Long, long ago the garden here at Barn House was a productive orchard. The house itself started as a humble apple barn, built in 1780, the telltale steps leading to the second storey loading platform still remain today.
Over the following hundred years a few workers cottages were tagged on in a row, the fruit they grew supplied a local cider maker.
The sole remaining door with the storm porch is now our front door but you can still see where the other doors would have been from outlines in the stonework. Over the last century quite a lot has changed in the garden. In 2011 we terraced the once rocky slope in front of the house to create a bold, contemporary but naturalistic garden that we hoped would suit the warmly wooded setting of the surrounding countryside.
A dozen well-spaced fruit trees remain to remind us of times past. Apart from four stand alone Bramleys, probably dating back to this variety’s heyday of the 1940s, most of the apple and pear trees are either unproductive or less than palatable. Nevertheless, they deserve to be cherished. If nothing else, they reward the bees with a show of blossom in spring, and, in the autumn, flocks of ground feeding birds feast on the windfalls leaving neatly scooped out apple skin shells in their wake.
Most of the smaller trees in the little orchard in the back garden are standards with a traditional, upright vase shape. As are three of the four enormous but useful Bramley’s : two serve to screen out the unsightly service poles that have marched through the garden since the 1950s; and, one acts as a climbing frame for a rampant rambling rose. For many reasons, the fourth is rather special.
One unexpected bonus of felling the big blue cedar is an unobstructed view of the dome of the apple tree across the garden, especially at this time of year while the grasses are low. The giant Malteser-like sphere marks the spot where the conifer stood, fortuitously this turned out to be right in the line-of-sight from the kitchen breakfast table window.
This umbrella shaped specimen, is by far the loveliest of all the fruit trees in the garden. Standing beside the seating area in the dogs’ paddock and casting shade or shadows on the lawn, we have enjoyed so many happy times in its proximity.
Spared from wind and rain, this year’s show of cerise pink buds opening into rock striped blooms is nigh on perfect. With sighs we sat there yesterday, in awe of the tree’s renewed health and vigour. You see, when we moved here in 2006 the branches were so bald and barren that we feared the worst. Nor could we tell what sort of apple tree we thought we might lose.
When we remodelled the garden in 2011 the appleless tree’s graceful framework spared it from the axe plus we liked the sense of history that such an old tree, even in decline, can lend to a garden.
We also adored the shaggy patchwork of moss and lichen covering the network of elderly limbs.
Remarkably, the tree has served as more than a just Jungle Gym for the cats. In early winter 2014, when the water mains situated nearby sprang a massive leak the mysterious decline of the tree was explained. A metre length section of ancient pipe that ran under the stone wall was a careless way to connect the blue plastic, modern pipes between the mains and house. It must have been seeping for a very long time. What was dug up was as rusty, perforated, and so, as fit for purpose as a brandy snap. To our amazement the dear old tree, which must have been drowning by degrees, recovered in just one season. Last year’s first show of blossom was such a joyous sight.
Then came the lazy days of late autumn when the garden visitors had gone, there was such a prolific quantity of fruit that Hitesh spared a few ‘edible balls’ to play a game of fetch with Poppy. Two months before she’d lost her right eye to a very nasty secondary cancer, but like the tree, delighted us by quickly regaining her zest for life.
By the huge, flat bottomed fruit whose sunny side ripens to a rosy red and clings on right through until the end of November, the tree revealed itself to be the cook’s, cider maker’s and blackbird’s favourite : a tough skinned, tart fleshed, Bramley’s Seedling.
So many times have I leant wonderingly against a favourite padded bough thinking about all we owe to the skilful hands of long ago and thanking them for shaping this dear old tree with such knowledge, love and care.
* Footnote :
The saga of the mother of all Bramley’s Seedling apples, which was planted more than two hundred years ago, and this historic tree’s subsequent pomological adventures is quite fascinating.
If you’d like to know why the Bramley apple tree should really be called ‘Miss Brailsford’s Seedling’ you can read about it here.
Eagle-eyed garden visitors in search of snowdrops or hellebores may have noticed that the National Garden Scheme has had a face lift. Offically, however, the new brand wasn’t launched until earlier this week at the Royal Festival Hall in London, alongside the announcement of this year’s record donations of £3 million.
To top it all, 2017 is the 90th anniversary of the scheme – it must have been quite an occasion. Since its foundation in 1927 the organisation has donated over £50 million to charity and is the most signifanct funder of nursing charities in the UK. If you’d like to see how this year’s donations were distributed you can read about it here.
The rebranding was announced to some 3800 garden owners who volunteer to open their gates on behalf of the scheme in the run up to Christmas. The news came in the form of an interesting video presention by our Chief Executive, George Plumptre, and brand consultants from Big Fish. Quite a few changes have been made to freshen up our image and so, we hope, will encourage a wider range of people to visit our gardens. My first glimpse of the 2017 Garden Visitor’s Handbook came earlier this month just as Narcissus pseudonarcissus burst into bloom.
Last week, our South Gloucestershire County Organisers made their annual rounds to drop off the large pack of publicity material which includes the year book, county pamphlets, posters and signs. Garden owners like me spend time checking that details are correct, but, this year, I was also curious to see how the new look compared with the old. Superimposed upon the new gate logo, in uniquely stylised lettering, is the name ‘National Garden Scheme’ and the word ‘Open’. Significantly, the name has been simplified and the ‘s’ has been dropped in what was ‘Gardens’. The background colour is still yellow but of a richer, warmer hue. Then there’s a raft of playful icons designed to inject personality into the brand, everything from teacups to plant sales ….
Perhaps I shouldn’t mention that albeit ‘trendy’ colloquial contractions like ‘Fancy a Cuppa’ just make me cringe, but, hey ho, they do!
Of course, the website has been given the same professional treatment too, and looks to me like a real improvement on what we had before. Let’s face it, in this day and age, website information is probably becoming the main portal for visitors in search of an open garden. In addition, the National Garden Scheme Find a Garden app can be downloaded which saves scrabbling around for a book in the glove compartment of your car.
In celebration of the scheme’s big birthday, there will be a special open garden Anniversary Weekend on 27th – 29th May. Of the 400 gardens that will be opening, 12 originally opened in 1927. Keen photographers might like to check out the competition that will be launched from May 27th, details of which are available here.
There are some great prizes to be won and, as President of the scheme, the wonderful Mary Berry says “I am looking forward to welcoming the winner to my garden”.
Greenfields and Barn House are proud to be opening their gates again this year on Sunday 25th June, as well as by appointment from June to September. The question of how to raise the profile of this marvellous organisation is a good one. Perhaps we shall quiz a few of our garden visitors about this over a cup of tea and slice of lemon drizzle cake?
In 2015 I started growing a stock of Sesleria autumnalis with a view to edging the little meadow with a band of bright foliage. This is a low growing grass, said to be usually evergreen and endowed with eye-catching lime green foliage. As a European native sesleria is very easy to grow in UK gardens, either in full sun or part shade – as long as the soil is not too wet.
Most other members of this useful and underrated family of grass, like blue leaved Sesleria caeruela, can be grown easily from seed, but not this one.
Sesleria autumnalis seed is difficult to germinate, rather than fret over dud seed trays I ordered 24 9cm pots from Knoll Gardens. However, enjoying a gently spreading habit, sesleria can be divided sooner rather than later 😉. This also makes it a wonderful ground cover plant.
Although autumn was in the air the plants in the nursery beds grew vigorously from day one, as you would expect from a typical cool season grass that has just woken up from its summer siesta. Above is what the same little plants looked like just a month later.
By the following spring the beds were filling out nicely, when the poppies bloomed in June you’d never have guessed they’d only been planted the previous autumn. This grass has two periods of active growth – spring and autumn – either of which is a good time to propagate it by division. I aim to split each plant into at least three fist-sized divisions in early autumn 2017, pot them up into a gritty loam mix and then transplant them when the meadow is strimmed in mid December. Now, the general rule is not to cut evergreen grasses down but this is an exception : so far, I have cut second and third year plants back quite hard to refresh the foliage in both spring and autumn without setting them back.
Sesleria autumnalis starts to flower profusely from mid July, producing fresh inflorescences right the way through until August.
Fresh inflorescences are laden with loosely held silky stamens that quiver in the slightest breeze (or swish of the cat’s tail).
As they age the flowering spikes shrink, turning tan in autumn and darkening on damp days. Through the autumn and late winter the effect is like a volley of tiny rockets shooting across the increasingly sharply coloured yellow-green foliage.
Primarily, I’m growing this grass for the colour of the foliage plus size and shape. My hope is that the addition will achieve two things : draw the eye down from the swirling mass of Molinia caerulea subsp.arundinacea, and, conceal the scruffy thatch of Deschampsia cespitosa.
When I planted the meadow in the spring of 2015 I placed one 2 litre pot of Sesleria autumnalis on the most prominent corner of the meadow where I could keep a close eye on things. Looking at this photograph taken in October 2016, I wonder if you think the combination works?
Calamagrostis x acutiflora ‘Karl Foerster’ dancing in today’s strong north-westerly winds with gusts of up to 40mph.
Spending most weekdays commuting to London doesn’t leave Hitesh much time to help in the garden these days. Luckily, there’s a merry band of helpers I call on when the going gets tough. Before we went away on holiday just one look at the To-do list was enough to leave me feeling exhausted so I lined up two half days of help in the run up to Christmas.
The first job was to clear the little meadow. The planting is a matrix of two native grasses, Molinia caerulea subsp. arundicea which collapses into an easy to scoop up heap in the second or third week of December, and Deschamspia cespitosa which can be left to stand through the winter. Last year I left the deschampsia to see how it fared. Let’s just say I didn’t sigh too much when I came to cut it down.
