

Meanwhile, here's the enormous magnolia growing on the side of the house that's now in ruins, along with banana trees:

Some of the plants in the formal gardens surrounding the house had evocative names: there were borders of a Salvia cultivar called "Hot Lips" in the dovecote garden (the close-up below shows something of the exuberance of this flower);

A couple of action photos. A little girl running along a path, below right: you can see her behind the pot, looking as if she's in it.

I just missed catching a dove in mid-flight above a lavender border, which, as you see below, is neatly terminated by the dovecote built into a wall. As a substitute, below left, a dove crowning the pinnacle.

What really made my visit was when I recognised the viaduct panorama that I usually see from the train, just after leaving Haywards Heath station on the way to London. This is one of the first glorious views you see as you walk down the huge slope of lawn towards the lime avenue (see photo, below right). When I was trying to capture this, the clouds massed, so it's hard to spot, but, if you zoom in, you can see a train crossing the bridge.

And what a lime avenue! Close up, the leaves are translucent in the sunlight, and you appreciate that these splendid trees have wonderful sound effects: the leaves make the most gentle rustling sound in the breeze. (Fragment of conversation overheard earlier: a lady remarking that Nymans was one of the few gardens where you couldn't hear any traffic.) It really brought home why limes were the choice of kings - avenues of this royal tree were planted in princely gardens. Examples include avenues at Theobalds, an auxiliary palace, by order of William Cecil, Elizabeth I's chief adviser, under the direction of John Gerard, and St James's park by order of Charles II and directed by Le Notre.

That you could hear the sound of the leaves was something in itself - especially considering the huge car park was packed to capacity that day. Also, despite visitor numbers, the grounds weren't in any way overcrowded. The only busy places were the cafe (after an hour's wanderings, I had a reviving Earl Grey tea and lavender scone outside) and, in second position, the shop.

On the way to the lime avenue, crossing the meadow, you pass the pinetum - astonishingly, only two giant redwoods from the original pinetum (which was horse-shoe shaped and dated from around 1895) survived the Great Storm of 1987. The new pinetum was planted in 1990, again in the shape of a horse-shoe . . . On that note, though obviously there's the logic of reconstruction in keeping the same shape, I couldn't resist thinking better luck next time, or at least, here's hoping, given the vagaries of our current climate. While a hundred years isn't a bad innings, it was very sad to think of so many beautiful ancient trees being decimated in a single night.

In the grounds, you come across various attractions and marvels, such as this extraordinary tree with fruit like raspberries and a giant redwood (close-up of the soft, velvety bark below)

and conceits such as topiary sculptures. What looks from a distance like Salvador Dali's Mae West lips sofa is, close up, a yew basket.
A stone figure in the undergrowth seems oddly lifelike, at first (see right).

So, on with the slideshow - a few shots of the formal gardens surrounding the house, with their clipped hedges, gravel paths, pots, ornamental trees and striking topiary; the "lion" gate pictured above, leading up to the house.

On the way to the nursery you pass the rose garden: here, a startlingly vivid pink rose (right), and another with beautiful dusky red rosehips (below).

In the nursery on the way back, we picked up three David Austin roses and a couple of extraordinarily delicate white flowering euphorbia ("diamond frost").

Our last destination was The Royal Oak, in Poynings, at the foot of the Downs - an amazing location (there's also a lovely garden). Now for the "confessions of a terrible daughter" finale: my parents then told me that it was their anniversary. I shoulda known - unexpectedly, my mother had texted me mid-week to ask if I was free on Saturday in case we could see "All My Sons" (turned out to be sold-out, no surprise) or else Sunday they were thinking of going up to see the Picasso exhibition. I didn't think to ask what the occasion was . . . Anyhow, they said they hadn't told me, not wanting me to worry about a card or present, and they'd had a great day at Nymans - had driven past it numerous times without knowing it was something special.

The roses were a souvenir and present from my father to my mother (early that week they would plant them in a new circular bed under an apple tree). We celebrated with a Guinness (my father), white wine (my mother) and a Sagres (Portuguese beer: me) before heading back to Brighton to continue the festivities.

A last image from Nymans - a beautiful low-growing yellow flower ("campanile") I spotted on the way back through the grounds.

Next posting - Sussex Prairies garden, with links to Glyndebourne and Kew

Garden Alert: Sussex Prairies opening

2010-10-19T02:43:00.001+10:00

Just a quick alert to say that Sussex Prairies, near Henfield, are open to the public this Sunday for the last time this year (visits by appointment at other times). I'd heard about this garden about a year ago via Sussex Gardens Trust and had meant to go on one of their visits there last September. The garden is described by its creators Paul and Pauline McBride as "the biggest naturalistic prairie garden in Sussex and one of the biggest in the country".

Then yesterday evening I heard about the place again from some fellow gardengoers who'd been there this September and loved it. What caught my attention was when they mentioned that the prairie planting was cut through with vistas. Though it was late in the year, they said there would still be quite a lot to see, and even flowers such as alliums that might have gone over would be sculptural and still impressive (though if I make it next weekend, I'll definitely plan a return visit mid-summer for the full technicolor experience).

This Sunday 24th is the second time they're opening this month and, as far as I can see, the last public opening this year - in the wake of a feature on Gardeners' World last Friday 15th. On their website, they promise visitors "a great selection of home made cakes and hot or cold drinks served on our terrace overlooking the garden" (http://www.sussexprairies.co.uk) .

For the BBC Gardeners' World feature on the garden, go to http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00vdjj8/Gardeners_World_2010_2011_Episode_26/

Right Place, Right Time

2010-09-14T00:58:00.000+10:00

When it comes to gardengoing, as with so many things in life, timing is everything.

So a quick alert to mention that now is a good time to go to Great Dixter, near Rye - for the dahlias, as enthusiasts know. With autumn closing in, although it's 'game over' in many gardens, the place is still flourishing.

I have to admit I hadn't been that drawn by the idea of Great Dixter, put off by gardening programmes, books and articles fixated on the 'clashing colours' in the planting (which made me think of grisly Victorian bedding in parks). Although I shared the great Christopher Lloyd's devotion to dahlias, a flower looked down on by purists, another reason his garden wasn't top of the list for a visit was that it was a plantsman's garden, whereas at the time, I was more interested in design - crucially overlooking the fact that this was a garden designed by none other than Edwin Lutyens.
Inspired by news of an exhibition about Christopher Lloyd at the Garden Museum, and realising that I'd probably been missing something, I made plans for a visit last Easter before seeing the exhibition. But our long-drawn-out, cruel winter put a stop to that. The gardening diary on Great Dixter's website warned that the snowdrops had only just come up . . . So I went to see the exhibition instead and was charmed, moved and inspired by Christopher Lloyd's life and garden - and came away resolved to see the garden when the dahlias were out. Another motive for wanting to go then was that I'd developed an unsatisfied hunger to be surrounded by these flowers since the sensational avenue of dahlias that lined the tennis courts in Preston Park mysteriously disappeared not long ago.

