a river – a village – l’un des plus belles villages de france

Aiguèze sits above the Rhone surrounded by vineyards on the lower slopes and garrigue landscape on the higher. This village is included in the grouping of Les Plus Belles Villages de France with another 3 villages – Lussan, la Roque sur Cèze, Montlcus – similarly crowned all within 20 kms . . .

les vestiges du donjon et de la tour sarrasine, témoins de l’ancien château fort, les fortifications et leur chemin de ronde (XIème Siècle), que l’on doit au Comte de Toulouse… Des invasions sarrasines (VIIIème Siècle) aux « Jacqueries » (XIVème Siècle), Aiguèze subit – comme nombre de villages à l’époque médiévale ! -, destructions, pillages et autres révoltes qui auraient pu signer sa disparition. Heureusement, il n’en fut rien ! Le village doit beaucoup de son visage actuel à Monseigneur Fuzet, Archevêque de Rouen et « enfant du pays » qui consacra beaucoup de temps et de moyens à sa conservation et à sa modernisation au début du XXème siècle. Ainsi, par exemple, la place du Jeu de Paume, arborée de platanes, où l’on se retrouve pour le jeu de boules, ou encore l’église du XIème siècle et ses façades crénelées. Tout au long de la balade, l’architecture méridionale typique de la région se révèle. La Grand Rue pavée de galets de l’Ardèche, le passage voûté de la « Combe aux oiseaux » ou encore les maisons de pierre claire aux toits de tuile ronde le confirment : nous sommes bien dans le Sud !
 
the remains of the keep and the Saracen tower, witnesses of the old fortified castle, the fortifications and their walkway (11th century), which we owe to the Count of Toulouse… From the Saracen invasions (8th century) to the “Jacqueries” (14th century), Aiguèze underwent – like many villages in the medieval period! Aiguèze suffered – like many villages in the Middle Ages – destruction, looting and other revolts that could have led to its disappearance. Fortunately, it was not! The village owes much of its current appearance to Monsignor Fuzet, Archbishop of Rouen and “child of the country”, who devoted a lot of time and resources to its conservation and modernization at the beginning of the 20th century. Thus, for example, the Place du Jeu de Paume, planted with plane trees, where one meets for the game of bowls, or the 11th century church and its crenellated facades. Throughout the walk, the typical southern architecture of the region is revealed. The Grand Rue paved with Ardèche pebbles, the vaulted passage of the “Combe aux oiseaux” or the light stone houses with round tile roofs confirm it: we are indeed in the South!
https://www.les-plus-beaux-villages-de-france.org/fr/

. . . the interior of the church is a delight and all surfaces painted within an inch of its life – patterns, colour, shapes and joyful decoration – thanks to Monseigneur Fuzet, archiveque de Rouen, who restored the church interior in the style of Notre-Dame de Paris. This little chap, however, looks totally fed up with it all – his toes touched and stroked by all who coud reach . . .

. . . the churchyard is cosy – sheltered from the winds blowing downstream from the Ardèche . . .

. . . narrow streets (les ruelles étroites) provide shade as well as framing glimpses through and beyond. The olives are just turning now . . .

. . . in Grande Rue, an atelier and house of an artist, curioser and curioser . . .

. . . tough resilient yucca snuggling up to an armandier on Rue du Castelas overlooking Chemin de Borian where generations of boatmen and fishermen lived and worked. Tough and resilient pistacia lentiscus is also on show in the garrigue above the village. The resin makes a gum noted for medicinal uses – improving digestion and intestinal ulcers, oral health, and liver health too – so useful but also attractive . .

. . . looking downstream with Mont Ventoux and the mountains to the east . . .

. . . and upstream towards the Ardèche and Drôme – mesmerising with questions to be answered.

Then Almitra spoke, saying, ‘We would ask now of Death.’ 

And he said: 

You would know the secret of death. 

But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? 

The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. 

If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. 

For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. 