So, this winter the whole area has been cleared in one fell swoop using hedge cutters and strimmers. If all goes to plan the deschamspia will form neat green and tufty mounds by the time the snowdrops are out.
I’ve lined the horseshoe shaped access path with old cut off terracotta pots filled with compost, then sprinkled Papaver somniferum seeds mixed with fine horticultural grit over the top. There should be a scarlet ribbon of poppies floating above the silvery deschampsia, the first wave of grasses to flower in the meadow, in time for our NGS day on Sunday June 25th 2017.
The second task was phase one of regravelling the drive. It took four tonnes to do the turning and parking area at the bottom of the drive. Don’t worry, the pink dust will wash off over the next couple of weeks.
The third item on the list was to tackle ‘the dumpy blue pine’ which we inherited with the garden in 2006. I often look at the Pinus sylvestris ‘Chantry Blue’ and think that it looks like an enormous bowling ball, one that gets bigger and bigger as the years go by. Although it’s not my favourite tree in the garden there’s lots to be said for keeping it : the blue colour of the needles is rather attractive; the bulky form acts as both a sheltering nurse for Hitesh’s precious Acer griseum to one side and a foil for Stipa gigantea to the other; and, the dense canopy is popular with nesting birds.
After a lot of head scratching, which is inevitable when you’re crawling around in a tight space being showered by prickly pine needles, I decided which branches of the lower skirt might be pruned without completely ruining the shape of the tree. From a distance the tree looks the same, however, the scaly legs of the tree have been exposed. At close quarters it looks a bit odd but the plants at the edge of the dripline now have breathing space, at least for a year or two.
Between these last minute blitzes, there’s been good news to spur us on and something nice to read over our tea breaks : two lovely pieces about the garden have been published this month. The first, Carole Drake’s article ‘Winter Glow’ is featured in the January 2017 edition of Country Homes and Interiors magazine. (Apologies for the time it takes for the page to load.) The second, ‘Some grassy inspiration from Barn House Garden’ is a blogpost by local designer Lisa Cox and appears on her garden design website The Room Outside.
What a wonderful end to a busy gardening year. This week I can kick off my wellies and finally turn my thoughts towards Christmas.
Here’s to the holidays!
Last week we were away in north Cornwall, staying at Helsbury Park for the third time in nearly as many years, when the weather turned delectably still, dry and cold. For a whole week the landscape glittered under crystal clear skies. For both humans and dogs it was holiday heaven.
Mornings dawned with the promise of deepening frosts and mysteriously swirling river mists.
With 100 acres of livestock-free pasture and woodland, plus a mile of riverbanks waiting to be explored our early morning walks got off to a good start from day one.
Three award winning self-catering properties sit at the top of a combe overlooking the Camel valley and to the east the source of the river, Bodmin Moor. Jaw-dropping dropping views equal exposure to the elements, at this time of year that usually means howling gales sweeping in from the Altlantic ocean. I admit, on blustery days I’d be quite happy to take in the panoramic views from the comfort of the fireside sofa in the company of a good book. However, this year the conditions were so alluring that I found myself first at the door and heaving on my wellies without the usual grimace.
The walks are pleasingly circular. Parallel farm tracks lead you down to the bottom of the valley and adjoining woodland, then back again. Centre point is a pond.
This is one of my favourite places from which to marvel at the vision of the owners who have gone to great lengths to develop this site while still preserving its inherent natural beauty.
The pool building with its green sedum roof is beautifully designed to nestle into the lee of the land. Three sides are built into the slope, while the fourth’s glazing is etched with a map of the winding river which is, undoubtably, the genie in the bottle of this special place.
Grand designs like this are one thing, yet, to my mind a sense of harmony relies on a multitude of smaller details, many of which are easily overlooked when making a garden. I find lots of inspiration here, be it from the choice of local materials – some modern, many reclaimed – to the pared back gardens that blend with the landscape and lead the eye to the views beyond. I particularly like the forest of irregularly shaped staddle stones punctuating the gravel garden beside the cobbled drive.
Setting aside my thoughts about why the modern landscaping works so well with its setting, here are just a few of the things that make early morning walkies here such a very special treat
A bench from which to watch the dogs splash about in the river, the bank is shelved to allow easy access.
Sniff (and stick) rich woodland speaks for itself.
Hillsides drenched in golden light while below them in their shade lay the most marvellous expanse of icy meadow.
Who knew Juncus effusus, the lowly soft rush, could look so stunning?
Not only did we leave with wistful sighs, we left with mud free paws and wellies too 😉.
Over the last week or so I’ve been dismantling thirty odd patio pots at the south end of the house. Partly, to clear the decks for the painters who need access to the windows and, partly, in preparation for loading the containers into the greenhouse for the winter. As it marks the end of the season for this bit of the garden, it’s not a job I relish, especially when it still looks good. However, little did I know : this year I was in for a pleasant surprise.
On Thursday, with all the cutting back done well ahead of time, I took a deep breath and armed myself with the optimistic floor plan with which to brief the two strapping young men who were going to haul the pots of tender and borderline hardy exotics into the greenhouse.
This is not a job for the faint-hearted, the pot sizes for the Arundo donax and Muhlengergia dumosa are 75 litres apiece and the remainder average 50. Totally unfazed, they cheerfully got on with it leaving me to sweep up the bamboo leaf litter in front of the 8’x10′ greenhouse. Hidden under a cloak of summer greenery, it forms quite a deep layer around the pots of gingers and cautelyas.
As I reached for the broom I spotted a rash of startlingly blue mushrooms at the base of the bamboo stand to the right.
I just had to take a closer look ….
Newly emerged from the mixture of leaves and bark mulch, the rounded young caps looked distinctly slimy. Older caps are first scaly, then less smooth with traces of a white veil showing at the edges. Although the caps loose the lustrous appearance as they age they are still an interesting sea-green colour.
I couldn’t resist picking a couple for closer inspection. The details of the reverse sides are quite delicate and equally beautiful.
Turning the cap over the milky coffee-coloured gills are distinctly notched where they meet the stalk. The stalks are pretty too, with streaks of a more cobalt blue against a shiny white background. In the older mushrooms, faint traces of brown spores collect in a ring towards the base of the stalk, below that the surface is covered in scaly down and flecked with soil.
Wondering what they could be, I googled ‘blue mushrooms’ and came across a very helpful website, First Nature. Identifying mushrooms or toadstools can be a minefield but as there are only a few blue mushrooms in the UK it wasn’t quite as hard as I expected. Of these, the ones in my garden are recognisable as either Stropharia caerulea Kreisel or Stropharia aeruginosa, although they look very similar, especially in colour, a good guide can help pinpoint the subtle differences between the two. It comes down to each species showing differences between the rim/gill and gill/stalk edges. These turned out to match the Blue Roundhead rather than the Verdigris Roundhead mushroom.
Like the vast majority of mushrooms, these are respectively noted as being inedible and, possibly, poisonous. They’re for ‘looking not cooking’.
As it seemed a shame to waste the ones I’d picked, I decided to see if I could catch a spore print. It’s not hard to do and is fun try : select a fresh, fully opened mushroom; place downturned caps on a sheet of stiff white paper; pop a glass/bowl over the top of them to stop the spores drifting in air currents; and, then leave undisturbed for at least a few hours, if not overnight for the print to develop. Damp conditions keep the caps moist and help with the release of the microscopic spores. I left mine outside under a heavy Pyrex pudding basin, but a damp swab of cotton wool works well too.
The following morning I rushed out to see if It had worked. Attempting to lift the first cap as carefully as I could by hand smudged the print, the second I skewered with pointed tweezers. I was amazed at the number of spores that had been released. Apparently, they can be fixed as a keepsake. Now, where’s the hairspray?
Westonbirt Arboretum was created by two generations of the Holford family at a time when Victorian passions for plant hunting and pictureque landscapes were at their peak. What were once common, wood, and chalk down lands were fashioned into an ambitious showcase for the family’s taste and considerable wealth.
Today, the 600 acre estate is managed and conserved by the Forestry Commission along much more scientific lines. It ranks as one of the finest collections of trees in the country. Every year it attracts well over 300 000 visitors, many of whom flock to see the six week long spectacle of autumn colour.
I admit I’d forgotten this when we jumped in the car on Sunday morning. We arrived mid-morning, which is peak time, especially when the weather is warm and sunny. Finding ourselves first parked miles away from the newish entrance and visitor centre, then swept along with the throng across the really new Treetop Walkway heading for Silk Wood, I wondered if we’d made a mistake. We are such quiet country mice ….
Last time we were here, bright and early on a wet Saturday morning in early June, we had the wonderful 300 metre long walkway all to ourselves.
This time our progress was inchingly slow, as the dogs were delighted to be making as many friends as possible. We were intent on heading towards one of our favourite areas, the Japanese Maple collection.
Miraculously, the beautiful cathedral like glade, sheltered by towering larches, was deserted, perhaps because it is still rather early for colour from the carefully nurtured 400 acers it contains.
We always linger here for a spot of wistful window shopping.
Beyond this point and following the ride called Oak Avenue the character of the woodland changes dramatically. Gone are the clusters of artfully arranged rare and exotic trees, in their place is burgeoning native woodland rich in wide ‘weedy’ margins, and so, rich also in wildlife. Back in the late spring I stood transfixed watching a hedgerow teaming with goldcrests.
This time it was the swathes of rosebay willowherb with their corkscrew seed heads glinting in the sunshine that caught my eye. It has good autumn leaf colour too.
