Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Gardens I still need to see in Paris

It was late June 2012 and raining hard.  We weren't all that far into the Bois de Boulogne in Paris.  My friend from childhood, Linda Jackson "Charley" Carter  and I had just exited a wonderful small museum she had found out about.  Our plan was to head to the Parc de Bagatelle, a beautiful garden known for its iris and roses, on the far side of the Bois.

The problem was, as good as the Metro system is in Paris, there was no easy route to where we wanted to go.  Also, as much as I wanted to see and photograph the garden, the circumstances were far from ideal.  Also, if we tried to walk the distance - possible,  but a stretch on even the prettiest day - we wouldn't have much time before we had to figure out how to get all the way back to the Ile St. Louis to meet my daughter at our apartment.

So, another visit to Paris, and I didn't get to see the Bagatelle.  I had actually been there when I was 22, but I wasn't paying attention to gardens at that age.

On our last night in Paris, we had dinner with my longtime friends Carol and Luc Tessier.  Carol has a garden jam-packed with wonderful perennials, shrubs, vines and trees.  She offered to send me photographs of the Bagatelle she had taken at peak iris and rose time (shown above).

My friend Charley already has an apartment reserved for next May to celebrate her daughter's 40th birthday.  It will be a while, I'm sure, before I get back to Paris.  Next time, the first item on my agenda will be a visit to the Bagatelle.

The events of last Friday are still fresh on my mind.  I could go to Paris every year for the rest of my life and not get to see everything on my list.  Things seem so dark and gloomy right now given what happened,  but I feel sure the sidewalk cafes will be packed again on beautiful evenings, the lights from the historic buildings will shimmer on the Seine as the bateaux mouches glide along and its many gardens will bloom again, as they have for hundreds of years.

Monday, November 9, 2015

One can always dream of a sunny potager

I subscribe to a very popular blog written by an American.  I'm always amused by the photographs, which oftentimes come from European gardens.  The author is a great designer who takes inspiration from travels abroad.

But where are all those European garden principles the blogger speaks of used around here?  I rarely see them.  Right now, of all the beautiful gardens I've seen in the United States, many have some elements of European design, but there's just something that sets even the simplest garden in England, France or Italy apart. (I admit, I've not been to southern California since I was 24 years old, and that was only at night; however, I've seen photographs from both there and the San Francisco area that reminded me of Europe).  Furthermore, it's been almost a decade since I've traveled to scout locations for A Gardener's Diary on HGTV),  but even back then, I saw very few places that really looked as if they could actually be in Europe.

Not that there's anything wrong with that fact.  We have wonderful gardens here that would stand up to anything you would see abroad.

But there's something about gardens in England, France and Italy in particular that have a quality that appeals to me and is hard to duplicate here.  I'm not really talking about wide flower borders with delphiniums and pleached linden trees, or expanses of lawn and hedges dotted with sculptures.  There's something else I can't quite put my finger on.

Admittedly, francophile that I am, there's no way I can achieve the gardens I deem suitable to go with my house (which is copied exactly from a photo of an abandoned house in Normandy).  First, I don't have the right topography, much less climate.  I have, however, copied the hedges and arbors and tunnels I admire in European gardens.

But, once you get away from the immediate area around my house, you run straight into woods, steep  slopes and lots of shade.

Steep would work fine if there were no trees.  Witness the miles and miles of rock wall terraces that cover the mountains of Greece, for instance.  But thick woods (for which I am grateful) are not amenable to terracing.

When I saw the scene above - a chef of a famous hotel cutting rosemary in a large (flat) potager - I felt a twinge of envy.  The sunny space contained vegetables, herb gardens and an orchard.  The arrangement suited my aesthetic longings exactly - straight lines with hedges; squares filled with herbs; tunnels and arbors, along with grape vines, espaliered and free-standing fruit trees.  There were also several pomegranate bushes laden with heavy fruit.  Roses climbed the tunnel supports, and dahlias and other fall flowers had their own big rectangle.  It was dreamy.  Ducks waddled about, and,  I'm sure, much to the chagrin of the gardeners, a bunny rabbit nibbled away on something green (lettuce?).