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; 

And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. 

Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. 

Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. 

Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king? 

Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling? 

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? 

And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? 

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. 

And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. 

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.  Death Xx11  Kahlil Gibran

a verge or two

Oh, such delightful eruptions of iris this year on the road side – starting off in early April and full on in recurring displays through to May. It’s the outward curve in the stem of the plant set off by the cascading flower en double tier that is show stopping . . . seen in groups around the most modest sentiers. Of course, they love the drainage that a bank offers up. All photos from the roads and sentiers around the village . . .   

 . . . in some points a garrigue type planting has taken hold – a tapestry of cistus, thymes, lavandins, rosmarin, euphorb and aphyllanthes that looks like sisyrinchium, merge in a tapestry effect which can look shrubby and rough – many plants in this habitat have aromatic foliage and thus oils and monoterpenes will leach into the soils from leaf litter. This asserts the dominance of a plant over its companion and ensures the characateristic open spacing and, so restricted flora in the garrigue. 

And sometimes opuntia (prickly pear) throw out an aria on a bank situation (drainage again) – soprano, so middle C to high A, methinks – just to disconcert and mix in the exotic. 

From up close of the verges into longer views and back to understanding what this small in size,  agricultural in commerce, landscape here ( St Pons la Clam) is about – vines, apricots and cherries and asperges . . . 

from dawn to dusk the gatherers are at it. Lifting asperges – green and white – for the marketplace. The plastic that is used to force is a horrid development – presumably in the past sacking was employed . . . or the produce wasn’t forced.

The fruit is turning red already and promises much. 

In another environment, but not far away, this little blue flowering gem was noted in the verge – buglossoides purpurocaerulea – it’s a borage – but the little sweet thing below remains unnamed. I think its lamiaceae . . . 

 . . . and saw it wandering around St Gervais, near Bagnols, on the route to discovering Les Célettes, a charming hameau with good vineyard, Domaine Sante Anne, and with a forgotten but discovered again feel.:

Of course the poem stands as it does and now the term ‘weed’ is known as the right plant but in the wrong place but my thought on selecting it is that ‘they move in and colonise, if the environment suits them, and that’s what I love. Ah plants, so much more beautiful than human beings. 

Long live the weeds that overwhelm
My narrow vegetable realm! –
The bitter rock, the barren soil
That force the son of man to toil;
All things unholy, marked by curse,
The ugly of the universe.
The rough, the wicked and the wild
That keep the spirit undefiled.
With these I match my little wit
And earn the right to stand or sit,
Hope, look, create, or drink and die:
These shape the creature that is I.  Theodore Roethke

epitaph: roadside in the Camargue today – iris pseudoacorus in fosse plein d’eau. 

hope springs eternal

I hang my head in shame – refuse to blame covid or indeed political issues – and promise myself that in 2021 I must try harder . . .

to think about and organise and produce more posts to keep sane and hopeful. Today, January 2nd, it’s cold, windy and a tad grey – even here in the south of France – as the photo shows, but I appreciate the composition in the quickly snapped photo of the upper garden, the fore shortening and pixelation both of which have given the image an abstract quality. I appreciate and revel in the tones . . .

. . . as in the big view, the tones in winter are more beautiful and harmonious than in other seasons. The vines are mostly pruned and stand silently like battalions waiting to charge . . .

shame about the turquoise plastic collars around the new plants but they add a touch of something . . .

a cluster of poplars by the stream have the similar quiet attributes of clematis still now after scrambling along the verges – the fluffy seedheads still hanging on . . .