Where the unregimented avenue meets Waste Drive you can see how the modern management of the woodland works, here on the periphery of Silk Wood are the species trials plots containing hundreds of trees raised from seed or propagated by cuttings. Plus, mountainous piles of by-products from the never-ending tree work.
Conveniently close-by is the impressive Woodchip Sterilisation Unit with its mighty state of the art, temperature controlled bays that ensure the mulches are free from diseases like honey fungus.
Silk Wood is quite simply doggie heaven, well behaved dogs are welcome off lead so the place is full of friendly wagging tails. All of which which made it a brilliant place to socialise our dogs when they were young.
This final stretch of the walk towards The Downs has an excellent collection of mature shrubs, small trees, plus conifers – among them a wide range of continus and shoulder high sweeps of sculptural silver leaved sea-buckthorn. Throughout the arboretum, information boards are nearly as numerous as benches, it was news to me that native sea-buckthorn is so good for the skin that Russian Cosmonauts used it to protect their skin from solar radiation. Personally, I’d rather use it as a salve than eat recipes construed from the bitter bright orange berries😉.
The combinations look great at any time of the year but for me on this perfect early autumn day one in particular stood out. The delicious scent of candyfloss wafting from the closely planted group of a dozen or so young Cercidiphyllum has the same allure to me as a Bonio to the dogs, off I went for a closer sniff. As you might expect, Westonbirt excels in the provision of precise botanical labels, in this case, it turned out to be the very same C. magnificum Roy Lancaster has written about in this month’s RHS The Garden magazine.
We have a little, lone Cercidiphyllum japonicum growing on in fits and starts at home, this year the leaves on its upper branches have been looking so crumpled and parched that I’ve wondered if it hasn’t missed the light shade and shelter of the big blue cedar we felled in February. Westonbirt have the katsuras facing the morning sun, then protected by an arc of tall conifers to the rear. They say, planting over a gravel path where the fallen leaves are crushed by passing feet heightens the aroma.
In between are a mixture of medium height trees with wide canopies including a very beautiful veteran Acer Japonicum or Full Moon Maple with its swooning branches topped with a crown of dazzling colour.
It reminded me that, once ablaze, the star attraction for thousands of visitors will be Robert Stayner Holford’s Old Arboretum (which is sited opposite Silk Wood). Then the air near the old visitor centre will be heavy with the smell of bangers and burgers sizzling away in gourmet catering vans. Maybe next time I shall take a spin around the dog free zone while one man and his dogs partake of a bacon butty for breakfast?
The secret is said to be in its three sets of bristles …
Conjuring moisture from thin air is a pretty neat trick!
When I’m asked why I made this garden I reply I simply wanted a room with a view, not not just for myself but for the dogs who were otherwise fixated by any passing interest on the lane so they might enjoy a volley of woofs. Airedales are like that😉.
Personally, I was fed up with looking up the awkward rocky slope to the gates across from the drive lined with parked cars, not to mention the yellow sticker on the neighbouring electricity pole. Arcadia, it was not.
We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm – yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.”
― E.M. Forster, A Room with a View
It took me several years to grow the mainstay of hundred of grasses : standard forms of Calamagrostis x acutiflora.
Year after year I divided them out, while their numbers increased, it gave me time to figure out what I’d plant with them and how I’d arrange them to create a view that felt in keeping with the gentle valley slope. It also had to look good for most of the year with as little extra help from me as possible.
Knowing the slope was exposed to each and every passing wind, I didn’t want plants that would keel over with the slightest gust nor those that gave up the ghost in high summer. I wanted something that was so very simple, so pared down to the essentials, that the view would delight me in each and every passing season.
As a bemused friend observed in the late summer of the terraces’ first year in 2012, “but” it is just the same plants in lines with the odd block of Periscaria amplexicaulis thrown in for bee friendly colour. Her “but” lodged in my mind, because, yes, the planting was really that unsophisticated.
Miraculously, for the most part, it works.
For at least 10 months of the year I have my longed for room with a simplified view and we are all quietly contented. From late summer through autumn the planting sings its dazzling technicolour aria accompanied by the joyful thrum of happy bees.
But, to be honest, the reason I’m writing this now is that, one of our very dear dogs is so very unwell I really can’t say if she will make it or not. So much of this garden has been built around the two of them. Our two furry tanks have been such an inspiration.
‘How did you get to be on television then?’ asked a recent visitor as they gazed at some bindweed flowering in the miscanthus hedge. That’s a very good question. Without going into the subplot of how I have shamelessly waylaid any poor unsuspecting professional (or good garden blogger😉) who happened to be passing, in my quest to pick their brains about how I can improve upon my work, the answer is ‘Thanks to the NGS’. Horticultural journalists like Mandy Bradshaw with a critical eye for plants, design and the niggling details found us in The Yellow Book in 2013 – their flurry of articles sent us on our way.
Cotswold based, she recently ventured across The Severn Bridge and braved the narrow lanes, this time to visit Jackie Healy at nearby Greenfields. Since we last met Mandy has set up a great website, The Chatty Gardener.
She has kindly posted two pieces, the second ‘Gardens on the edge 2#‘ is about how my grassy garden has developed over the years.
The title made me laugh, perhaps she means ‘of reason’ too?
Answering the phone on Friday evening, I sighed thinking ‘oh please, not another sales call’. Wrong : the caller was a researcher letting us know the garden will be on Gardener’s World on Friday 19th August, BBC2 at 8.30pm.
Filmed in late October 2015, the footage was to be shown this autumn. Hearing that it had been brought forward was a nice surprise.
Who knows, given that the garden is open until the end of September we may even enjoy a few more NGS visitors?
As confusing as it may seem to viewers, we’re described as a Gloucestershire couple living in a Welsh postcode whose grassy garden was “inspired by living in the Far East”. Given the blurb, I’m hoping for some esoteric ‘dingly-dangly’ music to complete the Bermuda Triangle effect.
The footage of Barn House Garden is 15 mins into the YouTube video.
If you’d like to see what the garden looked like last October please press play.
Sandwiched between the grasses terrace and the house is a sunny patio edged by Lavenders Munstead and Hidcote.
From left to right, clockwise, the cast of characterful ladies in lavender includes geraniums, with a cameo appearance by Clematis Petit Faucon.
‘Vision Light Pink’ and ‘Blue Sunrise’ win as many adoring glances from their fans as …
these two marvellous grand dames of the theatre.
Sunshine is the cue for a mesmerising array of extras to flit upon the lavender stage.
Today, being our twenty fifth wedding anniversary and so deserving of a special treat, we have booked front row seats from which to watch the high summer show.
This gallery contains 4 photos.
I’m delighted to say that Greenfields and Barn House gardens had a very successful afternoon on Sunday 26th June. Getting on for two hundred visitors dutifully consumed quantities of tea and cake before heading home with armfuls of gardening books and plants. All in all, the event raised the best part of a couple of thousand pounds on behalf of the NGS and local charities – Gwent Wildlife Trust and the Moravian Church, who provided refreshments, help with car parking and tickets.
First thing in the morning the forecast looked dismal, but, as it turned out the weather gods were on our side. It stayed fairly dry until the last hour when the heavens opened. As all good garden bloggers know, numbers are definitely higher on fine days which makes all the difference to the spirits of garden owners and your kind wishes were appreciated.
It’s one thing to end up with a spick and span if soggily empty garden, but, quite another to have spent seemingly fruitless days on the logistics of posters, parking, signage and sorting out all the trappings of a mini garden fete. A successful day justifies all the hard work that goes on behind the scenes, starting with the publicity provided by the NGS.
Apparently, it takes something like 55 visitors for the well oiled machine that is the NGS to cover its costs. All of which explains why NGS gardens often open on more than one day and why NGS garden owners go the extra mile to make their visitors feel welcome on the day.
Although our Brockweir Common gardens don’t open for another ‘big day’ both gardens are open by appointment until the end of September. So far, we have a dozen smaller groups of 10-30 booked in throughout the summer and, as it’s all a lot of fun as well as for good causes, we’re very happy to see if we can accommodate people who happen to be passing. Contact details are on the gardens’ websites as well as on the NGS website.
Opening the garden jointly with Greenfields has worked out really well for both garden owners and visitors alike. Even if we’d have preferred wall-to-wall sunshine everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, which is what it is all about. As new garden owners. Jackie and Fintan deserve a medal for their alternative wet weather arrangements, very few of us would decant a conservatory of furniture in order to set up a tea room!
Having had a quick conflab to assess tickets and takings, there’s another to come about plans for next year. One thing is for sure, we shall remember to avoid the mud cursed Glastonbury Festival weekend like the plague.
Having planned for rather mixed weather today, I’m delighted to say not only is the sun is shining but the rain is likely to hold off at least until late afternoon. Finally, I have a few spare moments to sit down and write a brief post.
Thanks to the amazing plants we grow our Wye Valley garden is looking great this morning, there’s just enough of a gentle breeze to stir the grasses and keep us cool.
There are lots of lovely plants for sale, most of which have been donated by our dear friend and horticultural mentor Roger Grounds. We’re delighted that Roger will be here today to help greet our guests.
Roger has also generously donated a wonderful selection of books. Proceeds from both plants and books will be given to the National Garden Scheme which supports a raft of deserving charities such as Marie Curie hospice care and Macmillan Nurses.
And, of course, the afternoon would be not be complete without a range of refreshments, delicious homemade cakes are floating in through the kitchen doors as I type. Paws crossed, there will be lots of friendly faces to help make the day a success.