When I finally made it to Great Dixter about a fortnight ago, one of the volunteer gardeners told me of her recent visit to Sissinghurst, where there wasn't much to see. As we surveyed the scene, fields of exuberant plants, it was obviously the opposite at Great Dixter. The dahlias and exotics beloved of Christopher Lloyd and so carefully looked after by Fergus Garrett and his team couldn't have looked better. And, as this helpful volunteer told me, the gardeners are still doing things to keep the place fresh, like moving and adding plants, for instance, in the long border.
A few more photos to whet the appetite. There's more to see than dahlias, of course - meadows, topiary (peacock topiary newly trimmed, left, with shears in the foreground - pruning starts in late August and usually takes till November to finish it, but then it'll hold until the end of summer again), a productive garden, with a bale of giant pumpkins at the entrance, the superb Lutyens layout, to name just a few other attractions. There's also the house, with its magnificent medieval hall and library where my eye was caught by books by Christopher Lloyd's friends. There were several titles by Derek Jarman, who was there a lot, a guide told me, since he lived in nearby Dungeness. I loved seeing a few locals rolling up less than an hour before closing time for a sundowner wander around the grounds.

The garden is open till the end of October, 11 to 5, the house, 2 -4 (Northiam, near Rye, in West Sussex: for more info, see www.greatdixter.co.uk).

The French Connection

2010-09-03T05:03:00.000+10:00

Le Jardin des Plantes, Montpellier

A Midi Oasis

Bienvenue aux amateurs de jardin!

I'm chasing a few deadlines so the next few postings will be more like bulletins for now and probably a bit rough around the edges. But gardens are racking up like cards in my hand - it's time to play a few. Trimming and pruning can wait a while.

Last week I spent a few days in Montpellier. Other holiday plans had fallen through for unforeseeable reasons, but I managed to book something a couple of days beforehand. At first, I'd thought of going to Marseille by Eurostar but, with only a short break to play with, the 7-hour journey wasn't the best option. An hour and twenty minutes after take-off from Gatwick, we were in Montpellier.

Une lumiere couleur

The heat struck us first - washing over and through you like a forcefield. And then the sunlight glowing on the runway and irradiating the palm trees and flowering shrubs lining the roads into town. Van Gogh and Gauguin came to mind - on the second to last day of our stay, we went by TGV to Sete where there was a Dufy exhibition at the Paul Valery museum (gardens surrounding the museum opposite). Dufy's South of France paintings are lit up with that azure and golden light - yet in the exhibition notes there were a few quotations from the man himself acknowledging its magnetic quality while distinguishing it from a kind of illumination even more essential for a painter:

A suivre la lumiere solaire, on perd son temps. La lumiere de la peinture, c'est tout autre chose, c'est une lumiere de repartition, de composition, une lumiere couleur.

Le peintre a besoin d'avoir sans cesse sous les yeux certaine qualite de lumiere, un scintillant, une palpitation aerienne qui baigne ce qu'il voit.

[Apologies for lack of accents as couldn't track these down on Blogger, and pasting in Word documents brings up 'typescript error' . . .. On the subject of glitches, just to mention that unpredictable font sizes are courtesy of the ghost in the machine.]

Heroes of the Plant World

Maybe it was this year's Van Gogh exhibition at the RA that put the idea of going to the South in my mind. Another part of Montpellier's appeal was that it featured in the lives of the sixteenth-century herbalists and botanists I'd spent years reading about: in particular, two botanists trained at the university's distinguished medical school, de l'Obel (after whom the lobelia is named) and de l'Ecluse, who influenced John Gerard, gardener to Sir William Cecil and so ultimately helped shaped English gardens and botany. (Incidentally, in the next century, the magnolia would be named after another Montpellier medical graduate, Pierre Magnol.)

De l'Ecluse translated an influential herbal by Dutch botanist Dodoens, which appeared in English in 1557, translated, in turn, by Henry Lyte; some think that Gerard based his famous Herbal on de l'Ecluse's translation of Dodoens. There was another botanical domino effect when de l'Ecluse went on to found the first botanic garden at Leiden, bringing his collection of tulips with him and helping to initiate 'tulip fever'.

From the middle ages onwards, the area around Marseilles was both the gateway to the south, in terms of trade, and renowned for its health-giving properties, resulting in a high concentration of merchants and doctors and, in turn, boosting Montpellier's School of Medicine.

The Jardin des Plantes is the oldest botanic garden in France, dating from 1593. Henri IV commissioned his physician Pierre Richer de Belleval, known as the 'father of scientific botany', to create a space modelled on the garden in Padua, laid out in 1545 (the earliest botanic garden was created two years earlier, in Pisa). Montpellier's botanic garden was the prototype for the Jardin des Plantes, in Paris, 1623 (England's first botanic garden, at Oxford, was created in 1621). Instead of dried samples, students were able to study real plants as materia medica - and in glorious surroundings . . .

Luxe, calme et volupte

The garden is huge in scale, covering 4.5 acres. It's also free and open late - till 8 - and, after experiencing the mighty heat of the Midi the day before, which drove everyone, even the locals, into the shade, we thought that by around 7 it would be cool enough to enjoy exploring the place. We made our way there by tram, after spending a day at the beach. On the way, though, it was still so warm that I thought we might just want to sit and read in the shade - as do many of Montpellier's students.

But as soon as we entered the garden, it was just a pleasure to walk along the avenues and paths, and our books weren't needed - like perfect days at the beach where you bring something to read, but it's enough to look and listen to the sea and enjoy the sunshine.

I've run out of time to write much more but just to mention some highlights: myrtle hedges in various stages of being sculpted into shape, enclosing palm trees;

the perfect balance between trees and stonework (classical-style arches and wide stone walls and benches); rows of huge terracotta pots on pedestals;

an avenue of cypresses;

a lotus pond backed by an orangerie and conservatory, with enormous flowers with palest pink satin petals and bizarre showerhead-like seedpods;

students reading and writing on a little hill, stretched out on wide stone walls beneath a dense canopy of trees;
a bamboo forest;
a monumental greenhouse in the process of being restored;
the calm in the air, sweet scent of leaves, deep, gentle light and pellucid colours.
Last, but not least, a hexagonal herb garden divided into a symmetrical pattern of small beds each planted with a single species (an arrangement modelled on Italian botanic gardens).
An exotic tree stands at the centre: sapindus mukorossi, from China.

About twenty minutes before closing time, the headgardener took to his bicycle, furiously ringing his bell, hurtling along the paths like a man possessed (you can just make him out in the photo below, whizzing across at the top of the picture, about a third of the way in from the left), in huge contrast with the leisurely people, some strolling arm in arm, making their way out.

