Garden design Education of a gardener

Arts outdoors - five top summer events In Review’Asuccessful garden is one that has a sense of place,” begins Arne Maynard.

I believe him because, in garden design circles, he is God. So even if he scarcely utters a word today, some of the magic from his own creation at the end of a single-track lane near Usk is bound to rub off.

But Maynard, 43, a genial man with a ready smile, runs at full throttle, which surely comes as a relief to we dozen students of the soil paying ï¿¡180 each to learn about “The Main Plant Players - Designing Structure with Plants“.

Maynard’s one and two-day courses, running from March to November, are now in their second year and the venue is his own newly created garden at his 15th-century hall house in Monmouthshire.

Whether you want to design kitchen gardens, build earthworks, mazes and knots or learn how to make the most of topiary, summer perennials and winter woodlands, these educational days feature seasonal themes and well-made lunches.

The garden - a redundant farmyard of grassy banks and orchards with a stream and an ancient track running through it - is a beguiling open-air classroom.

As we stand in the approach to Maynard’s house, which is planted with an emerging tapestry of Angelica sylvestris ‘Vicar’s Mead’ and Geranium phaeum ‘Lily Lovell’, he explains his naturalistic approach to structure: “The garden melts into the landscape so that it roots into its setting.”

Maynard achieves a gentle transition from woods to garden with a 30-year-old topiary beech standing beside the track.

“It’s saying ‘This is the way’, it almost draws you in,” he says, as the track takes us across a bridge over the stream where thistles (Cirsium rivulare ‘Atropurpureum’) grow.

Beech, yew, box and Ilex crenata are among Maynard’s main players, and he clips them into free-flowing topiary. As he wanted his garden to look good quickly, his trees are mature and wildly expensive - the beech was a stupefying ï¿¡4,500 from a specialist nursery in Holland.

“The Dutch and the Belgians have always moved large trees - the secret is to keep moving them and cutting the roots to create a tight root ball. Our culture is different - we like growing from seed and taking cuttings,” he continues.

His planting is robust. “I don’t want a garden that’s too precious,” he says.

“It’s about connecting the landscape with the garden - it will appear completely seamless but will get very intense around the house with a mad jumble of topiary.”

Weaving between huge yews, a swirling contemporary earthwork is planted with a spiral of copper beech at different heights.

At the rear of his house, a boundary fence has blurred into the landscape; more earthworks planted with bush apple trees allow the garden to merge with the pastoral amphitheatre behind, where the line of an old drovers’ road cuts through the middle distance.

After lunch, in the loft of a barn, Maynard discusses design. There is no glass in the wooden mullions. “I so like the connection with outside,” he says, flinging back the shutters.

He explains how he trims, tames, pollards and pleaches, how he half-annihilates an ancient yew hedge to spectacular effect, how he sinks a drive to lose it in the landscape and how he despises parked cars.

We students scribble in notebooks. “Apart from a few trees, my garden is non-existent. I’ve never done anything like this before; I’ve come to listen to one of my gardening heroes,” whispers Louise Brook, who wants to transform her garden in Italy.

Emma Mills from West Sussex, also intends to try what she has picked up on the course.

“What attracted me to Arne is his idea that you bring the landscape into the garden and look to nature for inspiration. I like his holistic approach,” she says.

Archie Scott from Whitchurch concurs: “I’m a professional gardener specialising in hard landscaping but on a smaller scale - a day like this is where I get new ideas.”

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
0

Saturday, May 31st, 2008

Backyard Landscaping, Landscaping Rock No Comments

Day In The Mud Makes One Long For The Great Indoors

It’s hard to believe, but there was a time in my life when one season after another passed away without my paying much notice. At that point in my life — about 15 years ago — I was fairly career-oriented. I spent much of my time chained to my desk in one newsroom or another.

When I finally left work, I’d be exhausted. I’d go to my apartment, plop down in front of the TV and drowse off within an hour or two. If I was feeling particularly energetic, I might read a book, have friends over or go to a movie.

I seldom spent much time outside, so the seasons didn’t seem very relevant.

Buying a home in a rural area changed all of that. Staying inside all of the time doesn’t work when you have landscaping to attend. (I know. I tried it the summer I was pregnant. I’m still trying to kill off some off the monster thistles that flourished that year.)

For a short time after my daughter arrived, the seasons were once again irrelevant. Pretty much anything that didn’t concern caring for my newborn and trying to get some sleep was irrelevant. Rain, snow, flood, drought — I didn’t care. So long as I had plenty of diapers on hand, I was oblivious to the world around me.

As the baby grew into a child, though, that all changed again. Small children are fascinated by all the small changes that mark the year’s steady evolution, and the interest is contagious.

Besides, the thistle patch outside our house was really looking nasty. I had to get out there and try to restore some order to our landscaping.

So as my daughter got older, we started spending more and more time outside. The small flower patch by my the kitchen door evolved into an all-consuming gardening addiction. We grew herbs and vegetables, so I had to learn how to transform them into something good to eat.

The more I learned, the more I wanted to experiment. My plantings grew increasingly diverse, and I became increasingly sensitive to nature’s time clock.

Then my daughter started school, and the seasons took on entirely new meanings. We have the school calendar to contend with, for starters. And grade-schoolers pay a lot of attention to the calendar. Every holiday, no matter how minor, must be studied and suitably celebrated.

Even though we’ve avoided over-scheduling our daughter, her extracurricular activities fill an ever-growing space on our calendar. We fit our lives in around soccer and ice skating; the county fair and Camp Rah-Rah.

