Garden Glimpses

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

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

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

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

Next routine: a Hove jungle

Eastern Promises

(Hirohige, 'Sugin Grove and Masaki')

No Motion

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

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

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

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

Close encounters of the show garden kind

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Gardens underneath which rivers flow'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Virtual Gardens

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

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


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

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




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


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

Far Other Worlds

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



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



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

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


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