“Numerous as the world’s band of gardeners is, there should be more of us. Not just routing, but mad, keen gardeners.” Christopher Lloyd
[The first part of this essay can be found at TRAVELOGUE ENGLAND]
The main road in the village of Sissinghurst, England is called The Street. It was my base for five days. I continued to make my way to the garden of Vita and Harold but also explored the surrounding region and other gardens.
“A garden should be thick with incident.” Christopher Lloyd
My Airbnb host joined me in a visit to Great Dixter, the home and garden of writer Christopher Lloyd, who died in 2006. Christo, as he was known, was born at Great Dixter and lived there with his mother until her death in 1972 when he was fifty. The garden then became his and he blossomed along with it, becoming famous for his wit, exuberance, vitality, and delight in color.
The approach is along a path through shaggy meadows full of wild flowers toward the old, timbered, multi-chimney pile of a house. Masses of terra-cotta pots filled with horticultural wonders by the front entrance give a hint of what awaits. The gardens that meander around the house are filled with brilliant colors of foliage and flower. Magenta gladioli rose from the chartreuse leaves of a spiraea with purple globes of allium behind. Self-seeded forget-me-nots, poppies, and columbines were threaded throughout as well as a plant unknown to me, Smyrnium perfoliatum, or yellow Alexanders, a biennial which has bracts of green that change to acid lime topped with yellow umbels. The explosion of colors in Christo’s garden are “exuberant and uncontrived”, enough to make for nonstop smiles.
There is more to appreciate in a garden besides the plants. At Dixter I marveled at the ten foot high compost heap with a ladder leaning against it; I was fascinated by an ancient metal water cart parked along a path; I was stopped by a mosaic of stone paving by the house; and I was delighted to witness one of the resident dachshunds, Conifer, frolicking in the garden.
On a stopover in the village of Rye on the way home we watched a local cricket match until the players, all in white, paused for a tea break. We walked up the street and had tea and cake of our own. While I ate, an English robin, smaller and tamer than ours, came to the table looking for crumbs, like a visitor off a page of Beatrix Potter.
The next morning I got a ride to another National Trust property, Scotney Castle. Edward Hussey III inherited the estate in 1835, built a new residence, and created the surrounding gardens. The rolling grounds were covered with blooming rhododendrons and azaleas in the colors of sorbet and the ruins of a fourteenth century moated castle dripped with white wisteria. After that peaceful wander my plan was to walk a few miles along footpaths to Bedgebury Pinetum, an arboretum with a collection of pine trees from around the globe.
The footpaths of England are public byways following prehistoric trails, Anglo-Saxon tracks, and Roman roads that have been in use for centuries. Recent laws have protected their use for all, even through private property. I walked through the English countryside, across fields, through woods, and once through a path mown in a field of wheat five feet high. Unfortunately my sense of direction is very bad. I never did manage to arrive at my destination. Instead, after hours of pleasant walking, I came to a sign for Tiddymots Lane, civilization and the village of Goudhurst, where I found a local bus back to Sissinghurst. I ate dinner at the local pub, the Milkhouse, for my last night in town. Afterwards I sat in the lounge and was regaled by two local women with gossip about the offspring of Vita and Harold.
My friend Genevieve told her Aunt Gladys in England that I was visiting nearby and she took me to see the fourteenth century castle and gardens at Penshurst Place, the former hunting lodge of Henry VIII. Ancient stone walls were covered in yellow roses while sumptuous lupines and a one hundred meter-long peony bed atoned for the stiff formality of the garden.
On the last leg of my trip I took the train down to Hastings, the site on the English Channel where William the Conqueror led the Normans to victory in 1066. I wanted to travel farther east to Prospect Cottage in Dungeness where the artist Derek Jarman created a small paradise. He had purchased a derelict fisherman’s shack on a desolate stretch of pebbly beach, renovated the building, brought in soil and plants and made an oasis in an unlikely setting. Rose, poppies, and lavender survived amidst sculpture made from seaside flotsam. Prospect Cottage was a refuge and site of the celebration of art and life. Appropriately, Derek was canonized in the garden by his friends the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence in 1991. The garden sustained him until he died in 1994.
I hiked on the bluffs in Hastings. I found a wild gladiolus blooming above the English Channel. I never made it to Prospect Cottage. Hopefully, some day, I will.
“Wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking.” Antonio Machado
February 2021