Having written all this, let me make one thing clear.  I can name several gardens right here in the Atlanta area that are as beautiful as I've seen anywhere.  Many of them don't have a single element I'm talking about here.  I love informal Southern gardens, in particular.

But, something in my psyche makes me long for those flat, sunny spaces, organized with clipped hedges, long, straight vistas and defined areas brimming with flowers and fruit.  All this seems poignant today when it is cold and rainy and windy, and the tall trees on the ridge above me seem menacing.  I think this will all change when the sun comes out and changes my perspective on things.  It's been a long, rainy spell, and that sets one to dreaming of other places - like this potager - which I saw on a much different type of day.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

The first fall without Margaret

You're not sure what season it is until your eye is finally drawn to the deciduous trees and shrubs and hostas and Solomon's seal turning golden yellow or red.   At first, you're way too dazzled by the spring colors - bright whites, light pinks, all shades of rose - tricking you into thinking the month of April has burst forth.

My late friend Margaret Moseley planned it that way.  Year after year, she found new Camellia sasanqua varieties to add to her collection.  She also had a very early Camellia japonica 'Daikagura', and, of course, her roses came into their fall flush and lasted until the first frost.  Several of her hydrangeas put out fresh, French-blue blooms.

This is the first autumn without Margaret, and I've thought of so many things I've wanted to ask her.  I remember how my heart would beat so fast when I got out of the car and saw so many things in bloom.  One of my favorite fall combinations was along her driveway - a fountain-shaped Abelia chinensis loaded with green trusses of flowers next to a 20-foot-high, cascading 'Pink Snow' sasanqua.  At the base of all this bloomed the cobalt-blue ground cover Ceratostigma plumbaginoides.

Margaret's daughter Carol Harris is now taking care of the garden and is even adding some new plants.  It sounds like she's having fun (and working hard) to keep Margaret's treasures going.  October and early November are peak times for Margaret's fall garden.

I hope to be able to enjoy gardening as Margaret did in her later years.  The height of her popularity and pride in her garden came when she was in her eighties.  If I make it until then, I hope to be healthy enough to be out in the garden and always looking for something new to plant.

The other day at church (where we are installing a big new garden), I was bemoaning the fact that I would be 85 by the time the 'Lady Clare' camellia would be ready to cut for foliage for church arrangements.  And then I remembered what Margaret, who kept adding plants into her late nineties, might have said to such a comment.  "If you're going to be 85 anyway, you might as well have yourself a big, pretty plant."

Monday, October 26, 2015

Granny Smith's dahlias

My daddy's mother lived in a cottage just down from our house when I was growing up.  Daddy and Mother had brought her from the country to our small town, and for me, it was great to have her so close.  I could escape and go down there anytime I chose.

In the spring and summer, you would see her out in the giant vegetable garden my parents kept.  She wore gingham bonnets - all of which she made herself - and would be wielding a hoe, chopping up weeds.

She was also a flower gardener.  Most of what she grew, she planted in rows, as if they were vegetables.

Her cottage was dark red brick, and in late summer, a row of dark red dahlias would come up along the base of the house.  I loved picking them for bouquets, and she gave me free rein to do anything I wished.

I snapped this photograph in Diana Mendes' wonderful fall garden in Atlanta.  It's packed with chrysanthemums, fall-blooming roses, Mexican sage, asters and about anything else that flowers until frost,

My grandmother's dahlias weren't the cactus type shown above, but they were the same color.  The instant I saw them, I was taken back to that place in my childhood when a feisty, loving grandmother let me have the run of the place.

She was born on February 14, 1875, and died on February 14, 1961.  Although that is so far removed from this time and place in my life, I still grow sentimental when I think of her love for gardening and that row of dahlias I could count on year after year.