Like all new NGS garden owners, Jackie and Fintan Healy, who live just down the lane, have been working extra hard to ensure that : the garden is up to scratch, easy to find, there’s ample parking and, most importantly, visitors can be assured of a very warm welcome come rain or come shine.
Inspired by Tammy’s Casa Mariposa blog, I have been trying for some time to compile a list of UK Garden Centres and Nurseries which sell plants without neonics – systemic insecticide us…
A few months ago I wrote about the felling of the big blue cedar which used to dominate the front garden.
Everyone was right to say I’d get used to the void. At the end of May as I sit on the apple barn steps I find I’m enjoying the more open view of the garden.
I’ve stopped looking up and fretting about replacement tree planting. Instead, a new use has been found for the stump situated where two paths converge. I think the solution suggested by a friend brings the eye back down to earth.
In late spring the bank of Calamagrostis surges from a knee to thigh high sea of foliage. In a few weeks the grasses will be even taller and topped with purple flowering spikes at just above head height. By mid June the four staggered rows of Calamagrostis ‘Karl Foerster’ (to the far right of Mia) will obscure the curving path running along the wall top. The obvious way around the terraces will be via the wide gravel path between the lower wall and the single row of variegated Calamagrostis ‘Overdam’ (to the left).
Once the grasses are singing their summer song only those in the know, like Lily the cat, will venture along the secret path. Like the meadows around us, the grassy terraces are home to lots of interesting creatures. Occasionally some loose their way.
Last week I came across a 60 mm long furry Drinker Moth caterpillar inching its way across the gravel towards the grasses in search of a snack. As I was heading that way I offered it a lift on the trowel.
I delight in finding a reason for a stroll along this maintenance path simply because the child in me loves hearing the grasses rustle as I brush past them. My latest springtime excuse is to see what the latest variation in the promiscuous aquilegia seedlings has turned out to be. They seem to be at home in what was the shady area under the cedar and, lately, like me, their flowers have been looking a bit frazzled in the heat. Otherwise, their leaves seem quite healthy.
According to the RHS there’s less risk of introducing the dreaded Aquilegia downy mildew if plants are raised from seed. (If buying plants, or if there’s concern about existing plants, the expert advice from Touchwood Plants is very helpful.) I’m tempted to sow some greeny-white ones to add a starry springtime sparkle to the little meadow. Sarah Raven’s descriptions of either A. ‘Munstead White’ or ‘Lime Sorbet’ sound perfect. If I’ve understood Derry Watkin’s online cultivation notes correctly, there’s less chance of aquilegia cross-pollinating if different forms are sited a minimum of thirty inches away from each other.
While we were wandering along the access path a friend kindly pointed out that in my wild and wooly garden I don’t stand much chance of enforcing chaste behaviour among the carefree columbines. This is quite true, I might just as well sprinkle a mix of the predominantly purple or pink seeds that are ripening in the jolly jesters’ hats with a shrug and a smile for good luck.
The more serious question arose when we arrived at the T-junction where the two paths meet, dead ahead of which is site of the stump. Even in April, when the perennial planting is not shrouding it, the path is barely three feet wide. We decided that as there isn’t room to manoeuvre a stump grinder without unpacking a lot of the planting, it will have to stay.
In which case, Jackie suggested, why not use the stump as plinthe for a simple sculpture to draw the eye in my rambles along the path. This conjured images of bespoke budget-busting spheres which would look more at home in a Chelsea Show Garden than in our rustic patch. On the other hand, the earthy coloured salt glaze globe that I bumped into in the garden centre while dropping off NGS posters seemed just right.
It’s also a perfect springtime perch from which to enjoy the aquilegia.
Perhaps one of the best things about gardening is the friendships it fosters and, as a result, the sharing of good ideas.
Last week I set out to inspect the little stylised meadow for weeds, I was curious to see if anything more interesting than creeping buttercups had popped up. Among the swathes of fresh grassy growth I secretly hoped I to find opium poppy seedlings in the gritty mulch. Their blood-red blooms were beautiful last summer.
At this time of year it’s the fresh new growth of the semi-evergreen Deschampsia cespitosa that catches the eye, at least, from a distance. In my search for tiny poppy seedlings I was peering at the mulch of horticultural grit around the forty or so molinias which otherwise go unnoticed at this time of year. All except one of them looked the usual dull and uniformly mid-green.
Much to my surprise this one contained a rash of stripy leaves.
Looking at the rogue more closely, the leaves in question range from a simple white striped vein to a sporty profusion worthy of a George Melly suit.
I dug up the four year old plant in order to divide the variegated and plain green portions. The rootball was a good size.
This was the best I could do at this time of year, it’s getting a bit late to divide cool season grasses, especially those with a cespitose or tightly bunched, clump forming habit.
As there’s more growth to come I shall continue pinching out the plain green shoots as they appear. Next year early spring will be the time to divide the plant again using the little electric saw. I imagine it takes many years, not to mention probable losses, to produce a predominantly variegated plant in this fashion. Still, it will be fun to give it a go.
As with so many of my little grassy adventures one thing leads to another. In rummaging through online sources and reference books I’ve discovered lots of things I didn’t know about cream-green variegated dwarf molinias. According to Seedaholic there are four variegated clonal cultivars, one of which is widely available and well known, Molinia caerulea subspecies caerulea ‘Variegata’ (AGM). Less commonly seen cultivars are ‘Camarthan’ and ‘Claerwen’. Presumably, they originated in Wales. Beth Chatto and Marchants nurseries both list at least one of them in addition to ‘Variegata’. Marchants lists both of the rarer ones and describes ‘Claerwen’ as being the “choicest” form. Roger Grounds compares it to ‘Variegata’ as being “similar but more subtly coloured and distinct in its narrow, almost black panicles” (RHS Grasses : Choosing and Using these Ornamental Plants in the Garden, Quadrille 2006). It sounds wonderful!
Prior to my discovery in the meadow, I’d have glanced at the image above without thinking too much about it. Now that my interest in the patterns of variegation in molinias has been piqued it’s a different story. In the lower right hand section there’s one green leaf as well as two green flowering stems – the rest of the flowering stems are cream coloured.
The first battalions of yellow creeping buttercups and dandelion clocks are timely reminders that next week I really must get back to the more serious business of weeding the meadow. If I get a bit of free time next week I’ll pop back and do the links to websites.
*It seems the serrated looking abscission layers explain why the flowering stems of these grasses tend to topple in December. According to Bob Brown’s notes in his Cotswold Garden Flowers website the dwarf cultivar ‘Dark Defender’ doesn’t develop this layer and so stands throughout the winter.
Bluebells are the quintessential wildflower of spring. Surely, the sight of an ancient forest floor carpeted in violet-blue is among one of the wonders of the natural world?
Traditonally the Early May bank holiday weekend is bluebell time, where we live on the border between south Gloucestershire and Wales we are spoilt for choice as to where to see them at their peak. In the woodlands of the Lower Wye Valley they have been flowering for over a fortnight, whereas in the nearby Forest of Dean, thanks to the higher altitude and cooler climate, the bluebells lag behind by about two weeks.
Yesterday morning we set off bright and early to Blakeney Hill Woods near Soudley, one of our favourite spots for quiet woodland walks with the dogs. Wide forestry commission roads and public bridleways criss-cross the woods.
Despite the celebratory bunting strewn around a stout beech tree and a poster advertising teas in the local church the bluebells in this wood were not yet fully open. The woods were deserted and with a cool start to May we can hope for a couple more weekend walks in the bluebell woods before the understorey is engulfed in bracken and the tree canopy closes for another year.
This year the signs of the barrage of late winter storms were all around, with piles of brash and side boughs littering the forest floor. Where the rides were blocked the brash has been moved aside.
One or two old veterans have succumbed to successive winters of wet, windy weather leaving surreal living walls. Here bluebells, foxgloves and moss cling to the turfed up rootball.
Besides the charismatic bluebells, the woods are full of other tiny treasures making it interesting to see how the bulbs fare in their natural habitat. Since we started visiting these woods nearly fifteen years ago things have changed a bit.
In certain places Deschampsia cespitosa, a clump forming semi-evergreen grass with a vigorous self-seeding habit, has migrated from the network of damp ditches towards the heart of the forest floor. Elsewhere yew seedlings have grown into stout young trees that shade out everything including the bulbs.
Pink or white bluebells are uncommon, the contrast in colour makes them stand out from the crowd. This one growing in the woods near Soudley bears the hallmarks of our indigenous Hyacinthoides non-scripta with its delicate drooping flowering stem and one-sided racemes of up to a dozen or so nodding recurved flowers held elegantly above narrow foliage.
My guess would be that at home in the garden we have the results of a mix between the native bluebell and its more vigorous Spanish cousin, Hyacinthoides hispanica which was introduced to the UK in the late 17th century. In 1909 it was first recorded as having naturalised in the wild. Although the two species are quite distinct, their hybrids, which were first recorded in 1963, can be hard to tell apart from either parent.
Perhaps puzzling over the degree of scent or fusion between the anthers and perianth, or the colour of tepals, let alone tint of the pollen in the hybrids may be best left to skilled botanists or DNA analysis. To the left is a neighbour’s probable H.hispanica, to the right an interloper from my garden’s hedgerow.
Most of the country gardens around here contain inherited clumps of Spanish bluebells dating back to a time when the wisdom of planting them in a rural setting wasn’t questioned. I pass this naturalised display every day, with their taller, upright stems, broader leaves plus paler, shorter bells arranged in a radial fashion you’d think they’d be recognisable for what they are at a glance.