. . . returning home this winter musing is thrown up in the air like a jugglers ball when the persimmon greets me and shouts out ‘always to be blest’.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me. Emily Dickinson

near and far – lockdown – the 1 km walk

As of early May, we are allowed to walk for an hour or within 1 km from the abode. My usual pace is 4/5kms an hour and rather cheekily I’ve developed a walk in a quadrant that sort of fits the government rules as well as satisfying personal need. We are lucky here as interesting and absorbing walks are possible in all four directions and, as my habit is to look to the distance and so ‘far’, as well as to plants at close quarters, and so ‘near’, then I thought to catalogue an easy and favourite walk to look back at in the future. Out of the village to the east on Chemin des Rosiers/Chemin des Huguenots before moving south through the vineyards and noting on the verge Gladiolus (above) which I think is G.illyricus as against G. byzantinus and just a single clump. Plenty of Lathyrus clymenum (below), a member of the pea family, clambers wherever possible . . .

. . . from here the view to the village acros cereals and vines through the late morning haze. And then turning 180 degrees to view the statuesque fig orchards where foliage and fruit have suffered recent cold temperatures resulting in a late show . . .

. . . the elder (Sambucus) is very floriferous this year so opening up for gallons of elderflower cordial while, low down, clover romps attractively along the ground.

The old mill was accessible four years ago but now just a landmark slowly disappearing and seemingly going to sleep under encroaching ivy. However, it is here that the orchestra, chorus and prima donnas fill the air – frogs, woodpeckers, nightingales – a big presence this year – and hoopoes create the musical cloud around and overhead while below there is scuttling in the bottom of the hedges and a fluttering higher up. Stand and listen . . .

. . . unassuming dogwood flowers now and the view to the village is framed with dwarf oak. Onward down to the river Tave – more a stream here – the track is sheltered and shaded with overhanging branches of ash, walnut, alder and poplars . . .

. . . it’s a delightful track and very welcome after the open areas in full sun. Onwards to the west and the banks supporting the fields are full of a country style mix of coquelicots et chardons – early summer is sublime n’est-ce-pas?

Retuning up to the north and views in the distance of the village and church – and then the place, or the square filled with plane trees, empty now but maybe soon – filled with folks – where I live (house in background) and home again but off out again tomorrow.

On lockdown, I’m back reading One Art Elizabeth Bishop Letters, for possibly the fifth or sixth time – I love her work. And her fragility is so close. EB revered Marianne Moore having met her in her early 20’s while she was at Vassar and the friendship and mentorship continued for decades. I find M Moore’s poetry challenging on the academic level but revere it and the fascination remains. So:

is some such word

as the chord

Brahms had heard

from a bird,

sung down near the root of the throat:

it’s the downy little woodpecker

spiralling a tree –

up up up like mercury:

 

a not long

sparrow-song

of hayseed

magnitude –

a tuned reticence with rigour

from strength at the source. Propriety is

Bach’s Solfegietto-

harmonica and basso.

 

The fish-spine

on firs, on

somber trees

by the sea’s

walls of wave-worn rock – have it; and

a moonbow and Bach’s cheerful firmness

in a minor key

It’s an owl – and – a – pussy –

 

both –  content

agreement.

Come, come. It’s

mixed with wits;

it’s not a graceful sadness. It’s

resistance with bent head, like foxtail

millet’s. Brahms and Bach,

no; Bach and Brahms. To thank Bach

 

for his song

first, is wrong.

Pardon me;

both are the

unintentional pansy – face

uncursed by self – inspection; blackened

because born that way. Marianne Moore  Propriety

 

 

 

 

what’s happening – april 2020

what’s happening = not much and no excuses. Me, and the cat, have been lolling around trying to fill our days. He’s much better at it than I am. I was brought up in an industrious household where folks were always busy doing six things at once and shame on you if you didn’t follow suite.

We have had serendipitous tulip planting in the pots in the garden.  Interesting as I thought I bought soft pink and dark burgundy tulips but have ended up with strong reds and yellows . . .

. . . no matter and it’s good to be shaken up. The Bengal crimson rose is in full throttle – the cane and plant pot hood denote the position of a dahlia – such a jolly rose and marvellous value. Really I love it to bits.