We were among the last to leave, around ten to eight (it was so lovely I could easily have stayed longer), and, although he looked tired and a little fraught after his high-speed circling of the garden - I joked with him about warning people to leave 'a toute vitesse' - he was happy to talk to us about the history of the garden and generously tried to look up details of a tour, but unfortunately the last for the season had taken place the day before. Next time . . .

Lastly, it was something to see beautifully engraved quotations by Paul Valery lining the paths. Here's the first, about the perfect time of day to visit the garden:

Le moment le plus agreable dans l'allee Cusson: de dix heures du matin a midi. C'est un admirable lieu de lecture cette allee sureleve au coeur du Jardin des Plantes entres deux murs de verdures variees.

A great place to read - a raised walk between two green walls - perhaps Valery meant the shaded path up a flight of steps where we'd met students lounging (and doing a little reading and writing while they were at it).

And the second:

Plants, people, poetry - what more could you ask for?

Next routine: more exotica, at Great Dixter

A suivre . . .

The Red Sun Pavilion

2010-08-18T06:26:00.000+10:00

Stretches of leafy trees creating depth of field. An aura of calm floats in the air.

Jean Nouvel
Paris, March 2010

This year's Serpentine Pavilion by Jean Nouvel is a gazebo the size of a small jazz bar - and could match Ronnie Scott's for atmosphere, if you go with the continental mood.

Just the sight of this pavilion is a pleasure (so more photos than usual in this posting). If you can find a half-hour to while away some time there, even better - it's around until 17th October. I wouldn't have missed the experience: a huge contrast with my journey to get there, it set me up for the rest of the day.

I wasn't looking for a garden architecture cure when I arrived at Victoria Station around half-twelve on a simmeringly hot day in August. Just searching out a few interesting things to do before visiting a friend in hospital - ideally places I could take some photos or pick up a few postcards to show later. The geometrical design of this year's Serpentine pavilion might appeal; afterwards, I was going on to the Picasso exhibition at the Gagosian.

After riotously crowded train, tube and bus rides, fortunately, as mentioned in my last routine, I got off a stop too early and strolled over towards the gallery via a luxuriant avenue. Then it was on through the park, following aptly serpentine paths lined with ancient trees.

My first sight of Jean Nouvel's pavilion was a primary red wall futuristically radiating sunlight ('DAZZLING . . . A HAZE OF RED . . . like closing your eyes against the sun', in his own words). Past this impressively stark and monumental surface rippling with colour, the structure appeared so open that my initial impression was of scaffolding for a twenty-first century circus tent, probably because of a shapeless piece of canvas hanging inside (a stage curtain of some kind?). A little underwhelming, at first. But, as I discovered, I was missing the point: this wasn't a pavilion just to look at but to spend time in.

Not tempted by what seemed to be a makeshift stand-up cafe/bar and airport cafeteria tables and chairs (I later saw there was more to the interiors too), I headed over to a majestic bank of seating, with matching china red cushions, that reminded me of Gaudi's sinuous tiled mosaic seats in Parc Guell - Brighton also has a fairly recently built row of seating, with inlaid spotlights, in the pedestrianised New Road opposite the Theatre Royal. As you can see, what's different about Nouvel's infinity bench is that the support is diagonally slanted. If you let yourself go here, as most people ultimately did, though some took their time, perching on the edge or sitting bolt upright for a bit, that tilt will potentially transform your mood and personality (more dramatically than a Laz-E-Boy as you're in a public place and there's no inbetween stage). If you can allow yourself to lean back, before you know it, you are laidback. All I can say is it was very relaxing.

The tables in front of the lounge seating had chessboards painted on them, but there were no pieces. Children loved the place, treating the cafe like a playground and the lounge seats like a climbing frame, not in an annoying way, amazingly, just having fun - scurrying up the slope as if climbing up a slide and only just making it to the top before perilously walking along the ridge behind adults who were now almost horizontal and just enjoying the spectacle. On that hot summer's day, the shady pavilion fulfilled the original function of such structures, as originating in Persian pleasure grounds where intersecting paths crossed a pool to meet in the centre at a life-preserving shelter from the heat.

After you've unwound and enjoyed taking it all in, you can wander about a little. Newly appreciative of the space, I walked through the cafe to the table tennis tables just out front and surveyed the scene. Everyone seemed happily absorbed in what they were doing - table tennis players, friends chatting or just sitting and relaxing in the cafe and in what I suppose might once have been called a chill-out area, though lounge suits it better perhaps. I discovered a little corridor behind the bar leading to a mirror-like artwork in alluring shades of red and dusky orange that was a see-through photograph of people sitting in the pavilion's cafe - a double-take. You could see people pass behind it and follow them around to an enclosed garden with raised flower beds - strips of summery planting with burgundy and orange canna ('FLEETING SUMMER . . . green against red . . . red berries, vegetables and flowers') with a wide red hammock as a centrepiece. This carefully ordered plot gave a sense of being encircled by gardens and grounds - a feeling of being cocooned, despite the public nature of the space.

The hot red pavilion maps on to the cool elegance of the gallery behind it: the structures are thrown into relief and complement each other. The wider landscape is embraced by this temporary building; although it will only be with us for another couple of months, there's something about a transient garden house that's celebratory - of the possibilities of architecture and summer? In Elizabethan times, a spectacular temporary structure was a keynote of festivities.

A pavilion gives you some time out - offers an escape. Garden structures gather people together to relax and enjoy their surroundings and each other's company in a less formal and more private way than usual.

A space like Jean Nouvel's Red Sun Pavilion shows us we're social beings: there's no need to do anything in particular, but it's good to be with other people. Free to stay as long or as fleetingly as you like, in wild contrast with my starting-point, Victoria, which passengers barrel through as quickly as they can, you will probably spend more time there than expected and will emerge recharged.

While you're there, don't miss the Wolfgang Tillman exhibition at the gallery - also free (donations welcome though).

Lastly, a Sussex connection. The Collector Earl's Garden, designed by Isabel and Julian Bannerman at Arundel Castle (opened 2008) has a charming, miniature banqueting house decorated with wooden antlers and leaves. What makes this garden a true wonder is the elaborate shell grotto based on an Inigo Jones stage set design with its mesmerising jet fountain with a spinning crown.

An extraordinarily inventive garden, it's the sort of thing I picture when reading rapturous first-hand accounts of gardens like Kenilworth, Theobalds, Nonsuch and Beddington.

Club Tropicana

2010-08-12T00:05:00.000+10:00

Welcome to the jungle

Making a garden is often about transforming your environment; outside spaces can offer more scope for imaginative exploration and experimentation than interiors. They're more changeable and, if you garden in pots, moveable.

