at the castle

OK, I’ve been sitting on this post for a week now and, within that week, the garden at Sissinghurst will have changed as gardens do. Some April sun to bring on the plants and fill out the borders but the temperatures are still low. So these images are just about relevent and the journey shown here is on the most obvious route. On arrival, a delicate pleasing planting in the urns in the forecourt,  even though the hyacinths are ‘over’ . . .

. . . and more delicious container planting – Iris bucharica and auriculas in the front courtyard under the tower.

Gloomy weather and not ideal for photography – too few shadows and a general sense of indistinct – although in this atmosphere the garden seemed to merge more successfully into the surroundings. From the top of the tower –  an overriding softness floating over a particular countryside . . .

. . . but down on the ground, brilliant chaenomeles and an interesting signature below the gateway into the Rose Garden.

Just peeking through another entrance from the Rose Garden . . .

. . . this time of year, the expertise of the management of this special garden is easy to see and worth noting.

Perfection in Harold’s Lime Walk, ‘his life’s work’, where the carpet of spring bulbs, like overlaid small Persian rugs, weaves below the espaliered structure of the tree stems . . .

. . . the effect relaxes through the Nuttery. The groupings are larger and the softness of tone provides a floating feel. Always admire the stonking trilliums that interupt the effect . . .

. . . and also the hard landscape detailing. Such craftsmanship; so sublime and impossible to find today. Big colour contrast in the Cottage Garden, as always . . .

. . . and out in the Orchard, snakes heads on the floor and blossom overhead.

The moat is quite congested where it ends  – looks like someone else’s close by – but is cleaner where it runs . . .

In Delos, blossom abounds with spreads of anemone and magnolias in full frontal. It starts to rain – just a little  –  enough to take shelter in the library where this arrangement takes my attention. Colour  . . .

. . . but I’ve never taken to this colour composition – the Purple Border. Why? It’s a colour I like, but not here for some reason – perhaps this needs some analysis.

The White Garden is restful and low key in April – neat and composed – maybe overly so – but to be respected. Here she is reading a little from The Land.

Days I enjoy are days when nothing happens,

When I have no engagements written on my block,

When no one comes to disturb my inward peace,
When no one comes to take me away from myself
And turn me into a patchwork, a jig-saw puzzle,
A broken mirror that once gave a whole reflection,
Being so contrived that it takes too long a time
To get myself back to myself when they have gone.
The years are too strickly measured, and life too short
For me to afford such bits of myself to my friends.
And what have I to give my friends in the last resort?
An awkwardness, a shyness, and a scrap,
No thing that’s truly me, a bootless waste,
A waste of myself and them, for my life is mine
And theirs presumably theirs, and cannot touch. V Sackville West