I enjoy a style of rough tough gardening when the weather is right. The weather is just so at the moment, long hot dry days with a cool flow of air from the North or the East to keep flies away. The best days are when you enter the work as if it is a strange land full of adventure and excitement and emerge at the far end of the day, grubby and satisfied, hardly able to see the changes that have been wrought through sheer fatigue.
The story of my garden unfolds in an engaging series of episodes, a film in slow motion, moving imperceptibly towards its final scene, an arcadian inspiration of a garden, redolent with secrets and bees and tree scents and dapples.
Building materials and inspiration originate from the garden itself. It dictates what to do next, in small stony stages. It yields up its materials to be utilised, giant stones come tumbling forth from steep uncultivated banks, to be used as terraces, clay offers itself up to backfill the walls, grass turves are recycled as terrace carpets on the new work to stop it eroding and keep everything in place
not at home 