A graft "failure" on Princes Street

I was on an after dinner walk down Princes Street, just below the castle, admiring the fallen cherry petals that were carpeting the garden with pink. I love ornamental cherries as they remind me of the five years I lived in Washington, D.C., where they famously circle the Tidal Basin.

This night, though, I was brought to a stop when I saw two very different blooms on one of the trees. "That ain't right!" was my first thought as I traced the branch back to the trunk to investigate. 

Turns out I'd found a textbook example of a graft "failure" in this ornamental cherry (most likely Prunus serrulata 'Kwanzan'). 

Though it is not essential to their success, Kwazan cherries are sometimes grafted onto other cherry rootstock, as you can see in the photo above where there is a grafting scar right below the main branches at the top of the trunk. But notice there is a stout branch going off to the left, right below the graft union. 

That branch belongs to the rootstock and is the source of our white-flowered blooms intermingling with the fluffy double pinks.

I also see a branch scar right below this branch, suggesting that at some point someone noticed the rootstock was trying to take over the graft and pruned it out. But in testament to the vigor of most roostocks, this one shot out another branch, which you can see blooming today. I know it's technically a horticultural "mistake," but I can't help but admire the tenacity of this rootstock and the delightful combination of two very different blooms on one tree. It makes me think about the many years of human cultivation, selection, and breeding that took a cherry like this white, more wild-flowered type and turned it into a confection named 'Kwanzan.'

Portrait of a pear

One of my favorite trees at the Botanics is in bloom. I've been visiting recently trying to take its portrait, but the grey weather hasn't been cooperating. Then last weekend the clouds broke for a few minutes and I got the sun for which I hoped. 

This is Pyrus korshinskyi, the Kazhak pear. It is native to Kyrghystan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan, but it seems quite at home in Edinburgh. Unfortunately this tree is critically endangered in its native habitat because of overgrazing damage by livestock and harvesting. 

This particular tree at the Botanics is listed on the Tree Register of the British Isles as the largest Kazhak pear in cultivation. 

I especially love the upright habit of its gnarled, lichen-covered branches and they way it seems to lift its blossoms skyward. It is truly spectacular and a rare tree that some day I hope to raise in my own garden. 

Spring cleaning

It's been good weather for getting a start on the garden. Sweet peas are planted, herb and lettuce seeds sown. It felt like the right time to give my secateurs a spring tune-up. A light scrub with fine steel wool and white spirits removes any accumulated sap or rust. Then I sharpened each pair with a diamond sharpener. Ready for duty. 

Return of the sun: First day of spring

The sun has finally climbed high enough that for the first time since last autumn my front garden is getting some direct sun. It only lasts a little while, and is usually interrupted by skudding dark clouds (or hail, or snow, or sleet, or icy rain, all of which we've had this week). But in late March, after another challenging Edinburgh winter, I will happily take what I can get--even if it is only a few minutes that light up the awakening garden and give me hope that brighter times are on the way. 

Spring comes to the Botanics

In a break between classes yesterday I took a walk around the Botanics. My goal was to see if one of my favorite spring flowers, Pulsatilla vulgaris, was yet blooming. However, along the way to the rock garden I found so many beautiful plants that I had to share. 

First up is the amazing Corylopis sinensis var. calvescens, a late-winter yellow-flowering shrub that in my book beats Fosythia any day. This Chinese native, as you could probably have guessed from the name, is sweetly scented and its profusion of pendant racemes make quite a vision. It's a good-sized shrub, but if you're lacking in garden space the smaller-statured Corylopis pauciflora is just as pretty on a miniature scale. 

As I entered the rock garden I was thrilled to see that one of my favorite spring bulbs, Narcissus cyclamineus, was out in full force. It's severely reflexed perianth is the key to its species name, as it resembles the reflexed petals of Cyclamen. There was one super-large mutant in this clump, and though I am sure it would sell well if brought into cultivation (if it hasn't been already), I found that at such a size the flower lacked the charm of the smaller version. 

Narcissus cyclamienus will spread by self seeding, as it has done at the Botanics. What I love most about it is the graphic effect it gives to the landscape with its bright hatchmarks of gold looking as though they've been stroked onto the landscape with a fine brush. 