Am also totally gone on the combination of Hardenbergia violocea (tender as an Australian native and so needs fleecing up in cold months) scrambling through Solanum laxum ‘Album’ (a South American native), evergreen, fast and easy to manage. It’s a romper.

Other containers are in party mode  – well it’s easy before they suffer from high heat  – before drying out – and there’s the perfume too. The osteospermum has a strong aroma thats reminds me of a lovely spliff . . .

. . . Iris ‘Bel Azur’ from Cayeux  – the only really decent Iris suppliers – with Solanum rantonetti, a marvel – goes on and on – and easily manageable.

At the allotment or ‘jardin’ across the square/ place,  I notice that I should contemplate hanging a new gate . . .

. . .  but we’re all ready to go. Although it looks bare under the earth  potatoes and sunflowers waiting to thrust through. Never have my grass paths received so much attention . . .  but looking upwards to the boundaries, my neighbour’s plot has espaliered pears that are showing beautifully . . .

. . . but the other neighbour needs to do some pruning here.

Across the small path, Chemin des Jardins by the lavoir, a plot that has always until now been a home to a couple of horses. However,   no more – what is this instead? some discussion on a possible art installation or just new trees . . .

. . .  good news to us all is that the lavoir is full.

Fumitory abounds in the verges and a delicate low sedum over the walls. I will do better. Somehow . . .

It was a perfect day
For sowing; just
As sweet and dry was the ground
As tobacco-dust.

I tasted deep the hour
Between the far
Owl’s chuckling first soft cry
And the first star.

A long stretched hour it was;
Nothing undone
Remained; the early seeds
All safely sown.

And now, hark at the rain,
Windless and light,
Half a kiss, half a tear,
Saying good-night. Edward Thomas Sowing

 

tuscany – pool garden – olive harvesting

Back to visit a project designed some years ago (previous visit and related post is here). The estate sits on the edge of town, Monte San Savino, with the majority of the productive land – vines and olives – to the south west. The drive sweeps around climbing up through the land . . .

. . . to the main courtyard. These clients have rather exquisite taste and furnish and decorate their house unusually and perfectly.

The old orto/ potager/vegetable garden sat behind these imposing gates. It’s a walled plot . . .

. . . and 15 years ago became the pool garden.

Lines of Acer campestre (field maple) originally planted for the functional attribute of using the young twiggy branches to tie in the vines. It has decorative attributes too, of course.

I see I was very taken with the cork oaks previously. Obvious functional uses but what glorious trunks . . .

. . . and the cupressus make fine full stops. We planted these below to make a screen from the town but also to allow views through from the house. These have been shaped . . .

. . . the rounded canopy of mature pines contrast the vertical habit of the cypress. Irrigation canals run discreetly around the site which is terraced.

Long breaches make air spiral

as tangibly as the heartwood.

Its’ only human to think the olive

speaks, that there are mouths

singing, screaming, even, in the gashes

and you can’t help but see a figure

twined in the trunk or struggling out.

Layers of xylem and crushed phloem

are other ways we see ‘tree’:

there are always these speaking

gaps to put a fist or a heart. Jo Shapcott  Trasimeno Olive

 

We also went to assist in the olive harvest and gathered 500 kgs over the weekend which made 90L of oil. Hundreds and hundreds of litres will be made from the 10,000 trees.

The youngest member took some time out on the odd occasion . . .

. . . but was very interested in our visit to the press ,Frantoio Mazzarrini, working 24 hrs at this time of year. Lovely trip, friends.

 

Close to the gates a spacious garden lies,

From storms defended, and inclement skies:

Four acres was th’alloted space of ground.

Tall thriving trees confess’d the fruitful mould;

The reddening apples ripens here to gold,

Here the blue fig with luscious juice o’erflows,

With deeper red the full pomegranate glows,

The branch here bends beneath the weighty pear,

And verdant olives flourish round the year.