Brighton and Hove Council's gardeners have this summer planted up some of the busiest areas in the city with tropical flowerbeds designed to suggest an 'urban jungle'. On the Old Steine, near the Royal Pavilion, you'll find banana trees (musa trees), kangaroo apples (a shrub usually found, no surprise, in Australia) and ornamental grasses. I often drive along here but hadn't noticed any of this - I just happened to pick up a copy of our local paper the Argus at the gym and saw the news. The headline was 'Hot weather encouraging exotic tree growth in Brighton and Hove'. There seem to be the beginnings of an enthusiasm for cultivating banana trees here (see Michele Hanson's account of the thrills of growing them, 'Bananas in north London - whatever next?', 5 August '10).

On foot, I found that the new flowerbeds were grouped around a Regency fountain in what had become a traffic island - if you find them hard to spot, just look, as I did, for flag-like banana leaves billowing and flapping in the bracing seafront breezes and squalls. The new planting made me and others take a closer look at the candelabra fountain with its ferocious-looking dolphins cleverly supporting the middle basin with their tails. The fountain seems quite baroque in style; intriguingly, it seems that it replaced a stone circle and some of the stones were incorporated into the base ('Steine' means stone, and the area was once covered with stones used by fishermen to dry their nets).

What struck me most, however, were the six people happily squeezed on to a bench (count them) backed by the new planting, looking at the fountain, which was also popular with seagulls (there's one perched on the look-out at the the top, like a Brighton emblematic beast). The group of friends seemed like they'd been there for a while - and they were still there when I left - even though it was a stormy day. On another bench, backed by planting that mixes musa trees and kangaroo apples with dahlias, nasturtiums and millet, two friends were engrossed in conversation (see below: the man walking away, looking very happy, had just snapped the photogenic seagull on the path).

Successful gardens attract people and wildlife, and I think you can tell how they rank by how happy people and other creatures are there; with imaginative planting, this traffic island has been transformed into an elegant and, thanks to the tropical touches, exotic fountain parterre.

It's a month since the plants were put in and so now's the perfect time to see them - the gardeners said it would take that long for them to bed in properly. See them while you can, though: at the end of the summer, the banana plants and grasses will go back to the council nursery at Stanmer Park for the winter, to reappear next year.

Quickly, just to mention the council gardeners' soft spot for agapanthus this summer: see their eye-catching planting of blue flowers just along St James's Street in the New Steine (along the railings, opposite, and in a block in the middle of the garden square, see below, facing a bank of rhododendrons) and the profusion of blue and white flowers on the Drive, in Hove, near Cafe Nero (see below right). I took both pictures the same afternoon - Hove first, then on to Brighton where the skies darkened, though that didn't worry the people round the dolphin fountain. Shortly after I took the New Steine pics, there was a downpour, with raindrops the size of 10 pence pieces, followed by thunder and lightning; it brightened up again soon afterwards.

All this brought back to me how so many times in his Herbal, John Gerard, unofficial gardener to Elizabeth I, conveys the excitement of growing plants from distant lands - rising to the challenge yet again and pointing out that although the wonderful plants documented are "strangers to England, notwithstanding I have them in my garden".

(I could stop here, I realise, in the interests of brevity, as promised in my last posting, but after talking with a few readers of the blog, I'm going to add a few more connections, for those who like them - all those in favour of shorter bulletins, stop reading now . . .)

Round-the-world planting

A neighbour recently gave us a tour of his garden where he grows the increasingly popular agapanthus and other less-often-seen plants, such as snow-white gladioli, alstroemeria (Peruvian lilies), and, yes, banana trees. A great traveller, he is from Northern Thailand and has transformed a suburban lawn in Hove into a space where almost every inch is covered with unusual blooms, as well as interesting varieties of well-known plants. The border in the photo to the left surrounds a pond with an ornamental bridge and cascade. The swan statue just visible in the depth of flowers reminds me of Pope's garden at Twickenham: by the river bank there were two sculptures of swans, wings outstretched as if about to take off. When Swift came to stay with Pope for a couple of months in the wake of the furore after his anonymous publication of 'Gulliver's Travels', he paid tribute to him and his magical garden: "You have taught me how to dream".

Recently, our neighbour has changed his vegetable garden into an area for growing cut flowers such as helianthus and alstroemeria (see right); he also has, amongst other things, about a dozen sunflowers growing in pots and gave me two (different varieties - one with the usual dark centre and almond-shaped petals and the other like a golden pompom), now basking on my balcony.
There's a perimeter path around the garden that leads at the top right to an apple tree under which there is a flourishing blueberry bush, day lilies and agapanthus in pots (left).

Last connection for this routine: On my latest visit to the garden, my neighbour showed me an unusual type of canna - the leaves are light stripes of green rather than orange/wine-dark red (usual variety below).

By coincidence - or gardengoing synchronicity - on my way to see this summer's Serpentine Pavilion in Hyde Park, I got off one stop early and followed a beautiful avenue with magnificent planting (left), at the end of which was a glorious border with, you guessed, agapanthus (see below, at the back).

If you look closely, below the large-leafed plant, nestled in the earth in front of the red band of flowers, you can see a sunbathing robin - undeterred and unnoticed by the many agapanthus paparazzi, the robin soaked up a few rays before taking off when a lady leant a bit too far over the railings.
Leaving the avenue, the Albert Memorial was surrounded by 'hot' border planting, with gorgeous dark red dahlias and brilliant flowering canna, that reminded me of similar borders at Hatfield and the Walled Garden at Cowdray.

Next routine: Jean Nouvel's Serpentine pavilion and garden buildings ancient and modern

Garden Glimpses

2010-07-31T23:24:00.000+10:00

The above close-up shows the planting in Paul Hervey-Brookes's Biodiversity Garden this year at Chelsea; combining beauty and usefulness, with plants and colour spectrum chosen to attract bees (the garden attracted more bees than any other I saw, and very happy they seemed too). The most peaceful spot at the show was, in my experience, this little garden-house with a portico, like a miniature classical temple - also delightfully practical as, if you look closely, in the eaves of the portico, you can see shallow funnels for birds' nests and thin tubes for solitary bees and other insects to hibernate.

Everywhere in the garden there were concealed shelters for wildlife (shaped like an upturned boat and made of wooden strips, the hedgehog's den reminded me of currachs on the beach in Ireland). Sitting in that garden, I felt as if I was on holiday, and the lush planting alone was so beautiful you could lose yourself in it.

After the last marathon routine on Japanese gardens, just to say I'll be posting slightly shorter epistles from now on (thank heaven for small mercies, some may say . . .). There have been a few technical hitches publishing postings the last few so it makes sense. Enough people have said they've read them (voluntarily) to keep going. So this is for you, and here's to you . . . though shorter routines, mostly of the don't miss, last chance to see, why not see for yourself/try this yourself kind. Plus 'one to watch' alerts, as this time. So worth your while tuning in now and then.