This little Erythronium dens-canis is complex and best observed up close. Plant it in a trough or somewhere closer to eye level to best appreciate its details. 

This strangely lurid purple plant is the romantically named Lathraea clandestina. It's actually a parasitic plant, living off the roots of mostly poplar and willow but sometimes other species. It has no chlophyll and instead survives by attaching haustoria (suckers) on its roots to the roots of its host tree, gaining its nutrition through the host plant. 

Finally I found what I was looking for, my friend the stunning Pulsatilla vulgaris. Its common name, the Pasque flower, refers to is tendency to bloom at Easter. This British native, which grows on calcareous (chalky lime) soil, is now endangered in the wild. Just last night in the bath I was reading Vita Sackville-West's Let Us Now Praise Famous Gardens, a selection of weekly columns she wrote for the Observer newspaper. Of Pulsatilla vulgaris she wrote, "This is a native of our Downs, getting rare in its wild state but still cultivated in gardens. It is a soft and lovely thing, pale lilac in colour with a silvery floss-silk surround." It is interesting to me that even in 1950 the plant was recognized as rare. I have been lucky enough to see it in its native habitat, which I will no doubt write about someday. 

Some of the plants were not yet blooming in the rock garden, but I found this little unlabeled clump on the south side of a large rock, where it was most likely a bit ahead of its relatives by virtue of a slightly warmer microclimate.

I was hoping for some sun, as the fine hairs on the plant make for some stunning photos. But it was just about to bucket down rain, despite starting my short walk under sunny skies.

Regardless, I was pleased that the lit-from-within effect was still present without sun, as seen on this clump of Pulsatilla halleri subsp. rhodopaea (though it's labeled with its synonym, Anemone rhodopaea). I find Pulsatilla absolutely magical, and will return in a few days--hopefully when the sun is out--to photograph them as their blooms continue to open and the spring garden returns to life. 

Snowdrops and stories: A winter visit to Dawyck Botanic Garden

Yesterday dawned reasonably mild and almost sunny, so the decision was made to drive down to Dawyck Botanic Garden, a Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh property in the Scottish Borders known for its snowdrop display. The clouds had once again closed thickly overhead by the time we arrived, and it was spitting rain, but we had a warm welcome from the reception staff and were encouraged to join one of the volunteer-led tours as something of a insider quality assurance scheme. 

The tour guide went over much of what was covered during a class trip last year, but for someone with no experience of the garden it would definitely be educational. So often it's easy to look at gardens superficially as just a collection of plants and trees in an aesthetically appealing arrangement. However, gardens are always full of stories, whether they are as globally influenced and influencing as a botanic garden or the personal histories of a private home patch. Because plants can't speak, and designed interpretation can only explain so much, garden tours are the only way to learn these stories that bring gardens even more to life. 

From the Dawyck tour guide I learned of the rumors that C. Linnaeus, father of the binomial naming system used today, may have planted the European larch (Larix decidua) near the Dynamo Pond. The story is contested, as Linnaeus is thought to have not traveled further north than Oxford. However, examination of mycorrhizal fungi from the roots of the tree found it to be unique within Britain and originating in Linnaeus' home country of Sweden. That's a botanical mystery--just one of thousands that make horticulture so endlessly fascinating. 

The American skunk-cabbage (Lysichiton americanus) has been removed from the banks of the creek winding through the garden. Last year we learned that the garden staff were carefully monitoring this planting, which was dispersing its seed into the watercourse and becoming invasive downstream. In the ensuing year this plant's status as an invasive non-native of serious concern meant it had to go. Our tour guide expressed remorse at losing part of the collection, but I applaud Dawyck for modeling environmentally responsible behavior, which I believe is one of the major obligations of botanic gardens today. Throughout history, plant collectors and horticulturists have sometimes done more damage than good, and with our increased knowledge and sensitivity to the effects of our actions on the living world, now is the time to reverse that trend and begin protecting our environments through more considered husbandry.

I also learned a few new words, including "indumentum," a kind of catch-all term to describe plant surface coverings of any kind, such as hairs or scales. This bit of botanical vocabulary was passed on whilst examining a fuzzy Rhododendron leaf. In addition to its snowdrops, Dawyck is known for its collection of Rhododendron species, the earliest of which were just on the brink of bloom. 