Across the lane and a short stretch of field beyond that, is the historic Hudnalls woodland. Composed mainly of beech it remains a typical home for bluebells. Following the enclosures of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the commons were apportioned into smallholdings for pasture, orchard and meadowland. Bluebells persist in our gardens today to the extent that some regard them as a nuisance and turn to the RHS Bluebells as weeds for sound advice. It’s curious to think that the cottars might have pulverised bulbs from the neighbouring woods to starch their washing.
Even if the ocean of bluebells shimmering on the local woodland floor or threading their way along the field margins and hedgerows are the hydbridised Hyacinthoides non-scripta x hispanica, syn. H. massartiana, I think they are still a charming springtime sight.
According to Plantilfe International’s report Bluebells For Britain the UK is home to almost half of the world’s common bluebells. Apparently, at the time of the 2003 survey, one in six of our woodlands contained a proportion of hydbridised bluebells. Apart from the ‘threat’ of competition from non-natives, the report highlights : habitat loss; the unsustainable and, if for sale, illegal collection of bulbs or seed from wild populations; and, possibly, climate change as factors endangering what was voted as being Britain’s favourite wildflower.
Update : A day or two after posting this I discovered these are not seed pods but unfurling new leaves.
Sailing merrily through April, Chaucer’s uplifting take on spring burbles away in my thoughts like the comforting murmurings of an old and dear friend.
Vernal wind and rain seem gentler on the senses, the valley’s morning mists a passing, soft caress.
Meanwhile below ground there’s a gathering crescendo, each day a little more growth unfurls in response.
As the season ratchets up a gear I weed and dig, divide and replant with a greater sense of purpose. Last week, I rejigged the greenhouse to accommodate 18 pots of hastily purchased then speedily planted dahlia tubers, having never grown them before, I followed Sarah Raven’s How to plant dahlias. The tubers, Bishop of LLandaff, came from Avon Bulbs, they’re destined for the late summer/early autumn display of patio pots.
Stripped back to the bare bones of its design the front garden resembles a stage set, finally it’s starting to look as though the garden is ready for the year ahead.
The last job was a shrubby one I’d been putting off until the very last mid-April minute : coppicing the jaali screen of red, lime-green and orange Dogwoods, they line the winter garden on the upper terrace in front of the house.
However, this week I’ve been enjoying some very special company in the garden, my father and his wonderful wife are visiting all the way from southern Ontario. Extra pairs of happy helping hands are most welcome at this busy time of year, between us we’ve cleared the thicket of multi-coloured cornus in no time at all.
When they set out from home there was still snow on the ground – the late winter sort that quickly turns to salty brown slush. In early May I’ll weave the prunings into supports for the rudbeckia hedge, by then I’ll be wondering if their garden is fast-forwarding to high summer.
Which reminds me to celebrate the fleeting springtime blessings bestowed by our mild and gentle temperate climate while I can. At such a busy time of year it’s easy for me to overlook the demure charms of wild violets lacing their way through the cracks in the paving at the foot of the Lonicera nitida hedge.
Here on the rural Welsh borders my so-called ‘lawns’ are verdant pools of mossy green studded with tiny treasures. Between the shady double set of main gates, the patch is densely packed with Crocus tommasinianus, I see the adventurous lesser celandine has crept in amongst them.
In spring 2006, when we viewed the property, the garden was a riot of blowsy blooms. We tease each other that we’d made our minds up before we reached the front door. Aina’s exuberant mixtures of daffodils, planted with ardour in the 1990s only to be corralled by me a decade later, are still the hallmark of the season in my garden. Among them, the paler or daintier ones are my favourites.
Only those in the orchard are as my predecessor left them, perhaps this year I’ll find time to move some aside to create a navigable path through the orchard.
Moving the masses that once filled the dogs’ paddock left me with a green swathe of grass, not to mention a seasonally sore Achilles’ tendon. The shorter, sturdier wild narcissus pooled under an old red leaved cherry tree bounce back from this treatment better than our furry tank’s ancient football.
When in April the sweet showers fall
And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all
The veins are bathed in liquor of such power
As brings about the engendering of the flower ….
This is the poetic earworm of opening lines from Chaucer’s The General Prologue, translated by Nevill Coghill.
The first of several pre booked groups of NGS garden pilgrims will arrive in several weeks time in search of flowers, foliage, tea and cake. This year our ‘big day’ is Sunday 26th June, we’re delighted to be joined by Greenfields, a beautiful new NGS garden created by Jackie and Fintan Healy who live just down the lane. Spring is nature’s prologue to another busy, thrilling, and, paws crossed, successful gardening year.
This morning’s brief flurry of plump snowflakes was a lovely surprise!
Unlike their deciduous cousins, which once established can be cut right down to the ground in late winter/early spring, evergreen grasses grow throughout the seasons so they won’t thank you for treating them in the same way. Here are three of the several evergreens I grow, each is groomed in different ways according to the instructiions on their care labels. Given the right conditions none are hard to grow, I’ve rated the annual effort it takes to keep them looking good.
Chionochloa rubra : easy
Chionochloa rubra is the lowest maintenance grass I grow, since planting it in 2011 I haven’t laid a finger on it. Chilly weather enhances the foxy-red tints in its foliage. Thatchy strands blend in, as do spent flowering stems.
Last year this group flowered rather inconspicuously for the first time alongside the opium poppies and red valerian. Noticeably, in mid-summer, tussocks look greener than in winter.
Unlike many grasses Chionochloa rubra doesn’t divide happily, let alone romp away. Five years ago a 0.5 litre division struggled to establish, this is what it looks like today. At a third of the size of the ones bought as larger plants from Pan Global Plants a year later, this is slow progress.
Admittedly, conditions are much more favourable down in the sheltered yard, the plants growing in gravel in an open sunny spot are much stronger as a result. Even so, I’d hesitate to risk one of these tightly bunched mature specimens. So far, seed hasn’t germinated. All of which suggests that sourcing good-sized plants from a specialist nursery is a sound investment.
Stipa gigantea : medium
These days I’d say Stipa gigantea is a close second to being ultra-low maintenance. Since finding them a sunny, sheltered, and spacious spot in well-drained soil they’ve thrived on very little attention from me. Having sulked in four other positions in this as well as my last garden, I’d almost given up on them. Since 2012 the original three at the front of the border did so well that I added a further five in 2013.
Orientating them to catch the sun pays off, tall airy flowered grasses look amazing backlit, here by the mellow evening sun in high summer.
Much earlier in the year, planted a metre apart on centre allows room for clumps of Iris sibirica ‘Tropic Nights’ to be squeezed in between them, both flower early in May so any tidying of the stipa has to be done sooner rather than later in the spring. There’s not much to do, the flowering spikes fall by December here, which only leaves snipping out the woody stubs of last year’s stems in early April. If they’re looking thatchy I might lightly rake them through either using a spring tine rake or by running my hands through from the base of the plant. Stipa leaves are leathery, for me gloves are a must. Showa gloves are great for gently grooming grasses by hand, designed to be slightly tacky loose leaves stick to them. Three of these plants are now in their twelfth year, remarkably they’re still looking good, I’d expect them to be getting a little bald and nobbly in the centre. I haven’t tried it, but I’m told mature clumps divide well.
To my utter delight and amazement, the once miserable plants self-seed profusely now. The above images of seedlings lifted from the gravel path were either potted-up or planted in a nursery bed last spring. Seedlings take two years to grow a good root system, only then do they make sturdy plants for spacing in the border. Until then they’re top-heavy and, although stipa doesn’t like to be overcrowded, they work well from a young age with early summer flowering bulbs like alliums. Stipa gigantea comes in a range of sizes, from the shortest ‘Pixie’ to the tallest ‘Gold Fontaene’, last year Neil Lucas introduced ‘Goldilocks’ which is of medium height.
Anemanthele lessoniana : harder
Perhaps it’s the third of the evergreens that’s trickiest to grow well. The regime can seem complicated, especially where greater numbers of plants are involved. Anemanthele is a stunning subject for mass planting but as a short-lived New Zealand native the key is a steady supply of new plants. Fifty of them are planted a metre apart formimg a low hedge beside the drive which then curves back in a loop around the Acer griseum. Planted in three waves, they don’t need replacing all in one go. This grass doesn’t flower fully until its third year, after which a steady supply of seedlings are available to keep the structured planting going.
It took me a while to work out that young plants thrive best on relative neglect while older plants can be treated more ruthlessly. Part of my winter reading was Lawrie Metcalf’s The Cultivation of New Zealand Native Grasses. I was whooping in agreement when I read his authoritative cultivation notes : anemanthele should never be cut right back to ground level. The veteran group above planted around the acer are due for retirement next year – April 2016 was their last haircut. I reduced them by 30%.
In our exposed garden overwintering foliage tips are first tinted, then dried by frosts as well as by desiccating winds, cutting them back too soon risks the new foliage too. Prolonged cold and wet spring weather can also put off them off. This year the younger and more vigorous row beside the more sheltered cedar path were cut back by 50%. For a while the blunted ends may look unsightly but as long as the tightly bunched foliage is green and lush the plants should recover.
Once the centre of the plant looks this thatchy it’s time to replace them with seedlings coming into their third year. I don’t mind the extra bit of work because between the third and fifth year the impact of the continuous mass of flowers is sublimely beautiful.
The longevity of grasses versus their seeding or growth habits fascinates me, I can see that some are much lower maintenance for being truly perennial than others. For me short-lived, free-flowering, self-seeding grasses are useful, even if their habits have to be controlled. In 1998 Metcalf warned that in optimum conditions NZ landscapers should be aware of anemanthele’s propensity to become a self-seeding nuisance, the gossamer sprays of infloresences are loaded with fine seed held on arching wiry stems intent on being tracked by hoof or boot rather than being windborne. In a garden setting this makes it easier to deal with unwanted seedlings.
