at the castle – with the roses

And a return visit – always a pleasure after doing a little work in a garden nearby – and 2 months on. Seeing the shadows on the grass  – just a casual pause before hitting the glamour of the garden rooms. Roses in full bloom – it’s that time of the year after all. My interest here is how the rose works against/with the background and as part of the composition – not many idents for the plantaholics, sorry – so below the soft coppery/pink tones of this rose at the entrance that work so so well with the old brick facade.

On the wall that divides the front courtyard and the rose garden – a Clematis – C. montana ‘Marjorie’ and time for a pause to remember a much loved aunt – a lady so confident, elegant and happy with herself and so interested in the younger generation.

From the rose garden,  the eye slides easily to the slim towers. The planting here in this garden room appears to have lost its way a little. Once upon a time at the end of ’60’s and into ’70’s, the theme was simple: roses and shrubs with some underplanting and quite a bit of soil showed – this was fine. But now with the custodianship of the National Trust there appears to be a need to provide a continuous show of anything and everything – a fruit salad look has evolved with any old thing popped in to ‘please the punters’. Big organisations taking the individuality out of their product and, in this situation, not the head gardener or gardeners fault. Happily the planting in the Cottage Garden has  maintained the original clear ethos  – planting with a predominance of  hot colours.

Within the nuttery, Dionysus stands calm and thoughtful as he has for years – a quiet interface between the Spring Garden (now in quiet post season mode) and the Cottage Garden. A delightful detail was on show low down –  Tulip sprengeri around the peeling trunk of Acer griseum . . .

. . . . here too a specimen Rosa ‘Mme Alfred Carriere’ climbing skywards against the cottage walls.

Overhanging the walls of the Moat Walk are a couple of splendid Wisteria floribunda ‘Alba” . . .

. . . and a single Wisteris venusta with larger fleshier foliage. A more  restrained, intriguing and, therefore, perhaps sought after plant.

Near the herb garden, back with the norm – a pair of mauve flowered wisteria standards – old and gnarled and exotic

And at half past five, just the right time to enter the White Garden – another  Rosa ‘Mme Alfred Carriere’ clothes a wall. The light starts to fade. A custodian arrives – someone delightful, a Gilbert and Sullivan character and part of the final act – to announce the closing of the garden . . . exit centre stage under a Rosa banksiae ‘Lutea’ on the tower.

All her youth is gone, her beautiful youth outworn,

Daughter of tarn and tor, the moors that were once her home

No longer know her step on the upland tracks forlorn

Where she was wont to roam.

All her hounds are dead, her beautiful hounds are dead,

That paced beside the hoofs of her high and nimble horse,

Or streaked in lean pursuit of the tawny hare that fled

Out of the yellow gorse.

All her lovers have passed, her beautiful lovers have passed,

The young and eager men that fought for her arrogant hand,

And the only voice which endures to mourn for her at the last

Is the voice of the lonely land. Vita Sackville-West Mariana in the North

 

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