But back to the snowdrops (Galanthus nivalus), the real reason for the trip. This was my first visit to a "snowdrop wood," and it did not disappoint. Snowdrops grew throughout the entire garden, but were mostly concentrated along the burn, where they grew so thickly as to actually look, at a distance, like a blanket of snow. 

Snowdrops are sweet and pretty, and if I ever garden a woodland I'll definitely turn a bunch loose to spread at will. I understand their importance as one of the first flowers of the year, bringing hope for the spring just to come. But I'll never be a galanthophile, which is just as well given the seemingly ridiculous prices paid by some collectors for specimens, such as the rare yellow-bloomed varieties. At right, Galanthus nivalis 'Sandersii' Lowick blooming last week in the alpine backup area of RBGE. 

Paying up to $2,500 a bulb for a tiny plant that pushes out a chlorotic-looking bloom just seems silly to me, but people get very passionate about their snowdrops, fueling what could be the tulip bubble of the 21st century. 

The mass effect of a snowdrop wood is impressive, and I imagine it would be even more so with a little bit of sun. But until I garden on such a scale I'll enjoy my snowdrops close-up, in simple clay pots, where I can appreciate their perfectly delicate form. And I'll get my Galanthus fix from places like Dawyck, where snowdrops and stories abound. 

2016: A good year

2016 was, world events aside, a very good year. My biggest achievement was surviving my second year of the horticulture with plantsmanship course at the Botanics, and gaining my HND as well as my Diploma in Plantsmanship, with distinction. I memorized innumerable Latin plant names, drew dozens of floral diagrams, wrote a very long paper on the history of horticultural journalism, and completed myriad other assignments that flew fast and heavy.

I also traveled a lot in 2016, with international adventures to new countries as well as two trips back to the U.S. I happily got to see much more of Britain, including famous gardens the length of the country: Levens Hall, Chatsworth, Sissinghurst, Great Dixter, Newby Hall, Drummond Castle, Cambo, Shepherd House, Scampston Hall, Glasgow and St. Andrews Botanical Gardens, and more. And of course I fell deeper in love with Scotland, checking off the Isle of Skye from my life-long must-visit list.

It's been a great year, and I'm looking forward to many big adventures in 2017. Happy New Year!

Winter at the Botanics

After that second cup of tea I put on my wool long underwear and shearling hat and walked through the chilly streets of Edinburgh and down the Leith River to the Botanics. Because of its lower elevation and closer proximity to the sea, there wasn't as much frost in the garden as at home. Nevertheless, I walked around looking for photos, my only company the wood pigeons and a handful of visitors who had braved the cold.

It was nice to spend time in the garden in a visually creative way. I am there every week--sometimes multiple days per week--but for more than two years the focus of that time has been horticultural and taxonomic training, not art. Photographing in the frosty garden yesterday reminded me of one of the main reasons I want to work with plants--they are just so beautiful. 

Even on a day when weather conditions and the half-light of Scottish winter kept most people inside, fallen leaves and frozen foliage held my attention for several hours. I walked home in the four o'clock dark as snow squalls advanced from the east, grateful I'd seen the garden this day.

I keep thinking about an amazing BBC documentary I watched last week, called Forest, Field & Sky: Art Out of Nature, about artists who use nature as their medium. It featured David Nash, Charles Jencks, Julie Brook, my favorite Andy Goldsworthy, among others, and lots of artworks created in Scotland. It was one of the best and most inspiring films I've seen, so check it out if you can (it's also on YouTube though the quality doesn't do justice to the art). I revisited one of the Goldsworthy pieces at the Botanics yesterday, enjoying the surrounding warm-colored leafy gradient combined with the cool slate, and how the fallen leaves added an extra element--a stripe of orange--of which Goldsworthy would no doubt approve. 

Slate, Hole, Wall by Andy Goldsworthy (1990)

Hoar frost!

I've always wanted to see a hoar frost, seduced by the amazing photos I've seen of plants made otherworldly by what looks like a light dusting of powdered sugar. I got my chance this morning, when I opened the wooden shutters to find every detail of my front garden picked out in white. 