As for me, it's been an enjoyable experience writing about gardengoing, though you can't say it all in short (or too lengthy) postings, I've discovered - inevitably, perhaps, though it's come as a surprise to me, I'm going to write a book about it. If/when it sees the light of day, it'll be another book (like 'Elizabeth . . .') that's come about via a series of fortunate events. Beginning, probably, with going to gardens as part of research for a PhD on Alexander Pope and his friends and on to visits with students and research trips for book proposals, books, articles and routines and, of course (the best kind), gardengoing purely for pleasure.

Next routine: a Hove jungle

Eastern Promises

2010-07-31T02:27:00.001+10:00

(Hirohige, 'Sugin Grove and Masaki')

No Motion

'To watch the sun sink behind a flower-clad hill, to wander on and on in a huge forest with no thought of return, to stand upon the shore and gaze after a boat that goes hid by far-off islands, to ponder on the journey of wild geese seen and lost among the clouds' - Seami

Time often slows down in a garden; so too in traditional Japanese drama. When the two go together, in a Japanese garden with an authentically No/Zen design, though you're hardly aware of it, you're in the moment. 'To wander on and on in a huge forest with no thought of return'. Whether you're in a bluebell wood or a small garden, a beautiful space creates a sense of freedom. 'To ponder on the journey of wild geese seen and lost among the clouds' - poets have always recognised the value of daydreaming; in the eighteenth century, some called it reverie and saw gardens and landscapes as the ideal settings.

There was a chain reaction when I went to see gardens at the Chelsea Flower Show and Open Garden Squares Weekend; two Japanese gardens and one Islamic garden with a Japanese connection held my interest for unexpected reasons. The sequence continued when these brought to mind Japan-inspired rock gardens at Leonardslee and, even closer to home, Preston Park in Brighton. The product of all this was that I paid closer attention than perhaps otherwise to a Japanese garden at the RHS Hampton Court Show.

Japanese gardens, so popular in the 80s, appeared to have dropped off the radar, but this year at Chelsea and Hampton Court they had something of a moment. Previewing the shows, I didn't notice the small Japanese gardens - though every year there are always gold medal winners. Was this a blind spot or, just as likely, a case of competing attractions this year in the form of gardens that recreated the Dolomite mountains in miniature glass statues, a Camaroonian rainforest and a Provencal landscape planted with lines of lavender and an olive tree? I thought I knew enough about Japanese gardens for now, though I hope one day to make a pilgrimage to Japan to see them (and other icons - cherry blossom and Hokusai's mountain come to mind).

Close encounters of the show garden kind

I was at Chelsea this year at 8am - to beat the crowds. Apart from the space and the simple fact that early morning is the best time of day, a flying start opens up the possibility (even if this seems wafer-thin before you set out) of meeting and talking with some of the designers and growers before they leave or are inundated with people. And there's another aspect to the timing: you're usually finished by around half-ten, which is opening time for the Pimms tent . . . (just the one to end the day on a high . . .). I'd caught a glimpse of a Japanese show garden on TV and was actively seeking it out, mainly because of its dreamy name 'Kazahana (A light snow flurry from a cloudless sky)', by Ishihara Kazuyuki, a piece of Zen poetry in itself.

After sailing by sensational (no exaggeration) gardens by Andy Sturgeon, Robert Myers, Tom Stuart-Smith and Roger Platts - I think a show like Chelsea is similar to a big exhibition, where I like to see what's there, especially the masterpieces in the last few rooms, before going back to the start and giving everything its due - I backtracked to take my time with the genuine show-stoppers. By accident, I was wandering past the blissfully empty 'Kazahana' when I realised that this was one of the gardens I most wanted to see: standing there alone looking at it seemed as unlikely as being the only shopper on the pavement outside Fortnum & Mason the day they launch their Christmas window displays.

Kazahana had a mesmerising waterfall encased in glass running down the side of a grotto-like cave covered in moss. As I gazed at the garden, a couple joined me and then a serious-looking, elegant Japanese gentleman and his assistant arrived. Both looked business-like and very formal. But, seeing the show-going couple's fascination with the garden, the gentleman, who, it became clear, had to be the designer, lifted the velvet rope and invited them in. It was too heaven-sent an opportunity to miss, so I asked - or begged, probably - if I could join them: answering in Japanese (lost on me), Mr Kazuyuki let me in. I followed the couple up a meandering path flanked by gardens planted with irises, maples, ferns and moss past a pond lined with smooth pebbles to a cave where we found sparkling pools and cascades.

For a detailed virtual tour of this enchanting roof garden, go to: bbc.co.uk/chelsea/show-gardens/kazahana.shtml.

Talking of being let into an exhibitor's garden, Paul Hervey-Brookes generously gave me a tour of his wonderful garden (Bradstone Biodiversity Garden - 2010 is the UN's International Year of Biodiversity); I also enjoyed meeting the makers of the Eden Project's fantastical productive garden, Places of Change - more on these another time.

I recently met up with a friend who has spent some time in Japan. I started to say that Japanese gardens for me meant gravel, stone . . . I was thinking mostly about the famous rock garden a the Ryoanji Temple, in Kyoto, which you can never completely see. There are fifteen stones, which may represent mountainous islands, set in white gravel raked so as perhaps to resemble waves, but the garden is designed so that you can never see them all, only fourteen (fifteen is the Japanese number of perfection). My friend completed my list with moss, water, ferns and maples. (For photos of Ryoanji, go to www.sacred-destinations.com/japan/kyoto-ryoanji.htm)

After that, I paid attention when, in his commentary on his garden, Mr Ishihara kept coming back to maples, describing them as 'primordial plants'. As with so many gardens at Chelsea, you get to experience the variety of particular species (with the highest quality plants as demos): in the Kazahana garden, I saw red maple, green maple and light green maple.

Inside the deliciously cool cave, I wasn't aware that there was a river running across the roof but later recognised that the feeling of being surrounded by water because of the interior pools and mini-cascades was obviously magnified by the face that the source was flowing overhead. We happy few invited beyond the velvet rope were transfixed by the river, which looked like a geometric waterfall from inside. There's something wonderful about being inside a waterfall, behind that curtain of water. The linear, controlled nature of Kazahana's falls was also a little bizarre, though thrilling. In the programme notes, Mr Kazuyuki drew attention to the helpful, practical effects of plants and water in a city roof garden in high summer: 'A river appears to flow through the garden. In combination with the green walls, the presence of water helps to ease the urban heat island effect.' He also mentioned the sound-proofing qualities of plants.

Stone, water, primordial plants like moss, ferns and maples and clean, ionised air: a garden of the elements. This was a meticulously planted garden - in the BBC interview, he talked of how he hoped people would notice the flowers growing in the moss such as Pachysandra Terminalis, Japanese spurge, and that he'd chosen a mixture of Japanese and native British plants. Plants from Britain included Brachycome iberidifolia, Swan river daisy (pictured above) and Euonymus europaeus, Common spindle.