The balmy spirit of the western gale

Eternal breathes on fruits untaught to fail:

Each dropping pear a following pear supplies,

On apples apples, figs on figs arise:

The same mild season gives the blooms to blow,

The buds to harden, and the fruit to grow.

Here ordered vines in equal ranks appear

With all the united labours of the year,

Some to unload the fertile branches run,

Some dry the blackening cluster in the sun,

Others to tread the liquid harvest join,

The groaning presses foam with floods of wine.

Here the vines in early flower descried,

Here the grapes discolour’d on the sunny side,

And there in autumn’s richest purple dyed.

Beds of all various herbs, for ever green,

In beauteous order terminate the scene.

Two plenteous fountains the whole prospect crowned:

This through the gardens leads its streams around:

Visits each plant, and waters all the ground:

While that in pipes beneath the palace flows,

And thence its current on the town bestows;

To various use their various streams they bring,

The people one, and one, supplies the king. Alexander Pope (mod version G. Greer)     The Gardens of Alcinous

 

 

 

interlude + change – town, fort, garden and views on life

Sometimes the continuous present of life becomes relentless making it difficult to step off. On looking back at posts done – and so few – over the last 24 months, that has happened here . . . but enough soul searching and time to reconsolidate. Strangely the desire and principal reason to visit the gardens of Fort St André in Villeneuve-lez-Avignon was to experience the flowering of the roses. Hélas I discovered on this crucial and much delayed visit that the roses had disappointed so much over the years that they had been pulled out  . . .  so no roses to admire but much else to discover and appreciate.

Such as a small town park – natural and informal in feel – with 360 degree views spanning the Fort to the north, as above, and the Rhone below Mont Ventoux to the east; Avignon to the south and the Alpilles to the west.

Wandering through the town, there is much to enjoy  . . . including the planting of Acanthus. Thoughts of the forum in Rome where Acanthus grew in lavish abandon flooded back from memories of more than thirty years ago.

The gardens are terraced so panoramic views can’t be ignored. Close up compositions also invite some study. Not herms as such but rather classical forms with a whimsical character.

Magnificant vaults support the exterior terraces  . . .

. . . views through the access frame the compositions of evergreen planting. Apparently the roses struggled within the setting here of extreme exposure to the winds hurtling down the Rhone with the elevated cold position and also the poor soil structure on the rock form base. Some trees show their struggle with the climate but others have seeded, settled and occupied where they can.

There were always olive groves here. and other edible plants. The Abbaye was founded in 10C on the site where Sainte Cesaire lived before that time. She left her husband to live here in a grotto as a hermit – perhaps that rings true.

From the Chapelle  . . .

. . . and into the poem. Over the years of a human life and over the centuries of periods of history.

 

 

Change
Said the sun to the moon,
You cannot stay.

Change
Says the moon to the waters,
All is flowing.

Change
Says the fields to the grass,
Seed-time and harvest,
Chaff and grain.

You must change said,
Said the worm to the bud,
Though not to a rose,

Petals fade
That wings may rise
Borne on the wind.

You are changing
said death to the maiden, your wan face
To memory, to beauty.

Are you ready to change?
Says the thought to the heart, to let her pass
All your life long

For the unknown, the unborn
In the alchemy
Of the world’s dream?

You will change,
says the stars to the sun,
Says the night to the stars.  Kathleen Raine Change

 

 

 

 

beach – le grau du roi – december

18 degrees forecast so a quick trip to Grau du Roi – takes about 1 1/2 hours from Uzès but with the tensions – blockages and difficulties finding petrol at the moment – all in the lap of the gods. Turned out very well with lunch by the canal.

The village, based around fishing cottages, gained administrative buildings and was recognised as a section of Aigues-Mortes in 1867, becoming a separate commune in 1879. The village of fishers and farmers turned to tourism at the end of the 19th century, with the extension of the Nîmes Aigues-Mortes railway line in 1909:^[5] bathers arrived en masse, and on the 26 April 1924 the French President of the Republic decreed that Le Grau-du-Roi was a “station climatique et balnéaire” (beach resort town). The rail line enabled local producers to market their white grapes and fish nationally.