It's very cold out, but I bet the gardens at school look amazing. Might bundle up and take a donder down there...once I have that second cup of tea... 

Glasgow Botanic Gardens carnivorous collection

While we're on the subject of carnivorous plants, I'd like to share some photos of the stunning carnivorous collection at the Glasgow Botanic Gardens. In August I'd gone through on the train for a fun day filled with museums and good food. I was delighted by the Hunterian Collection, at what will in June be my second collegiate alma mater, the University of Glasgow. I was also surprisingly moved by the nearby Charles Renee Mackintosh House.

Just a few minutes before it closed, my companion and I ducked out of a rain shower into the Glasgow Botanics glasshouse.

The entire glasshouse structure is incredibly beautiful, but I was stunned by this carnivorous display. It felt more like a fine art exhibit than a plant collection. The dark and stormy weather outside made a soft light in which the plants just glowed. It was one of the most beautiful horticultural displays I've ever seen, and a highlight of the many beautiful gardens I've visited this year.

There were Sarracenia (pitcher plants) of all species and colors, as well as Drosera (sundews) and Pinguicula (butterworts), all boggily bedded amongst ferns and mosses. 

Here are a few shots captured before a staff horticulturist ushered us out for closing time. I'd love to go back with a proper camera and get lost in these beautiful plants. 

A sticky situation

A friend gave me my first carnivorous plant earlier this year, a Drosera of unknown species (probably capensis). It was an exercise in eco-friendly biocontrol: The intention was for this stunning little bug catcher to help clear up a rash of sciarid flies that were plaguing my houseplants, and by extension, me.  

Like most houseplants in my dark flat, the Drosera got pretty unhappy, fast. It quit producing dew, which is what it uses to lure and trap its prey. Trapped insects are ultimately digested using enzymes on the leaf surfaces. With no dew, the plant wasn't able to eat.

So I did what I do with all my failing-to-thrive houseplants: I exiled the Drosera to purgatory--also known as outside. I didn't expect it to survive the transition to much cooler temperatures and blowing Scottish gales, but within a week the increased light had induced a flush of fresh new leaves. Soon the Drosera was regularly dewing again, and trapping flies. Here is one unlucky guy who posed for a final portrait as his feet were being digested. 

I'm not sure what I will do with this plant when temperatures get below freezing. I'm afraid it will be terribly unhappy inside again, so I may just leave it out to see what happens. Certain Drosera spp. are native to Scotland, so maybe this beautiful little plant could survive the winter outside? If anyone has overwintered their Drosera outside, in a similar climate, let me know!

Oh, and I finally got rid of the sciarid flies by taking the houseplant they'd colonized outside, removing all the soil (where the flies live and reproduce), washing the plant's roots clean, and repotting it into fresh, clean soil. 

The Rust Garden for Edinburgh Printmakers

A month ago today I was delighted to come upon a brand-new, fascinating Edinburgh garden in an area I frequent on my way to walk the Union Canal path. For as long as I've lived here this raised bed has been a wild urban space, choked with Buddleja and Sambucus, collecting trash that blew through the alley and decorated only with graffiti. Then one day I walked by and noticed that the ground had been cleared, the shrubs hacked to down to stumps. Shortly after I rounded the corner to this riot of color and form. 

In the last two years I have seen some of the world's most famous gardens: Hidcote, Sissinghurst, Chanticleer, Rousham, Longwood, Great Dixter, Chatsworth...the list goes on and on. But this mystery garden delighted me in ways that some of those heavy-hitters failed to do. 

The carnival colors and crazy mix of tropical-looking plant forms looked so refreshingly novel and un-British to me. I loved the more-is-more effect of packing so many strongly colored plants so closely together. Adding all these hot colors to the grey and brown building behind it could have ended poorly. Instead, the flower and foliage color harmonized with the paint and very effectively married the garden to its building, turning an eyesore into an asset. It took the work of a skilled colorist and planting designer to pull this off so well. The effect was a defiant fist shaking at the grey and cold Edinburgh weather. Just looking at it brought to mind my native hot-climate summer that I'm so missing, and warmed me up a lot. 