There's also a second interview with Mr Kazuyuki on the BBC site where he hopes that the garden will encourage people to smile - 'make people kinder through the sense of nostalgia'. He recommends growing plants from your childhood as a way of achieving this. (Go to bbc.co.uk/programmes/p007ybck)

Last thing about Chelsea, it might seem extravagant or, at least, sad that so many painstakingly created, costly gardens exist for so short a time and then they're gone - a student at a talk I gave at Birkbeck even likened the lavish and often transient landscapes of Elizabeth I's courtiers to them - so it was good to hear that Roger Platts's beautifully romantic 'country garden' (he prefers this term to 'cottage garden'), with its interconnecting rose arbours, has been donated to St Joseph's Hospice in North London.

'Gardens underneath which rivers flow'

I realise I've mused for quite some time about Kazahana so I'll cut to the chase on that chain reaction. A penthouse garden (meant as a compliment - to have a garden like that would be complete and utter luxury), Kazahana connects with the Ismaili Centre's roof garden in South Kensington (opposite the V & A). This is a 'charbagh' ('four gardens') garden, divided into quarters, with four paths meeting at a central fountain. In Islam, the garden is a foretaste of heaven.

'Gardens underneath which rivers flow' occurs over thirty times in the Koran and symbolises bliss. The four rivers of paradise flowed with water, milk, wine and honey and were represented in Ancient Persian gardens by four water-channels which crossed at the centre where there was often a pavilion or fountain. (Whereas Kazahana was a garden above which a river flowed . . .)

I'll save a full account of my gardengoing experiences at the Ismaili Centre for later. But, apart from saluting the wonderful Kazahana (again . . .), my main reason for writing this routine is to alert you to the last opportunity this year to see the Centre's garden: during Open House London weekend, 18 & 19 September. (The Centre only opens to the public twice a year; check the OHL website nearer the time if you're going.)

The roof garden at the Ismaili Centre is one of the most unusual and beautiful spaces I've come across - the sunshine helped, but when I visited it looked superb. Just to give a sketch: there's a central hexagonal fountain, four water channels or rills, ornamental pear and fig trees, trellised white roses around a covered walkway and, the genius touch, thanks to its high walls, the garden 'borrows' the domes of the V & A and the Science Museum so that you feel you could be in Istanbul - or that those stately pleasure domes are part of the Ismaili Centre, transformed into a palace.

I was fortunate enough to take a few snaps with my camera phone before I heard that no photos were allowed: an extremely private garden, adding to the allure (the J D Salinger of gardens?), but the Centre's website has a couple of evocative pics. Go to: theismail.org/cms/807/The-Ismaili-Centre-London, look under 'resources', then 'other resources' and you'll find two articles with photos of the garden: 'Looking back on 25 years of the Ismaili Centre London' and 'The Middle East in London'.

Now for the Japanese link: one of the charming guides told me that the designer is Japanese and lives in Canada (name to follow, hopefully, when I hear more). By coincidence (no such thing, some say), straight after seeing this roof garden, we went on to the Hempel Hotel's Zen garden in Bayswater, which was participating in Open Garden Squares weekend for the first time.

Lastly, just to add that the Japanese roof garden at Hampton Court was about a pilgrimage to a shrine: 'Journey to Awakening' by Makoto Tanaka (see rhs.org.uk/Show-Event/Hampton-Court-Palace-Flower-Show/2010/Gardens/A-to-Z/Journey-to-Awakening).

As for the rock garden at the now-privately owned Leonardslee, I wasn't so keen on it - past its best, it seemed, and I preferred the public garden on the side of a hill opposite Preston Park, where, as children, my brothers and I spent hours jumping across stepping stones and chasing up and down the steep paths, weaving between elegant ornamental trees and shrubs. That was until I reached the top of a diagonal stone path and emerged into a small clearing. There was no one around; it was peaceful. Just a few flowering shrubs and trees - one with pure white flowers, dazzling in the sunlight - and a few dangerously tame rabbits. An experience that goes back to the lodestar of No drama, 'yugen', meaning subtlety or 'what lies beneath the surface'. Seami says it best: the symbol is 'a white bird with a flower in its beak'.

Next routine: who knows? Probably a few more Sussex gardens: Standen, Nymans, Monk's House (aside from I've never been there, need to make the most of my NT membership, and there are a few places in my guide to Sussex pubs that need testing), Great Dixter. Later on, dv: the restored garden at Chiswick House; Hestercombe (beautifully photographed by Linda Rutenberg in her recent exhibition at the Garden Museum); Alnwick.

Virtual Gardens

2010-07-21T09:00:00.000+10:00

When I was teaching garden history at Birkbeck, one of the first things students had to do was complete a questionnaire. The most interesting question for me was why they were taking the course. There were the expected boxes to tick – to gain a further qualification (Certificate in Garden History), career development – but the most popular, and my favourite, was ‘purely for pleasure’.

(Woodcut from Thomas Hill's 'Most Briefe and Pleasaunt Treatyse, Teachynge How to Dresse, Sowe, and set a Garden', 1558)

The last time I taught the Introduction to Garden History, the venue was the London School of Economics, near Aldwych. The class was full – over 25 – and the majority ticked ‘purely for pleasure’. A great crowd. The course ran from September till March – all through what was quite a grim winter, and it amazed me that people would turn up to an evening class in blizzards, driving rain and various degrees of miserable meteorological conditions, even the weeks before Christmas and after New Year, when I have to admit that, on particularly bleak nights, my main motivating factor for turning up was that, if I cancelled, I’d have to run an extra session at the end of the year. (I only missed one session in two years when, on the train from Brighton, a fallen log held us immobile for 2 ½ hours somewhere near Haywards Heath before we had to turn back. Luckily, I had a good book, and, when it became clear it would be impossible to make it, I called Michael Symes, the programme director, and creator of the first garden history courses at Birkbeck, to apologise, he gallantly said he was sorry I’d had such an awful journey: also, there was a convivial group of homeward-bound businessmen who made the most of the buffet car’s facilities during the hold-up. When one of them tried to phone his wife to say he'd be late back because there was a log on the line, his friends joked about leaves on the line – as possibly unlikely excuses, at least it was a new one).

Yet when I got there each time, the beautiful garden images and their stories (not to mention those lovely students . . . ) made me forget everything else. And, of course, it was always spring or summer there [below right, cowslips from Leonhart Fuchs's herbal of 1542, 'De Historia Stirpium'].

There were students of all ages and histories on the introductory course – one or two in their twenties were in training as garden designers or horticulturalists, and all were enthusiastic gardengoers. But what stood out from that first session was when, after I'd shown the most tempting and tantalising slides I could find, as advised by my programme director, so as to transport my audience (some of whom were still prospecting, not having registered yet) on what I hoped was an irresistibly enticing whirlwind tour of the world’s gardens from Ancient Babylon to the eighteenth century, I asked my students why they were doing the course. Memorably, one of the youngest students, who was training to be a garden designer, said he didn’t have a garden so he was taking the course to enjoy ‘virtual gardens’.