World War II affected the village profoundly. Axis troops were stationed in the village, and the local council dissolved. By 1942, many of the inhabitants had fled: the coast was on the front line and bristled with tank traps and minefields. The village was controlled by blockhouses, and the canal was shut off. Wood from houses was used to build defences. Le Grau-du-Roi was liberated in August 1944, and the coast started to rebuild, with a focus on tourism. The effort was coordinated by the plan Racine. Architect Jean Balladur was put in charge, and he designed structures capable of supporting a large number of tourists, while also supporting the local way of life and environment. Part of the plan included the new marina at Port Camargue.^[2] This was launched in 1968 and finished in 1985 – info from Wikipedia.

The sandy L’Espiguette beach sits south-west of Aigues- Mortes ( dead – water) and the étangs, shallow and saline, and surrounding marshes of the Camargue inhabited by flamingoes, white horses and bulls.

Patterns of the effect of wind and water but no plastic to be seen. As a regional parkland it is very well maintained. one of those extra special days. The poem is about a different coast but I like it.

To step over the low wall that divides

Road from concrete walk above the shore

Brings sharply back something known long before—

The miniature gaiety of seasides.

Everything crowds under the low horizon:

Steep beach, blue water, towels, red bathing caps,

The small hushed waves’ repeated fresh collapse

Up the warm yellow sand, and further off

A white steamer stuck in the afternoon—

Still going on, all of it, still going on!

To lie, eat, sleep in hearing of the surf

(Ears to transistors, that sound tame enough

Under the sky), or gently up and down

Lead the uncertain children, frilled in white

And grasping at enormous air, or wheel

The rigid old along for them to feel

A final summer, plainly still occurs

As half an annual pleasure, half a rite,

As when, happy at being on my own,

I searched the sand for Famous Cricketers,

Or, farther back, my parents, listeners

To the same seaside quack, first became known.

Strange to it now, I watch the cloudless scene:

The same clear water over smoothed pebbles,

The distant bathers’ weak protesting trebles

Down at its edge, and then the cheap cigars,

The chocolate-papers, tea-leaves, and, between

The rocks, the rusting soup-tins, till the first

Few families start the trek back to the cars.

The white steamer has gone. Like breathed-on glass

The sunlight has turned milky. If the worst

Of flawless weather is our falling short,

It may be that through habit these do best,

Coming to the water clumsily undressed

Yearly; teaching their children by a sort

Of clowning; helping the old, too, as they ought.

Philip Larkin To the Sea

variation – order, strength, delicacy of touch

This is another way of looking. A different way of looking, absorbing and learning. The last post was a flutter through the senses – specifically how lyrical planting can be interwoven with musical tone. Now I thought to use the same gardens (recently visited precedents and still fresh in the mind) to appreciate the variation in the planting style. Great Dixter offers up a masterclass in structural planting housing eclectic mixes of  seasonal supporting cast. Quite often sensational and always well judged in the proportion and scale of the planting groups as the photo above shows. It’s close by so I visit it frequently as a friend

I liked the theatricality and also responded to the dynamics of the Walled Kitchen Garden at West Dean and If I lived closer I would befriend it. Here functionality is foremost but very closely followed by the aesthetic – admire the husbandry and wallow in the beauty too . . .

. . . admire nerines – not to everyone’s taste  – this pleasing arrangement  inspires me to search for the more unusual, rather than the everyday knicker pink forms. Wayward actaeas bending over the low hedge in a shady bed contrast bizarrely with the summer beddding chrysanths + dahlias on the sunny side.

Produce in the glass houses is grown to maximise the fruiting and to please the eye. The necessary order and control seems to work in tandem with the delight of growing decorative plants too.