The plant selections weren't the only surprises. This turned out to be an interactive garden, with a little step built to help one up to sit on a small wooden bench. 

At first I thought the circular patio area in front of the bench was filled with pea gravel. But as I sat and looked around, I noticed words and phrases spelled in metal letters throughout the garden.

Turns out the "pea gravel" is actually 25,000 rusted steel letters! It was impossible to see or sit in this garden and not play with the letters, writing messages and signing names. 

Every time I've passed the garden in the last month there have been different phrases written with the letters. I love this interactive, poetic aspect to the garden. 

Pan out a bit and you'll get a sense of why coming across this garden was so surprising. You can barely see the bright lupines tucked in that tiny space in post-industrial urban wasteland.

One of the most intriguing aspects of the Rust Garden is that the interpretation panels that explained it weren't on display when the garden was first installed, and when I came across it. The seemingly magical appearance of such a bright and beautiful garden sprung fully-formed in the midst of a neglected and "waste" space made the garden even more affecting. It was only later that I learned the garden was the work of Toronto-based artists Matt Donovan and Hallie Siegel (which may explain the more North American feel to the planting design). There's more info on their site, including some good pictures of the alley as I'd always seen it. 

The Rust Garden was commissioned by Edinburgh Printmakers, which is set to revitalize this neglected Castle Mill Works building, which was the headquarters of the North British Rubber Company, Edinburgh's largest industrial operation, from 1856 to the late 1960s. Their best known product was a green wellie boot, and eventually the company became Hunter Boot Ltd. So those iconically British wellie boots known and worn around the world had their start in this building a stone's throw from my house in Edinburgh. Discovering this history has made me even more sad that ever since Hunter moved their production to China and became more of a fashion instead of a utility brand, their boots have become such poor quality that I sent the last pair I ordered back in disgust and (regretfully) switched loyalties to a French company. 

Wellies aside, the Rust Garden is a huge success and one of my favorite gardens of 2016. It's on display as part of the Edinburgh Festival and runs through August 28, so see it while you can. I am not sure what its fate will be as the planting was very much done for immediate effect, with tender annuals that won't survive the winter. I am also pretty sure the weedy shrub stumps were not totally removed, which means those plants have probably already begun to grow back with a vengeance. I can only hope that after the Festival the Rust Garden will be developed into a more permanent garden that can continue to surprise and delight those of us ducking through this Fountainbridge alley.

A blustery Borders hike, and an art lesson

A couple of weekends ago we drove down to the Scottish Borders in search of a nice woodland hike. We ended up at Yair Hill Forest, tucked right up against the River Tweed. These have been important hunting and fishing lands since the end of the last ice age 12,000 years ago. In the middle ages Yair was a royal hunting ground, reserved for use by Scottish kings. Between 1296 and 1305 these woods provided shelter for William Wallace as he and his army engaged in battles throughout the Borders. 

The purple heath and heather (Calluna vulgaris, Erica cinerea, among others) were in full bloom. Blaeberries (Vaccinium myrtillus--related to the common blueberry) were covered in tiny, tasty black fruit. 

An area of low pressure was moving in off the North Atlantic, prompting all sorts of high wind and gale warnings. Though the valley floor was warm and sunny, by the time we made it to the top of the hill the wind was blowing the trees horizontal and even pushing me off the trail. 

Despite the weather the Southern Upland Way, Scotland's coast-to-coast path, tempted us higher on the moor, led on by the sight of cairns in the distance. 

Summiting the peak we found the Three Brethren Cairn, which marks the ancient boundary of three properties. Each year more than 500 horses and their riders support the Royal Burgh Standard Bearer in a ride to the cairns during the Selkirk Common Riding Festival. This is a tradition that dates back at least 500 years and has its roots when riding around land was the way of preserving ownership and preventing encroachment by neighboring lairds. 

This was my first time seeing an old Scottish cairn, and I immediately understood what one of my favorite artists, Andy Goldsworthy, is referencing with his stone cairns. Though I have always found his cairns beautiful and technically awe-inspiring, and delighted whenever I came across one in my travels, I didn't until this hike really understand how they reflect a sense of place and lifestyle that is so inherently Scottish.  