To curtail wayward seedlings I deadhead anemanthele, preferably on a damp day before the seed sets. I also site them where either the mower or passing cars will check their spread. Come spring I hunt out the remaining seedlings, they’re usually huddled close to the parents, then pot them up.
Based on my experience, anemanthele does well for at least five years, more perhaps depending on the conditions in which it’s grown. Above is the runt of the driveside plants, ticking over in a very inhospitable spot this one deserves a little extra TLC, hence time with a wide-toothed dog comb. Anemanthele is a likeable chameleon, in a dry sunny spot the orange tints are sharpest, in damp shade foliage is more olive-green. In either extreme flowering seems to be restricted. Come summer I move first-year seedlings into a shady spot in the nursery area, second-year seedlings are grown on in a shadier nursery bed.
Brian Skeys also grows grasses, among them beautiful Chionochloa rubra. Thanks to a top-tip from him I’ve recently discovered an inspirational planting of this easy-going grass in Devon. Googling Chinonchloa rubra along with The Garden House will transport you to designer Sophie Dixon’s oh so tempting images of what can be achieved planting this grass en masse. Alas, I don’t have an extensive sheltered, sunny slope for such an ambitious planting here, a late summer sortee to Buckland Monachorum will have to do. Meanwhile, I shall enjoy the small group of zero maintainance grasses planted in the sun trap of the yard.
The shady vine pergola is my favourite place to sit in the back garden.
Or, I should say, it was until recently.
Storm Jake hit us on the first Wednesday in March causing the pergola to sink to its knees. This was a wild wolf of a wind, it huffed and puffed in gusts well in excess of 50 mph throughout the day, I hardly dared venture out. Little by little the pergola sank neatly to one end until it came to rest on the two big pots of Chionochloa conspicua sitting on the steps behind it. Ever the hero in a gardening crisis, Hitesh helped me prop things up when he returned home from work that evening and we sorted out the tangled mess of metal and woody top growth the following weekend.
As it turned out this was to be the first of two rounds with the pergola on dark and stormy nights. Precisely a week later another storm howled through the garden casting the now freestanding corners aside. From the bedroom window the patio looked like a bowling alley.
Admittedly, the pretty pergola’s demise has been on the cards for a while. Last year we added a parasol to help support the weakening central boss of the pagoda style roof and kept our fingers crossed that it would see the summer out. It worked a treat, kept the rain off and bought us time. In the late autumn 2015 a local metalworker was found to supply a more robust replacement by Easter 2016 – in time to salvage the climbers before they came into leaf.
All things considered, we are far from saddened or surprised. The powder-coated tubular steel structure had given nearly ten years’ sterling service. Designed to support the weight of a flimsy canvass cover, not to be heavily draped with unruly vines, it did remarkably well. Thanks to the shade their large leaves cast, this was our haven on an otherwise inhospitable southerly facing sun-baked terrace.
At the end of the second year, when the canopy with which it came showed signs of deteriorating beyond repair, two sets of grape vines and actinidias were planted to succeed the cover. As the vigorous vines grew, the shade grew denser. To my delight with the shade came caps of moss shortly followed by wild orchids, their lance-shaped, spotted leaves were just peeping through in mid-March. That was when the apologetic metal worker got back to me to say the order couldn’t be filled until Whitsun … at the earliest.
To avoid playing skittles throughout the spring we cancelled the order and hit the garden centres.
It took three of us a full day to install the new one. The calibre of the metalwork is very similar to the old one, with a gauge of 1mm (where 3mm would be optimum). Kits like this that are all about convenience and cost-effectiveness, they’re manufactured to be boxed, shipped, then loaded into cars at the garden centre. Everything is configured into boot-friendly lengths and sizes – inevitably, rot sets in where lengths are joined together on assembly. In their defence, manufacturers do recommend dismantling metal pergolas at the end of the season. However, going through the specifications for a bespoke frame suggested other ways to prolong a shop-bought pergola’s life. These include light welds to weak spots such as fixture plates and bolt heads, plus, a cap of lead flashing at the apex where the roof struts meet and are bolted together. Ideally, sanding back the paintwork followed by repainting it using a zinc based primer, then topcoat would better protect against rust. With all this in mind, and much of it yet to do, I was rather bemused by the inclusion of a nail polish sized pot of touch-up paint.
Funnily enough, the new canopy is of a much higher quality fabric than the original. Of course, that makes it heavier too, perhaps at least equal in weight to the vines. Given time and a bit of retraining the mature vines will recover the roof. Meanwhile, we’ll use a parasol to shade the table and consign the superior canopy to the store cupboard.
Remarkably, all but one of the two pot grown Actinidia deliciosa ‘Jenny’ has survived. Hope is on the horizon.
Calamagrostis xacutiflora 'Karl Foerster' and 'Overdam', Deschampsia cespitosa, Maintenance of ornamental grasses, Miscanthus sinensis 'Malepartus' and 'Starlight', Molinia caerulea subsp.arundinacea, Seslaria autumnalis
A couple of week’s ago we were glued to the telly, eyes agog, watching the nation’s favourite gardener wading about knee deep in a mass of grassy leaf litter.
Bless you Monty, for reminding me of “jobs you can be getting on with this weekend”.
Grasses are very low maintenance plants yet what needs doing, needs doing in good time. Monty was right to remind me to pick up the pace. Faced with three mass plantings containing hundreds of grasses one solution is to bring in a couple of helpers armed with power tools and to stock up on chocolate biscuits. Each year we get a few steps closer to getting the job done as quickly, neatly, and efficiently as possible.
The meadow : Deschampsia cespitosa and Molinia caerulea subsp.arundinacea
The little meadow has just had its first birthday. As expected Deschampsia cespitosa* is looking a little more urchin-like than it did last year. There’s no sign of the molinia, as the only truly deciduous native grass we grow in UK gardens it collapses in a heap in the run-up to Christmas, then likes a long lie-in until soil temperatures rise. Knowing this, there were two plans. Plan A was to treat it to a severe haircut once we’d cleared the spent molinia. Plan B was to leave the remains of the deschampsia to see how it stood over the winter months. Curiousity got the better of me, through the later part of the winter I watched how the remains of the light and airy deschampsia fared as weekly storms swept through the garden.
In mid-February they looked like a pile of Pick-Up Sticks, so as soon as we had a break in the weather, out came the strimmer. Deschampsia is a native semi-evergreen grass, it was already in active growth. A 5″ cut was as low as seemed sensible. The stubborn thatch held at the base of the plant ducked below the strimmer blades.
In comparison, a test patch of deschampsia planted in turf under the walnut trees looked emerald green in February. These were strimmed to ground level back in late November along with the rough grass. As a result they have recovered well and are now showing as much neater, tufty mounds.
All things considered, I think it best to stick to Plan A : to strim them sooner rather than later. Weeding may be easier too, goodness knows what’s lurking beneath the thatchy mats. Although a combination of tall forms of molinia underplanted with airy deschampsia works brilliantly throughout the spring, summer and autumn, being blitzed by the winter Breacon Blasts proves too much for airy stems.
For total staying power through to early spring I depend on fail-safe cultivars of Calamagrostis and Miscanthus sinensis, they look so good in their late winter finery that I sigh when the time comes to cut them down.
The terrace : Calamagrostis xacutiflora ‘Karl Foerster’ and ‘Overdam’
Three weeks ago it was the terrace’s turn. After a bit of deliberation, two extra pairs of hands armed with snippers helped me cut back the banks of calamagrostis. Even though the job was done by hand it only took until coffee time. The hedge cutter’s heavy duty blades chewed up the fine dried flowering stalks and spat them everywhere. Investing in a set of handy, lightweight rechargeable electric clippers would be a good idea, they’d work better on the fine, brittle stems. I’m told a saw-edged grass hook does a good job too.
Now that the grassy screen is gone Lily is missing her games of hide-and-seek with the voles.
I’m missing the combination of Phlomis fruiticosa seed heads against the feather reed grass.
The miscanthus hedges : Miscanthus sinensis ‘Malepartus’ and ‘Starlight’
Luckily for me, Miscanthus is a warm season sleepyhead, slumbering until light levels and soil temperatures rise. All the better for me, I can leave cutting it back for even longer.
When the day came to cut the miscanthus down I was out bright and early to tie up two hundred-odd stands of tall stems of Miscanthus ‘Malepartus’ into tepees. On such a beautiful morning I knew I was in for a final treat. The hazy sunlight filtering through the trees set the fluffy plumes alight like a row of flaming torches.
Heavy duty hedge cutters are the perfect solution for cutting tall stands of stout-caned grasses. In a couple of hours the miscanthus hedge was cleared and cut into mulch sized lengths (the sheaves were laid across the log saw horse). The results were a neat buzz cut, very little debris to clear from the crowns, plus two builder’s bags full of straw.
There’s a 19 second video (January 2015) which shows how the McBrides at Sussex Prairies clear their vast mass plantings which were designed to be razed by fire. (I hope the link will play.)This method is explained by Pauline in her post ‘A Burning Question’. The motto of their garden which is set in several acres of former farmland is “Daring to Disturb the Universe”. The big question for me is, dare I disturb the neighbours? 😉
*Deschampsia cespitosa is a prolific self-seeder, it’s a beautiful, short-lived grass. In time I may replace it with divisions of Seslaria autumnalis that I’m growing-on in nursery beds. At this time of year the two semi-evergreen grasses look very similar and can be strimmed in the same way. In the first meadow image there is one Seslaria on the left hand corner.