The Walled Garden at Marks Hall is purely decorative. A series of garden rooms flow through the middle level – designed for young and old with seating aligned to views out, the old fish ponds now a lake, and to the spaces incorporating play forms such as mounds and pits, balls and steps to balance and climb on plus an Alice in Wonderland planted tunnel. Horseshoes of hedging swirl across the obvious geometry – three dimensioned hard and planted surfaces but it is the asymmetry that makes this garden within a garden special and if I lived closer I’d become a friend just to enjoy . . .

. . . Peter Thurman‘s tree planting. Extra special.

Hauser and Wirth offers up this inside . . .

and this in the surrounding courtyard. Molinia ‘Moorhexe’, Sesleria autumnalis, cimicifuga, gillenia and deschampsia under the Celtis. Piet Oudolf’s planting is just enough to let the exterior space breathe.

And in his field  – a gently sloping site –  grassy raised mounds offer the visitor a path through the centre with massed planting of perennials and grasses moving in from the boundaries. A bold concept but poor functionally with signage preventing any access to the mounds. Interesting to see how these very large areas of planting read in the early months of the year. I would ‘friend’ the gallery if they need me.

Between going and staying

the day wavers,

in love with its own transparency.

The circular afternoon is now a bay

where the world in stillness rocks.

 

All is visible and all elusive,

all is near and can’t be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass,

rest in the shade of their names.

 

Time throbbing in my temples repeats

the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall

into a ghostly theater of reflections.

 

I find myself in the middle of an eye,

watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,

I stay and go: I am a pause. Octavio Paz Between Going and Staying

symphony – colour, texture, form and habit

I have always seen planting combinations as musical imagery and sensation – those I find stimulating and pleasurable (not always the same sensation)  – vocal and instrumental sounds in continual movement – sometimes in harmony and occasional discord, soft and raucous, slow and lively . . . .

Once I developed 5.000 square metres of planting on an operatic theme with individual concepts that followed the episodic scenarios through the composition. The selection, placement, scale meaning the numbers or amounts, relationship of group to group or just the single show stopper is much like the weaving of aural tapestry but one that is never still. And that’s the point. I like the fact that nature is in control really . . .

. . . in the Walled Garden at West Dean, human control is evident, as it should be as a place for production. But production, here is handled in a delightful chorus line of textures and pleasingly perfect in terms of the visual – texture, form and habit – even though really it’s all about the blindingly obvious – leeks, asparagus and the kale family. At Hauser and Wirth, Piet Oudolf’s Open Field seems like a scherzo within the surrounding countryside – fast-moving, dynamic and playful – the turfed mounds work visually at a distance  . . .

. . . the Radić pavilion sits at the far end of the field in a swirling skirt of asters and petticoat of pointy persicaria – a true coda.

Crescendo and diminuendo, meter and rhythm, sonata contrasted with a touch of toccata is how the planting resonates across the field even with the muted colour of autumn; when the colour can drain from the perennials and grasses. Breathe it in, listen to it and forget the nomenclature.

In contrast, The Long Border at Great Dixter, is never on the point of going into a winter sleep. Careful attention to infill divas and maestros means full on tempo.  It’s truly operatic.

At Marks Hall, it’s all about the trees and at their showy best in autumn – this autumn 2016 better than other years – through the arboretum, by the Walled Garden and in the Memorial Walk by the lakes.

This Walled Garden, unlike West Dean, has lost the original use and been developed into a collection of decorative planting combinations around five contemporary terraced gardens (more of this in the next post) open to the lake. Hedges read as intermezzos and the stands of upright grasses as reprises within the variations. An interesting landscape – to be revisited.

In our own schemes, we can’t help in indulging and relishing and delighting in musical tapestries . . . however . . .

. . . seeing Joan Mitchell’s Salut Tom in the Abstract Expressionism show (RA) reminded me of this planting scheme. So now I’ve jumped into another art form – gone on another tack – all good.

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep. Elizabeth Bishop