My favorite Goldsworthy's cairn piece is in De Moines, Iowa, at the De Moines Art Center. My brother and I stumbled upon it in 2008 while in town for our grandmother's memorial. Titled 'Three Cairns," these dry-stone structures were completed in 2002 of Iowa limestone. 

Leave it to Scotland to surprise me with unexpected art appreciation on a random weekend hike. 

After just a few minutes on the blustery hilltop we descended back through the forest, stopping to watch the swallows dive over a field of peacefully grazing sheep. I don't think I'd ever get tired of watching a scene like this. It's always changing as the weather rolls over and the animals mill about. Beautiful. 

More sweet peas

With careful tending, weekly high-potash feeds, and constant de-tendriling, my sweet peas continue to pump out the blooms. I couldn't be more thrilled with my variety selection. My goal, in addition to growing highly scented varieties, was to select six that could be combined in multiple ways to give me different-looking arrangements within a limited palette. 

In the arrangement above you can see 'Charlie's Angel,' the blue/lavender; 'North Shore,' the darker bicolored purple; 'Senator,' the purple and maroon flake; 'Almost Black,' peeking out the right side; the creamy white 'Jilly,' and over on the left just a hint of the pale pink 'Champagne Bubbles.' The bright fuchsia bloom in the center is a student plot mystery plant, but it's a happy and welcome surprise. 

 

More than just topiary at Levens Hall, Cumbria

Though topiary is the main draw at Levens Hall, the rest of the garden contains a mix of well-done features and some questionable bits. First up is one of the nicest double herbaceous borders I've ever seen, all in shades of blue, yellow, white and purple, capped off by a Lutyens bench at one end. I liked the weathered wood tuteurs in that they looked sturdy but naturally pretty and blended well in the border. I also appreciated how the color and texture of the Nepeta reflected the very worn stone walls and urns. Despite being a bit weather-beaten, the Delphinium were doing their magic trick of injecting the ever-elusive true blue into the composition, and Cephalaria gigantea sprinkled its pale yellow stars just above head height. 

The purple, blue and white theme continues near the house with a small foundation planting of Hosta, Nepeta, and climbing vines, including Clematis. The white giant Himalayan lily, Cardiocrinum giganteum, was looking very fine. 

There is a willow (Salix) maze, which looks better in this photo than it did in real life. It was pretty overgrown with grass and weeds, and I think being able to see through the maze "walls" defeats the point of a maze. It was, perhaps, just young and may grow into something more substantial. I could see it being popular with children. 

A large beech (Betula) hedge encircles part of the garden, and one may walk underneath its canopy for great views reminiscent of looking at the sun from under water. The cripples supporting the branches made for some beautiful natural sculpture.  

One of my favorite areas was the old orchard, which in spring is planted with red tulips in square patterns under each tree. That must look great, but I enjoyed the pattern left over once the tulips have been mown off, and I think this is an attractive way to deal with the inevitable messiness that follows a spring-flowering bulb display. Making a feature out of "disorder," or manipulating ephemeral spaces through periods of transition so they still contribute to the overall design, is something I'd like to try in my own garden. 

A pretty substantial network of pleached lime (Tilia)  tunnel arbors impressed me with its horticultural skill. Attempting to get this many living trees to grow at almost 90 degree angles is a challenge, and these were just about perfect. I think the secret lies in the strong timber framework just barely seen in this photo. I imagine that without it in place it would be hard to achieve this precise effect. 

The pleaching and extensive topiary at Levens bring to mind another garden that I really enjoy in pictures, having not yet visited in person: Arne Maynard's Allt-y- bela: 

Image from Town and Country Magazine, with more here. Gardens Illustrated just ran a really great series written by Arne about his garden, which can be read here. Check it out and I think you'll see Levens was a source of inspiration for this newer garden. 

Emerging from one exit of the pleached lime arbor one sees this water feature, which didn't do much for me. Maybe in a sunny, warmer day it would feel refreshingly welcoming, but on a cool, stormy day it left me, well, cold. 

The bowling green/croquet lawn is bordered by masses of Lychnis coronaria with some tall yellow spikes of Verbascum. This combination didn't work for me, and the border's position right next to the beautiful double blue border made it look like Cinderella's ugly stepsister. 