New Zealand Snow Tussock grasses are among the most beautiful evergreen grasses, especially in winter. Yet these grasses are rarely seen for sale in the UK and it seems that growing them from seed can be a bit of a lottery.
“I see again the upland wilds, stern, rugged, bleak and bare;
The strong winds sweep o’er hill sides steep
And the tussocks toss in the icy air,
Silver and gold in the changing light,
Gold and silver far-up on height
Of the mountain wild and bare.”
David McKee Wright (1869-1928) was an Irish-born journalist, on his arrival in New Zealand he worked on two farming stations in South Island’s Otago region. This extract from his nostalgic poem The Open Country recalls the magestic sight of vast, wild colonies of these grasses. Clearly, he was badly smitten.
Just gazing at jaw-dropping images such as the one above, I fell for their charms.
My much more modest version, a group of five down in the yard, have yet to reach square-metre maturity. I wrote about them last year in a post Easy Evergreen Grasses. At that time I grew two snow tussock grasses, one red and one green leaved form.
These magnificent two-metre tall specimens were a generous gift from a friend, they’d been grown from NZ seed supplied as Chionochloa flavicans. Even in late winter their flowers are stunning.
Throughout the course of 2015 it became apparent that they may in fact be an entirely different species of chionochloa, the alternative green leaved species being flavescens or conspicua. Perhaps there was a clue in the specific epithet itself?
Conspicua possesses the most conspicuously showy flowers. In February, a seriously grassy minded friend lent me an excellent handbook, Lawrie Metcalf’s The Cultivation of Native New Zealand Grasses (Godwit, 1998). As well as containing good quality plates of mature specimens, it’s packed full of useful information about lots of NZ grasses many of which are widely known in the UK. It’s a shame that the second edition of 2008 is unavailable in the UK.
These are the other two green leaved forms. At a glance they look less similar to the ones gracing my patio steps, and, the closer you look, the greater the differences between them.
Metcalf’s botanically detailed observations plus line drawings have been very helpful, he describes two subspecies of conspicua, one of which is named ‘cunninghamii’.
Metcalf states that Chionochloa conspicua subsp.conspicua is distinguished from C.c.subsp.cunninghamii “by the basal leaf-sheaths being rather flattened and silky-hairy, while those of the latter are more rounded and smooth.”. This was exciting news to me.
Especially as I bumped into a lovely one bearing a proper (if broken) label in a bona fide planstwoman’s garden back in December. I wrote a post about my visit to this garden, Pinetum Park and Pine Lodge Gardens here. What I thought, pre Metcalf and the all important hairy ligules, was that the flowers looked different from those I had at home. The panicles were more upright and the flowering spikelet airier … the leaves looked broader too.
All of this might seem a bit dry and dusty, but it raises some important questions for an amateur collector like me. Who’s say-so or what information can I trust? I assume trusting Metcalf is a safe bet, he is pre-eminent in the world of hebes in particular and an authority on New Zealand flora in general. His outstanding contribution to horticulture is internationally recognised : he was awarded the prestigious RHS Veitch Gold Medal of Honour in 1991. Then, in 2010, he was appointed as a Companion of the Queen’s Service Order (QSO) for his community service in posts such as Assistant Director of Christchurch Botanic gardens. Ever helpful, Wikipedia has a link for an NZ government page which explains the symbolism of the modern QSO badge : inscribed above the native Manuka flower is the commendation ‘For Service – Mō Nga Mahi Nui’ ; it’s suspended on a ribbon in traditional Maori colours (black, white and red); and, while the stepped pattern refers to the steps of service it’s also happens to be a common Maori motif for the steps to heaven.
I’ve really enjoyed my winter reading odyssey, I’ve come across lots of interesting stuff along the way. Based on Metcalf’s observations, I’m updating last year’s post to Chionchloa conspicua. Armed with a hand lense, sleuthing for botanical clues in my own plants was fun. However, on a fine spring day watching the way the remains of last year’s airy plumes nod in the warm breeze and catch the light remains the greater pleasure.
With thanks to Tawapou Coastal Natives for the image of Lawrie Metcalf, here is a link to their post ‘A Visit from Lawrie Metcalf’, 1st September 2015.
Until this week I had been putting off a couple of winter jobs in the front garden, partly because a photographer was working in the garden on a last minute winter set, and, partly because I wasn’t quite ready to say my goodbyes. The first was to start cutting back the mass plantings of grasses, starting with the terraces in front of the house; and, the second, to have the ailing blue cedar felled to the ground.
This journal entry is about how this particular tree came to be the focal point of the front garden. The blue cedar is the second, tallest, and rather gaunt looking conifer from the left shown in the image above.
In 1970, when the house was a commune, the cedar was tucked away in the right hand side of this arc of conifers that ringed the north end of the house. Possibly it’s behind the one cloaked with a rambling rose. Perhaps they were intended as a shelter belt. If so, they were planted very close to the house.
By the time we moved here in 2006 only four of them remained. On the advice of the surveyor the tallest (a conical shaped green cedar) was felled, leaving the stump to the left. At the time the photo above was taken in 2010, the blue cedar sat behind a billowing Scots Pine in the top right hand corner of the frame. Perhaps the pine had sheltered it from the northerly valley winds, which regularly hit 50mph, as well as the harsh winters of 2010-11.
In the summer of 2011 we started drawing up plans to remodel the front garden, starting with the rocky barren slope in front of the house. One of the first things we considered was which of the trees we’d build the design around. We also had to consider which of those had either outgrown their space or were on their last legs. The very first teatime sketch of the slope in front of the house shows the blue cedar (green pin) at the midpoint of concentric terraces, with the diseased pine to be deleted.
Plotting each and every tree, slope, and sightline etcetera on a structural plan led to curving parallel stone walls that echo the contours of the valley hillside. The position of the cedar is marked by an eggcup, the dashed line shows the all important extent of its dripline. From the scribbled jottings on this enlarged section of my dog-eared plan I can see I was jumping ahead, noting ideas for the fun bit – planting, including nearly a dozen small ornamental trees to replace those that had been lost.
To my mind’s eye, the late summer colour plan looked ‘right’ with the statuesque blue green tree as the centrepiece.
Six months later, the ground work was completed and the new terraces, which taper to ground level just beyond the dripline of the tree, were ready for planting. This image is not flattering to the tree, taken at this angle it shows that the cedar’s shape had suffered, its ‘skirts’ had been lifted leaving 3 metres of bare trunk. Planted as it was so close to the drive, lower side branches had been snapped off by successive passing builders’ lorries or removals vans. Branches on the opposing side were lopped off to balance the shape. A knowing visitor once wryly observed ‘such is the fate of a parkland specimen in a modest sized English country garden’.
Once the areas around the tree were planted up the tree sat more comfortably in its new surroundings. Personally, I liked the shock of the vibrant blue rising above the technicolour summer ‘prairie’ planting, and, I liked the way this jolly blue giant arched its long limbs in greeting across the garden. One way or the other, the cedar worked its way into practically every image, often boldly so. But sometimes the effect was more subtle, perhaps a feathery bow fringing the roofline of the house, or, extending like a finger across either a path or the planting below.
Then, midway through 2014, the tree turned an anaemic looking green colour before shedding abnormal quantities of rusty coloured needles. The advice was to monitor it for a year and in following it closely in its decline I came to appreciate the not so blue cedar all the more, knowing that if we lost this particular tree the garden would never be quite the same again. Even sadly defoliated, minus its lush blue mantle and brittle limbs on show, the tree in its entirety still possessed a certain graceful charm.
So, the decision to fell a 50′ tall tree, that must have taken nearly as many years to grow, wasn’t taken lightly. Short of leaving it to die back further, and then perhaps turn it into a totem pole, we felt we had no option but to call in the best tree gang we could find. They were brilliant, so gently was the framework dismantled that to my amazement not one cyclamen nestling among its roots was damaged in the process.
This is the same view from the apple barn steps as in the opening image, I take a shot of the garden from here at least once a month for my records. This is the first in which the cedar doesn’t feature, a red trug sits on its stump as a marker. The terrace of grasses, rudbeckia and nepeta has been cleared too, revealing the cheerful mix of dogwoods, birches and luzulus. Just as I was studying the gap left by the missing cedar, we had some good news : the photographer’s set has been accepted by a magazine for publication in late winter 2016. I shall be looking out for a glimpse of the blue cedar among the images that the editorial team select.
Thursday was such a blissfully warm, sunny and still day that, for the first time this year, I had my lunch outside. I always count this as an important milestone on the road to spring and it’s nice to have company to help celebrate its passing. This year, the company was very special : honey bees!
Conditions were perfect for the bees too, they’d come out to gather, what is I’m told, up to half their body weight in pollen and nectar from the swathe of crocus tommasinanus that have taken over the lawn between both sets of gates. Whoever planted them did so a long time ago, as they have spread throughout the front garden.
To my delight, these cheerful purple ‘tommies’ that are so beloved by bees pop up everywhere. Like most gardeners, I’m concerned about the plight of our pollinators and keen on growing as many insect friendly flowers as possible, be they wild or cultivated. I think it’s marvellous that more and more people are becoming beekeepers – including one of my brothers. His enthusiasm and yearly pot of ‘happy bee’ honey was infectious and for a while we considered keeping bees of our own, after all, the surrounding wild flower meadows and the flowering perennials, shrubs and trees in the garden are perfect for many beneficial insects. Through our friends and our local garden society we found out that grants are available to help prospective beekeepers train and set up hives – I’d even sourced a fetching lavender coloured bee suit with matching headgear. We were all set to go!