At the time, I was living in Croydon and going to yoga classes at the local Buddhist centre – and, reading up on yogic philosophy a little, became interested in one of many forms of meditation, positive visualisation - projecting beautiful images on to your mind, maybe a lake, a forest, the sea, a garden. I wondered if showing images of gardens was the same kind of thing, except with slides as props.

Far Other Worlds

I recently gave a talk at the Cheltenham Music Festival – apart from the pleasure of being invited, a main draw was that this was a pre-concert talk for a performance by the Musicians of the Globe. It was a perfect summer's day, and the elegant Pittville Pump Room surrounded by a sea of lawn made a sumptuous venue. One of the interesting things about the programme was that almost half the composers were anonymous; song titles tended to celebrate much-loved and emblematic flowers of the era - ‘Sweet Bryer/Eglantine’, ‘The Gilleyflower', ‘The Honi-suckle’, ‘The Marigold’. My favourite piece was ‘Thyrsis and Milla’ by Thomas Morley; it was also lovely to hear such a well-known poem as Thomas Campion’s ‘There is a garden in her face’ set to music by Robert Jones [below right, wood engraving of Elizabeth encircled by Tudor roses and eglantine, 1588].

I knew little about Elizabethan music beyond a few compilation CDs and the songs of John Dowland as blazingly reinterpreted by Sting and Bosnian lutenist Edin Karamazov in ‘Songs from the Labyrinth’ (2006). In the concert in the Pittville Pump Room, ‘All in a Garden Green’, I was unexpectedly captivated by one of the last songs in the performance on the most famous of all garden poems, Marvell’s ‘The Garden’, arranged by an anonymous composer. It was particularly striking how the composer repeated a line about the ‘garlands of repose’. Director Philip Pickett and his musicians played with extraordinary vigour and control; soprano Joanne Lunn was superb.

The high point of ‘The Garden’ is just the blissful experience of being there: ‘Annihilating all that's made/To a green thought in a green shade’. That single couplet alone has made Marvell the patron saint of garden poets ('Stumbling on melons as I pass,/ Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass' has also won him a few fans . . . ) [Painting, above right: Juan Sánchez Cotán, 'Quince, Cabbage, Melon and Cucumber', 1602] But till now I hadn’t clued into the lines that come directly before this: in Marvell’s ‘happy garden-state’, the mind transcends itself and creates ‘far other worlds, and other seas/ Annihilating all that's made /To a green thought in a green shade’.

Taking a journey with Marvell to your own ‘far other worlds’ compares to Keats’s travels in the ‘realms of gold’ on first reading Chapman’s Homer; imaginative exploration packs a punch. And Paul McKenna has described how, as far as impressions go, the nervous system responds as strongly to what it imagines as to real events, giving an insight into the power of books, films and, of course, hypnosis. Not to mention virtual gardengoing . . . (which brings to mind Bill Burroughs' concept of the writer as an 'astronaut of inner space' - and reading as a creative activity.)

Next routine (I promise!): Japanese gardens at Chelsea, Open Garden Squares Weekend, Leonardslee and Preston Park, Brighton

Elizabethan Garden Games

2010-06-24T04:37:00.000+10:00

Just to mention I'll be giving a talk on Elizabethan gardens at Cheltenham Music Festival ('Elizabethan Garden Games'), Saturday 3 July 2010 at 10:00 am.

This is a pre-concert talk for ‘All in a Garden Green’ by the Musicians of the Globe (see: cheltenhamfestivals.com/music-2010/pre-concert-talk-elizabethan-garden-games).
Tickets: 0844 576 8970

Stop Press: Last Chance to See

2010-06-22T02:22:00.000+10:00

Leonardslee Gardens, near Horsham in West Sussex: a wonderful woodland garden, festooned with azaleas and various other jewel-bright flowering shrubs. See them while you can – the gardens have been sold to an international businessman but are open every day until the end of June.

There’s a wealth of wildlife, particularly if you get there first thing. I disturbed several sunbathing blackbirds and rubbed shoulders with a robin, a thrush, a few ultra-tame rabbits, a family of geese (you can just about pick them out in the middle of the picture above) and some turquoise dragon flies.

You follow winding paths around the romantic lake planted with yellow irises and adorned with a cascade backed by topiary (see left); a highlight was a majestic redwood (below) that conjured up an antediluvian forest.

Next routine: Japanese gardens at Chelsea, Open Garden Squares Weekend and Leonardslee

24 Hour Garden People

2010-06-22T02:11:00.000+10:00

At the moment, I'm battling to meet a deadline but just to jot down a few things – gardengoing experiences of recent weeks while they’re fresh. So, just a few outlines for now, though I can always go back and add – or cut – a bit later. This is a kaleidoscopic blog – posts change when you next tune in.

First, as promised, the link between Beatons Wood in Arlington, near Firle Beacon, Sussex and Chelsea Flower Show.

I’d followed the shorter route around the wood - and felt a bit underwhelmed as there hadn’t been many surprises. Then, as mentioned, I went on the walk out through the fields and along the river before returning to the wood. By chance, I found a new route into the heart of the wood, where the canopy allowed just a few glints of sunlight through and the paths were narrow and criss-crossing and there were a few moments where you could feel a bit lost – like in a maze. I kept taking the routes where there was no one ahead so as to intensify that satisfying ‘I may never make it out of here’ feeling and, alone, walking along a path that hung on to the side of a little hill, and always looking for fresh bluebells but finding none – as described earlier, they’d all gone over, though the scent was heavenly sweet – I was electrified by a neon purple-blue little clump of flowers, all the brighter for being in dim, dappled sunlight. This being a public wood, there were labels here and there and, to my surprise, I read that these shady flowers which looked like bluebells but which weren’t – too frilly, a bit like little daffodils, and intensely violet rather than blue – were in fact orchids. And purple and blue, as I’d discovered watching the BBC programmes on Chelsea, are the colours in the spectrum most attractive to bees.

Now for the link to Chelsea. After seeing all the gardens I’d wanted to see and, fortified with a glass of Pimms, I headed for the floral pavilion. On my map, I’d circled a few stands selected from the BBC's coverage of the show – including the display for The Orchid Society of Great Britain. I hadn’t looked for orchids at Chelsea in previous years, but this year I’d heard that the Orchid Society had invited groups from all over the world to send in their plants – and at the top of the display, fittingly, were plants from the Himalayas; at the base were orchids that spent their lives half-submerged in a South American lake. The helpful committee member on the stand explained that orchids aren’t the difficult plants people imagine them to be – most only need watering once a week, except for one-offs like that aquatic South American variety. It pays to know what kind of orchid you’ve got, obviously.