Finally, the herb garden showed off the very flashy golden hops (Humulus lupulus 'Aureus'), one of my favorite climbers. More red Tropaeolum speciosum can be seen climbing through the yew on the left side of the photo. 

That's it from Levens Hall, a fantastic historic garden that is well-worth your time, rain or shine. Up next, the journey continues south to pay homage to one of my horticultural heroes, Joseph Paxton, at Chatsworth. 

Historic topiary at Levens Hall, Cumbria

A few weeks ago I took a road trip around England with the intent to visit a handful of famous gardens. The trip was originally planned as a reward for finishing a grinding second year of school, and a home-grown study tour to further my understanding of garden history and design. However, after a disastrous Brexit election and deeply disturbing news out of the U.S., the trip quickly became necessary for sensory soothing, escapism, and inspiration for what I'd like to someday achieve in my own garden--all weapons in the battle against state-of-the-world-induced depression.  

The first stop was Levens Hall, which calls itself "the finest, oldest, and most extensive topiary garden in the world." It was in many ways the perfect garden to visit first, as it was so strange it provided a nice, hard break between the reality of life "outside the garden" and that lived within, and set the tone for the trip. After driving through pouring rain down to Cumbria, and having to replace a punctured tire en route, we arrived at Levens just as the rain stopped. 

The manor house has been occupied since 1350 and has been in the Bagot family for more than 400 years. We didn't have time to view the Elizabethan interior, and instead headed straight for the gardens. 

Guillaume Beaumont, a French garden designer who trained under Andre Le Notre at Versailles, laid out the ten-acre garden at Levens Hall in 1694 after working at Hampton Court for King James II. Levens is notable because, in addition to being what the Guinness Book of World Records recognizes as the oldest topiary garden in the world, it's a very rare example of a garden that survived changes in garden fashion and exists today in much the same state as it was created.

Some of the more than 100 pieces of yew (Taxus baccata) and box (Buxus sempervirens) topiary are original plantings, and now more than 300 years old. The gardens were enhanced by Alexander Forbes, head gardener from 1810 to 1862, who added shapes in golden yew (Taxus baccata 'Aurea'). The planting beds are edged in Ilex crenata, and infilled with various bedding plants including purple Verbena bonariensis and yellow Antirrhinum, which were just beginning to flower. 

I really loved one of my favorite plants, the perfectly red Tropaeolum speciosum, twining through the topiary. The effect was almost like needlework, like crimson embroidery. As we were admiring it another visitor came up and huffed, "It's a special plant. From Scotland." My companion and I looked at each other and smirked. Though Tropaeolum is a special plant, I didn't just get a degree from a Scottish botanical garden without knowing it's from about as far from Scotland as one can get--Chile, in fact. I did just learn, though, that its common name is Scottish Flame Flower, which makes it easy to see how she could be confused. 

At Levens, a team of four gardeners clips the topiary once a year, beginning in late August, a process that takes three months and requires lifts and scaffolding. Though I found it difficult to make much sense of the mostly-abstract shapes, some of the topiary is said to represent crowns, chess pieces, peacocks, and royalty. 

The topiary now dominate the garden, but John Anthony, in his "Discovering Period Gardens," suggests this was far from Beaumont's original intent. Indeed, this 1880 image shows that the topiary, though still important, was more in scale with the landscape and house. 

As I've said before, topiary usually isn't my cup of tea. But the outsized, overgrown, and fantastical nature of the ancient topiary at Levens is what makes it interesting to me. I enjoyed the way the different shapes played off each other, shifting and recombining into new views with each step. The emotional effect was even more striking. The largest topiary felt hulking yet playful, and created a strange sensation of otherworldliness, of walking amongst possibly friendly, potentially fanged giants. 

As I walked the garden, which thanks to the late hour and wet weather was mostly empty, I found myself wishing I could have seen it in sun in order to view what must be spectacular shadows. But when the sun did come out for a few minutes I soon realized that the effect of the garden was diminished in bright light as shapes and edges were lost to high contrast. Further proof that viewing, and photographing, gardens is often best done in "less-than-perfect" weather. Which is good, as that's what you're most likely to get in Britain!