What stopped us was the discovery that we already had two colonies of ‘wild’ bees in cavities in the disused outbuildings. This was pointed out to us on our very first NGS open day by a visitor who also happened to be an experienced beekeeper. He suggested that we might have the bees moved into hives, or, if they weren’t in our way leave them to their own devices and monitor them discretely. I had a go at videoing them earlier in the week in slow motion, it seems to have reverted to real time. As this is the first time I’ve tried to include one in my garden journal, I have no idea if the clip above will play back when clicked to view.
We learned a lot from this visitor as well as the local expert with whom he put us in touch. Colonies of this sort are usually feral, having swarmed from hives. Colonies of the truly wild, native black bee of the sort tended to by Queenie in Flora Thompson’s Larkrise to Candleford are extremely rare, perhaps even extinct in the UK. This is not only because of a century of various bee diseases but, more significantly, because bees are outbreeders, the queen mates with a large number of drones in flight. As different races of Apis mellifera mellifera have been introduced into the UK from various parts of Europe since the 1830s, the chances of maintaining a ‘pure’ colony of native bees is slight.
All this aside, feral colonies, which may help in the international campaign to bolster the decline of healthy bee populations, are in jeopardy too. In 2014 Dr Catherine Thompson was set to publish her study of such colonies, she showed that they were often infected with the Varroa Virus caused by the Varroa destructor mite, as these are disease burdens prevalent among untreated managed colonies she deduced that they had been transported with the bees when they swarmed from captivity. The inference of her research is that beekeepers have a great responsibility for ensuring the health of colonies of bees and, by extension, feral bees too. Dr Thomson estimated that a badly infected feral colony of bees would be unlikely to survive for more than three years.
Varroa mites cause Deformed Wing Virus in bees which affects their ability to gather supplies for the nest. Once infected, its effects are more virulent in colonies that are either managed but untreated or feral than it is in managed but treated colonies. Apparently, these tiny bees have to beat their wings at a mind boggling rate, something like 200 beats a second to sustain flight. Not only do they beat them, they twist them too creating a propellor motion – hence their amazing manoeuvrability. If this sort of endeavour fascinates you there’s a fabulous slow motion clip of a minute or so from the BBC Hive Alive series here.
With all this in mind we watch our bees with interest and concern, keeping our fingers crossed that the colonies will make it through another year. We can’t be sure when the bees arrived, we can only speculate. There was a swarm in an apple tree back in 2010 which had moved on by the time a local Swarm Collector arrived, perhaps that accounts for one of them. The building they occupy has been unused for a generation, so it would be nice to think a colony has lived there unnoticed for a long time. Who knows, maybe our dear friend Chris Williams who came to shoot insects in the garden last summer caught Barn House bees in action? Above is a selection of his beautiful images.
This weekend bees in general are topical in Saturday’s The Telegraph, with Val Bourne’s ‘Give a bee a home’ and it seems this an appropriately timed article. In the Weekend section, ‘Confessions of a Valetine’s Veteran’ we’re reminded that he was the patron saint of bees too.
For further information :
On the last Friday in January yet another storm tore through the valley leaving us with an extended power cut that made it hard to get on with much indoors. As a result I dipped into a well-indexed kindle edition of Dear Friend and Gardener a personal exchange of letters written over a two-year period between Beth Chatto and Christopher Lloyd that was first published in 1998. For an excellent review of the republished, newly illustrated edition of 2013 written by The Anxious Gardener, please click here.
The flower heads of the grass are almost black, dark, caterpillar like heads, with closely set, green seed cases enclosed in long, almost black hairs which protrude like cats’ whiskers, forming a filmy brush or tail more than 5cm (2″) across.
These are Beth Chatto’s observations of a late flowering grassy beauty, Pennisetum alopecuroides viridescens recorded in a letter to her ‘pen pal’ dated 22nd September 1997. Although the letters were written at the publisher’s behest, they contain a wealth of fascinating information, often about plants.
Since planting an equally visually stunning cousin Pennisetum alopecuroides ‘Black Beauty’, shown above, in my own garden, I have also become smitten with these knee to thigh high grasses. In 2014, I added ‘Hameln’, ‘Dark Desire’ and ‘Red Head’ to my collection, so far they are doing well whether grown in the ground or in a large pot.
‘Red Head’, shown above, is one of the most distinctively coloured forms, typically, it fades as it ages, in this case to maroon. Others range from creamy buff to almost purplish black. I’ve yet to meet either the smallest of the cultivars, ‘Little Bunny’, or, the tallest of all Pennisetum alopecuroides, the straight species plant. This year, in mid autumn, I plan to collect and then sow seed while it’s still fresh, just for the fun of seeing how the seedlings vary. Seedaholic gives excellent advice while Marchant’s Hardy Plants’ garden notes advise marking seedlings as such, for instance, as Pennisietum alopecuroides ex ‘Black Beauty’.
The image above is of P.a. viridescens taken at Ouldolf Field last September where it is used to striking effect as repeated accents at the front and corners of borders. The garden is still quite young, perhaps the more characteristic flowing fountain shape is yet to develop. Had I dipped into Dear Friend and Gardener beforehand I’d have looked for the “silhouettes … repeated as shadows” falling on the grassy paths, as they do in autumn in the The Beth Chatto Gardens in Essex. Here it’s planted at the edges of a damp pondside border, mimicking conditions in which it often grows in the wild. In her garden, this pennisetum was also the key plant used to stabilise a reclaimed area of wasteland, combined with white rosebay willowherb and variegated ground elder which suggests a robust nature.
Visits to Ouldolf Field last autumn sent me scurrying home to scrutinise a close relative, Pennisetum alopecuroides ‘Black Beauty’ planted in 2010 at the base of Prunus serrula. Last October saw an especially dazzling show of sharp orange/green leaf colour against the dusky flowers. Since the introduction of ‘Hameln’ many modern cultivars have been developed for improved hardiness and a freer flowering habit. In my garden I grow them in an open sunny spot in moist but well drained soil – builder’s rubble strewn infill augmented with sterile loam, for the first two years they were kept well watered along with the newly planted sapling.
By early June 2015, the mature clumps looked luxuriant, the uniform mid green colour complements the tree and, as they have a neat, compact habit, was a good choice for lining this narrow path. If well spaced, here at a metre apart on centre, clumps work well with Allium ‘Christophii’ and Geranium ‘Rozanne’. Pennisetum alopecuroides is a warm season grass, originating from Eastern Asia and Australia they may remain evergreen in warmer climates (and self seed). In more temperate gardens : they become dormant in winter, can be slow to get going in spring, and, in my garden, are the last to flower. That said, they’ve survived temperatures of -10 in the winters of 2010-12 plus prolonged spells of winter wet. Buying a good sized plant makes sense to me, they settle in more quickly. I have heard some sorry tales about smaller slips that establish poorly in open ground, if at all, which makes me think that growing young seedlings on under cover through winter would be a good idea.
By late winter, thoughts of how to raise my own plants from seed must be set aside, despite the fluffy appearance of the dried flowerheads the seed is spent. Beth Chatto’s touching phrase “soft brown like sandalwood now” (January of the same year) describes the finale of desaturated colour, shortly followed by a guide to their winter party tricks. She reminded me to brave the weather and early starts while there’s time to catch them in action.
Pennisetum alopecuroides is special in having three sets of bristles that excel at snatching hints of moisture from thin air causing the the flowers to plump up. Following either autumn dew or, in this case, overnight winter mist delivered last Sunday morning, the minuscule beads are suspended along the elongated bristles.
Close to … all I can ever manage is an ‘Oh me, oh my!’.
Hoar frost etched the second set of inner bristles and bleaching them into a mass of sparkling wands for two days solid in mid January leaving me spellbound.
All-grass borders are generally evidence of a shortage of original thought.
Although Christopher LLoyd, the maestro of Great Dixter Gardens‘ famous succession planting, didn’t reply specifically to Beth Chatto’s descriptions of her “good grass” he did make a few pithy comments about the uses of grasses in general. This one in particular raised a smile from me. I think we’ve benefitted from their combined wisdom and come a long way since then ….
As a preface to this entry to my garden journal I should say that on Monday I cancelled the ‘pop-up’ NGS day planned to take place on 14th February. Quite simply : the parking field is waterlogged. This is such a shame because despite being tested by wind and rain for two months solid, the grasses are in great shape.
Hard on the heels of a disappointing decision two consecutive days of frost and dazzling sunshine created a very welcome change of scene in the garden. Tuesday and Wednesday started with wonderful predawn skies to the south.
Promising first light was followed by flamingo-pink sunrises to the east.
An early morning moment spent watching the low angled winter sun filtering though the Thujas and illuminating the terrace in front of the house is my idea of wintry heaven.
Transitory rays of sunlight struck two young birches in the winter garden behind the grasses, all too soon they’d moved on. One lone anemanthele in the row lining the drive was momentarily set ablaze.
At first glance the indefatigable miscanthus hedge looked untouched.
At its knees a hint of frost lingered here long enough to add a lacy fringe to the seedheads.
Among the crystals riming them the melt had begun, the droplets refracted the light daring me to capture them. The fuzzy results reveal a myriad of glistening rainbows.
Sodden turf strewn with long shadows in the deserted dogs’ paddock made me shiver and sigh, beneath a crispy coating the clay will stay saturated like a sponge for weeks to come.
Atop tangled stems, echinacea cones become more curiously ragged by the day revealing secrets of their structure. Does this one look like a miniature prehistoric monster?