I mentioned that I'd recently become more interested in orchids and there seemed to be a few signs that it was time to look into getting one. One of my father’s friends is a mountaineer and an orchid-hunter: a great combination, if you like orchids. Interestingly, he hadn’t been interested in going on a bluebell walk because he thought there wouldn’t be any wild orchids there. Then I mentioned to the committee member that I’d seen orchids in the bluebell wood and had at first mistaken them for bluebells. They’re mimicking bluebells, he pointed out, so as to attract bees. Orchids are known for this kind of subterfuge, apparently – the chameleons of the plant world.

By the end of the conversation, I’d joined the Society – a bargain at £10, including a free book on orchid cultivation worth a fiver, plus back copies of the journal and a workshop for beginners. I also went away with a few tips – the name of an orchids nursery in Sussex and a recommendation to check out another orchids display in the pavilion, a nursery in Jersey, where the orchids were as delicate as silk and the patterns like miniature watercolours.

(PS Thanks to M for 24 H G P . . .)

Open Garden Squares Weekend

2010-06-06T01:03:00.000+10:00

Next weekend (12-13 June), the Gardengoer will be at Transport for London’s Open Garden Squares Weekend, organised by London Parks & Gardens Trust.

Over two hundred of London’s private squares and gardens will open their gates to the public for the weekend, giving visitors a rare opportunity to see gardens and spaces that are otherwise for residents’ eyes only. See my article in the Independent, published yesterday (4 June): ‘Turf Wars: Tales of fashion, greed and violent disorder that lie beneath the grass and behind the railings of London's elegant squares'.

During the weekend, tickets are available from the Britain and London Visitor Centre and selected participating gardens - for details, go to www.opensquares.org.

Garden Routines

2010-06-02T01:00:00.000+10:00

Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus stray'd,
Or sat delighted in the thick'ning shade
With annual joy the red'ning shoots to greet,
Or see the stretching branches long to meet!

(Alexander Pope, Epistle to Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington: Of the Use of Riches)

This is a blog for people who like going to gardens.

I’ll come clean from the start. I don’t have a garden. I’d love to have one – one day – but, in the meantime, I like going to beautiful gardens and landscapes. This blog is especially for people who don’t have a garden or don’t do much gardening but find it invigorating to spend time in green places. If you do have a garden and are green-fingered, you’re very welcome too. You’re all very, very welcome.

I’ll be going to gardens, both alone and with friends and family. Depending on who you go with, your experience is different, of course. Alone, there’s more chance of engaging strangers in conversation. Your faith in human nature will almost certainly be restored in a lovely garden or landscape. People relax, take time, reflect on their surroundings and often communicate their pleasure with other like-minded souls. Conversation can be as easy as breathing.

With friends or family, we might head off together then go our separate ways to explore different areas before finding each other again. Someone else will point out things I’ve missed; we’ll linger in unexpected places, maybe take a few photos or videos – maybe clown around a bit or take a few arty shots too. There will definitely be a destination – tea room or pub – to round off the experience.

Magical Worlds

I’m writing this blog in the spirit of William Burroughs's 'routines' – the satirical and fantastic letters he wrote to friends from Tangiers. Burroughs told Allen Ginsberg that he needed him as a ‘receiver’ of his ‘routines’. Now that few people write letters and the virtue of their modern equivalent, emails and texts, lies in brevity, a blog seems to me to offer a space to write Burroughsesque routines. Somewhere out there, there must be receivers who’ll get this.

In these pages, we’ll visit gardens of every kind, shape and size. Along the way, there'll be a little here and there about the design and history of places; I’ve taught garden and landscape history at Birkbeck and Central St Martin’s School of Art and have written about garden design and history in Elizabeth in the Garden (Faber and Faber, 2008) and The English Garden at Night (Thames and Hudson, 2010) and for The Financial Times, The Independent, History Today and Heritage Today. Discovering the hidden stories of people and places adds another dimension to the experience of visiting a garden or landscape.

Rewind

I’m starting this blog a few weeks back when I went to a bluebell wood for the first time since childhood (to the left, the picture shows a variety of cowslips and bluebells, with the river in the background). It was a bluebell walk, and it’s the first routine I want to transmit because it links in with various other startling discoveries of the past few weeks.

Sunday 16 May

As children, my brothers and I were lucky to have an aunt, uncle and cousins who lived near a wood, and each year we’d visit at bluebell time. The thrill of coming across a pool of shimmering blue flowers in a clearing at the end of canopied woodland paths is as fresh a memory as if I’d just experienced it.

The excitement of exploration and the delight of having the woods to ourselves made me reluctant till now to go to a public garden or wood, feeling that it couldn’t compare with the original experience. But today I headed out. I went to Beatons Wood in Arlington, Sussex (http://bluebellwalk.co.uk). The bluebells had 'gone over', but the scent was still the most powerful perfume - making a passage of scent that wasn't just the flower but also stem and leaf. It was inexpressible freshness.

At the end of the walk, which took me out of the woods and along the river where cowslips and bluebells grew peacefully just behind the well-trodden route for visitors, I picked up a few postcards and talked with one of the organisers of the walk. He gave me a map to the Anglo-Saxon church just down the road; in the graveyard I saw newly sprung bluebells encircling trees - a million times brighter than the woodland flowers. I was struck by this grave with a headstone of an open book, bluebells like blue sky overhead.

Gardengoing seems to attract a bizarre synchronicity for me. The lovely gentleman who'd urged me to see the church mentioned that the Yew Tree was a good place for a pint afterwards. So, after a quick tour of the church, it was time for a different kind of spiritual refreshment. It was half-two but the place was packed with families having Sunday lunches - it was buzzing, and the two tables and chairs for those who preferred liquid lunches were taken. I nearly thought about not staying, but the happy atmosphere and obviously sharp service changed my mind.

I sat at the bar, ordered a half pint of bitter recommended by the bar maid and read the paper. A few minutes later, the couple at the table just in front of me got up to leave, with their Labrador. I like dogs and smiled at the Labrador as its owner, the guy, went to leave. The woman passed me and then stopped -

'Of all the pubs in all the world, we meet you in here,' said my friend. They'd been on the bluebell walk too. I said I was loving the book she'd lent me about the great John Tradescant, Head Gardener to Robert Cecil, 1st Earl of Salisbury, who together created a revolutionary garden at Hatfield Palace - Philippa Gregory's Virgin Earth - because, by coincidence, a week ago, we'd been talking about Hatfield. A book of photographs of gardens at night by Linda Rutenberg, for which I'd written an introduction on Hatfield, had just come out. I'd also been talking that evening with our mutual friend, planning to go to gardens as a foursome - and there we were, all bar our mutual friend, going to the wood at Arlington on the same day. Expect to read about our adventures in future routines, d.v. (Deus voluntatis - God willing, an expression I've inherited from my aunt).

Next routine: Chelsea Flower Show, and an intriguing connection with Beatons Wood.