Up next, there's much more than just topiary at Levens Hall...

Pathside weeds

I've never lived anywhere with such an abundance of native wildflowers as Scotland, where many are considered "weeds." Everything seems to be in bloom right now, and I picked this little bouquet in just a few moments while walking along the Union Canal. Lots of British natives in here, with a few naturalized introductions.

Pretty gorgeous for a bunch of "weeds."

Grow British sweet peas from seed: Life list accomplishment

There were many challenges to gardening at my home in Virginia: marauding insects (occasionally of the poisonous kind), drought, strong storms, unimproved red clay soil, and the ever-present possibility of coming up with a fistful of copperhead whilst reaching in to pick the cucumbers. This made growing most anything an exercise in self-education and perseverance. Though I had relative success with some plants, a gardening holy grail evaded me: Lathyrus odoratus, the sweet pea. 

I hadn't ever seen sweet peas grown really well anywhere in my travels around the U.S., but they filled the pages of my British gardening magazines and completely beguiled me. I always thought of sweet peas as one of those quintessentially British plants, and my suspicions were confirmed the more I read. The cool and damp climate seemed to suit them, and they are perfect plants for fussing over in hope of attaining large blooms and long, straight stems so desired on the show bench. All the months of nurturing, cordoning, tying in, pinching, and de-tendriling seemed to epitomize British horticulture. 

I did try to grow sweet peas once at home, but my attempt yielded a weak and weedy plant that pushed out one pathetically tiny and virus-mottled bloom before withering. I assumed that with the too-hot, too-fast Virginia climate and the unavailability of most of the really good British strains (and the amazing varieties bred by Dr. Keith Hammett, a Brit in New Zealand), sweet peas were destined to be plants I'd never grow. And that this defeat came before I'd even yet seen--let alone smelled--a proper sweet pea was doubly galling. 

And then I got the chance to study horticulture in Britain, and one of the first things I wanted to do was take advantage of the otherwise ghastly climate to finally grow sweet peas. Last year I bought two small pots of 'Spencer Mix' and stuck them--in June--into the raised planter beside my front door.

I trained the vines up jute netting affixed to the house, watered them once a week with diluted tomato food, and picked enough posies to scent my house until autumn. Unlike me, the sweet peas seemed to love the miserably cold and grey summer, and they lifted my mood. Despite the garish combination of colors in the mix, I was totally hooked. 

This year I wanted to do one better, and actually start my peas from seed. That led me down a rabbit hole of research, as I struggled to choose a few varieties that I could grow in my limited space. I spent the long winter nights with whisky and Pinterest, playing with color combinations and reading about the best characteristics of hundreds of named varieties before choosing six. In March I placed an order, and within days my experiment was under way. 

I sowed the seeds into root trainers, which are good for legumes because they prefer a long root run and minimal root disturbance at transplanting. They germinated after a few days on top of the refrigerator, and I moved them to a windowsill where they quickly etiolated into the palest, most spindly looking seedlings you'd ever seen. Once again my horticultural training had been trumped by that most precious commodity of a Scottish winter: light. It was simply too dark in my house to grow anything. 

I made a tough love decision to chuck the seedlings outside where they'd have the most possible light. A few days of the most cursory hardening off and they were on their own, buffeted and chilled in the gales and hail storms.

I planted them out once their roots had filled the trainers, some in the raised planter and others in grow bags. Because of lack of space and gluttony they're spaced way too close, I know. Then they sat and didn't do much for the ages it took for slightly warmer weather and longer days to arrive. 

But just now I've enjoyed one of my most rewarding gardening experience ever: picking my first sweet peas, grown from seed, in Britain. Just these first few delightfully ruffled blooms have already perfumed my house and lit up my kitchen like living jewels. It's finally summer in Scotland, and I'm even more smitten with sweet peas. 

The varieties above include 'Charlie's Angel,' 'North Shore,' 'Jilly,' 'Senator,' and the pink and red is a mystery lucky dip given to me by a classmate who harvested the seed off someone's student plot last autumn. If I had to guess I'd say it's 'Painted Lady.' Stay tuned for a few more varieties yet to bloom.