“Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.”—Gustav Flaubert
The first morning in Brassac, a village in the foothills of the Cevennes Mountains in France, we walked along the banks of the Rive Agout, then took a footpath up a hillside to a summit. Under a canopy of gnarled oak trees heather, Calluna vulgaris, covered the ground with clouds of pink flowers. The low branches swayed in the breeze, the river flowed below, and craggy cliffs loomed over us. It was a glorious morning in the French countryside.
In the village and along the riverbanks, butterfly bushes, Buddleia davidii, were in bloom. The light-purple flowers added a honey fragrance to the air. The species name, davidii, is derived from that of Jean-Pierre-Armand David, a French Catholic missionary priest. Pere David, as he was commonly known, was a respected zoologist and botanist. He was sent to China to convert people to the Catholic faith but was more concerned with discovering new scientific specimens. His introductions to the Western world include the giant panda, the Pere David deer (which later became extinct in its native land), and 1,500 plants, including Buddleia davidii, which he brought from Sichuan and Hubei provinces in 1869. From the wild plant, many cultivars have been developed in a variety of colors and sizes. In milder climates, the plant has become invasive, damaging buildings and overpowering native plants. We noticed it sprouting on bridges, doorsteps, and on the sides of buildings.
One indigenous plant that I always admire is a small fern, Asplenum trichomanes, the maidenhair spleenwort. Despite its unappealing common name, this is a sweet fern that grows in the crevasses of ancient stone walls. The fragility of the delicate plants in the sturdy ancient stone walls is somehow comforting.
We often walked along a trail bordered with nettles to reach St. Agnan. There is no priest in the rectory now, but the remnants of a garden remain. Irises grow below a climbing rose, and a walled area contains peach and fig trees and an exquisite mimosa tree, Albizia julibrissin, with pink, powderpuff blossoms. Unfortunately, the figs were too green to eat on this early September visit.
“And we’ll all go together to pick wild mountain thyme, all around the purple heather….”—19th century Irish-Scottish folksong
One day we embarked on a daylong drive that took us from one climate to another. While climbing Les Monts de l’Espinouse, the southern branch of the Cevennes Mountains, we made a quick stop to visit a group of grazing donkeys. Along the roadside were white Queen Anne’s lace, lavender scabiosa, and blue echium. I could picture Robert Louis Stevenson coming along on his donkey as he described in Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes.
We reached the peak of the mountain range and descended a steep, winding road perched along the edges of cliffs. The vegetation and climate changed. The garrigue, an area of scrubland with low-growing vegetation, was around us, and we felt the heat rising from the Mediterranean. During one stop along the way, we gathered some wild mountain thyme, which thrives in the heat, giving it an intense fragrance.
Our destination was Le Jardin Mediterranee in the town of Roquebrun. This fantastic garden was planted in 1986 on a steep cliffside, using terraces built centuries ago. The microclimate created by the sheltering hills and the heat-retaining geological formations (pipe organs) is ideal for xeriscaping, the planting of arid gardens. Over 400 species grow there, ranging from local rosemary, euphorbia, and broom to American cacti, north African succulents, Mediterranean olive, fig, and citrus trees, and native pines. When we looked out on the wider vista, there were skinny cypresses, more terraced hillsides with vineyards, and the Rive L’Orb in the valley below.
After a week in France, we stopped for three days in Dublin, Ireland. Around the block from our apartment was a charming independent store, Mr. Middleton Garden Shop, with wall displays of seed packets and fall bulbs. I was tempted to buy some unusual bulbs but knew they might be confiscated at the Customs gate. Across the Liffey River, I walked by Christ Cathedral, which had perfect New England asters, or Michaelmas daisies as they are called there, in full bloom.
Down the block was the medieval church, St. Audoens, with my favorite garden in
Dublin. Banks of tall grasses interwoven with purple Verbena bonariensis flanked a winding path to the church. Another walkway was bordered by Acanthus spinosus, a native to the Mediterranean area. Five-foot stems with tiers of white and dusky purple flowers rose from the spiny foliage. Acanthus leaves were the inspiration for the motif on Corinthian capitals and many other classical architectural features. Through the ages, the acanthus plant has been used for medicinal purposes as an antibiotic and to fight skin ailments and infections. It is being studied today for antioxidant and anticancer treatment. The leaves have come to symbolize immortality.
North of the river is Blessington Street Basin, a park and garden created around a disused reservoir. The body of water was part of Dublin’s water supply, and for over one-hundred years, it was used exclusively for the Jameson distillery. It is now a central feature of the park, with swans, ducks, and moorhens. The surrounding gardens bloomed with late summer asters, anemones, and fuchsias.
The last morning in Dublin, I went out at daybreak to visit Trinity College. The sun rising on the gray stone buildings and the small gardens was a grand vision. Purple Verbena bonarensis and scarlet dahlias ‘Bishop of Llandaff’ were brilliant in the early light. Before we left, I stopped at a bookstore to buy a copy of A Beautiful Obsession, a book about Jimi Blake’s garden, Hunting Brook, in County Wicklow. The enthusiasm and knowledge of this Irish plantsman was inspiring. His list of plants introduced me to new varieties to grow in Ashfield. I looked forward to returning home to my own garden after ten days away.
“Whatever piece of land you have can help you stay grounded, keep you connected to mother earth and bring about deep healing.”—Jimi Blake
October 2019