Whatever its size, a garden should have at least one principal focal point, says David Wheeler
It can be within the garden itself, or outside, in what the pros call the ‘borrowed landscape’. It doesn’t have to be a grand mausoleum, a towering pagoda or a solitary copse on a distant hill.
In town, it might be something as simple as a Victorian lamppost beyond the garden’s curtilage, a neighbour’s eye-catching tree or the attractive gable end of an adjoining property.
Or, within the garden itself, perhaps a bench at the end of a short path aligned on a window or door, or a trickle of water from a stone mask on a wall.
Our August move to a townhouse in Presteigne, Powys, gave us a clear view from the kitchen window of the church and many of its delightfully tilted gravestones in a spread of greensward which, seemingly, every dog in the district claims as its private domain. I counted those on and off the lead for an hour one morning – 27 made an appearance!
Several fine trees soften the sanctified masonry, including a venerable flowering cherry – possibly the most beautiful of all, Prunus ‘Tai-haku’, but I must wait for next spring’s blossoming to be sure.
There are a few mighty ash trees, thankfully sans any sign of ash dieback, and an amelanchier whose small galvanised plaque says it was planted in December 1990 to mark the 75th anniversary of the WI.
Outstanding among the tombstones, and one that attracts visitors almost every day (bringing, regrettably, bunches of gaudy plastic flowers), marks the burial place of Mary Morgan. The doomed lass, a 17-year-old servant, was publicly hanged in 1805 for murdering her newborn illegitimate child, thought – scandalously – to have been sired by the son of her employer, an MP and High Sheriff of the county.
In fading lettering, the stone proclaims to have been ‘erected not merely to perpetuate the remembrance of a departed penitent but to remind the living of the frailty of human nature when unsupported by Religion’.
Our rear garden, generous in its proportions for a town location, is graced by damson, plum, apple and medlar trees. There’s a princely white-stemmed Himalayan birch of the jacquemontii clan, with cyclamen and autumn crocuses at its foot.
Flower borders are richly endowed with peonies, which, in June, when we first saw the property, caused much excitement. Sadly, they’re unnamed; photographs of them posted on Instagram thrilled several RHS bods to whom, in September, I sent seeds.
Some 40 yards north of the house stand our gates to the river, which hereabouts defines the border between us, on the Welsh side, and England, on the other. It runs with trout and grayling (though Izaak Walton anglers we are not).
There stands in the garden a handsome small greenhouse, a very small, timber-framed medieval ‘cottage’ and, joy of joys, my soon-to-be potting shed, kitted out by a former owner as his man cave, resplendent with bar, fridge, jukebox, karaoke system and dartboard, all removed before our arrival.
Simon is skilfully redesigning the garden, removing tired and overgrown shrubs, finding space for as many of our hydrangeas and Japanese maples as can be comfortably accommodated. Overspill plants – hurray – are destined for friends’ gardens where I can still enjoy and propagate them.
I wonder, too … might the church elders let me plant some on their hallowed ground? After all, many churchyards are seen or used as communal gardens, there for the enjoyment of garden-deprived folk, a benefit to wildlife and – woof! – that all important paradiso canino.
David’s Instagram account is @hortusjournal