At this point in my life, it sometimes seems as though each individual day is itself a season. It’s both fascinating and merciless, because I’m increasingly aware of how quickly each one slips away; how easily “the right time” becomes “too late.”

Sometimes it bothers me when I think of all of the seasons I missed when I was younger. But in a way, that was all part of a season, too: a season of me. That part of my life shaped who I am today as much as any other time.

I’ve been contemplating those indoor years a lot lately, because at several points in the last week, I’ve longed for their return.

There’s something about spending the final hours of daylight on a chilly Mother’s Day in the rain, shoveling mud in a desperate effort to keep a stone wall from collapsing onto the air-conditioning unit, that really makes a girl wish she’d never stepped out of a nice warm house.

It didn’t help that I had no one but myself to blame for that particular home emergency. I’d rigged a temporary drainage system for a broken downspout, and it couldn’t handle the weekend’s heavy rains.

Of course, it’s spring. It rains a lot in spring, and that water has to go somewhere. It follows the path of least resistance, not the path of best intentions.

I know these things, but I thought I could get away with a temporary fix until I had a chance to pick up some corrugated pipe. I didn’t want to make a special trip to a hardware store because we’re trying to conserve that liquid gold they’re putting in the gas pumps lately.

I ended up making that special trip first thing Monday morning. In the process of fixing the problem, I was late to work, my husband slipped and hurt his shoulder and I made sincere use of a rude word I’d never actually spoken before.

I couldn’t help but think that there was a point in my life when I went entire years without ever touching mud, much less being plastered with it. Sure, I didn’t know the difference between an annual and a perennial, but I enjoyed myself — and kept my hands clean.

I resolved, therefore, to make the repair, go to the office and get done what work was absolutely essential. I’d come home early that night, plop down in front of the TV and drowse off within an hour or two.

It was a lovely plan — just thinking of it made me feel better.

The day didn’t work out that way, of course. I had muddy laundry to wash, some cleaning to get done and a 7-year-old daughter who wanted to play. I also had to go outside and make sure the new drain was working. (It seems to be doing fine.)

I did get to sit down on the couch for a while, but we turned off the TV and played a few games of “Sorry!” We had a great time.

I still owe myself that drowsy evening in front of the TV, mind you. My eyelids get heavy just thinking about it. I will be gloriously lazy.

It’s already pretty late tonight, though, so maybe I’ll get around to it tomorrow. Or one night next week. July, possibly? I’m sure I can fit it in eventually .

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
0

Monday, May 19th, 2008

Pool Landscaping No Comments

The height of tranquility in El Salvador

EL PITAL, El Salvador In the dark days of the early 1980s, anyone brave or foolhardy enough to ascend the majestic peak of El Pital would have been accompanied by a hellish soundtrack of mortar fire and army helicopters as a civil war raged.

But as I strolled through regal stands of Encino and cypress trees, all was peaceful in this airy mountain lair.

“There are only three sounds here,” said Edwin Rodriguez, who helps his father, Will, manage El Pital Highland, the area’s best-known lodge. “The water, the wind, the birds.”

El Salvador rewards those who are willing to seek out and listen to its innermost songs.

A high-altitude haven

Intrigued by reports of the lofty mountains straddling the borders of Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras, a colleague and I decided to spend some spring days exploring the verdant regions around San Ignacio. The area’s undisputed high point, in every sense, is Cerro El Pital (Pital Hill), the pinnacle of this compact Central American nation of nearly 7 million people. It rises 8,957 feet toward a massive rock dome, which some scientists speculate was formed in prehistoric times by an impacted meteorite.

With an average temperature of 60 degrees and a minimum of 32 from November to March (prime tourist season), El Pital offers an escape from the tropical mugginess that blankets much of the country. Although El Salvador has been badly scarred by illegal logging and civil-war-related environmental destruction, El Pital is a haven of lush first-growth forest. This was a leftist rebel stronghold in the war’s early years, but it was spared later destruction after initial peace talks in 1984 in the nearby village of La Palma.

Hummingbirds range through the foliage. Short-tailed hawks soar over the rugged precipices. From the upper reaches, you can gaze miles north into Honduras and Guatemala and south toward the sprawling Embalse Cerron Grande reservoir and the massive San Salvador volcano brooding over the capital.

Although paragliding, canoeing and other activities abound, hiking, horseback riding and quiet nature contemplation are the main draws.

The tri-national terrain around El Pital, dubbed “Trifinio,” is known for its distinctive accent and colorful folklore as well as for the amiable relations among Hondurans, Guatemalans and Salvadorans (whose countries haven’t always been on friendly terms).

A bustling compound

The area drew Will Rodriguez, 55; his wife, Lidia de Reyes, 45; and their 24-year-old son, Edwin, who has been studying tourism and marketing at the University of Central Florida in Orlando. Five years ago, the couple opened El Pital Highland, a family-oriented compound of cabins and guest lodges.

The resort occupies a sloping sliver of land alongside the road that winds toward the summit, about 1,000 feet higher. Its slogan is “Un Lugar Cerca del Cielo” (A Place Near Heaven), and El Pital Highland, about a mile and a half up, in some ways doesn’t feel entirely of this Earth.

The roomy lodgings are attractively furnished with handcrafted furniture, much of it locally made. The place is not big only three individual free-standing cabins, plus eight additional guest rooms. The cabins vary from a traditional Swiss chalet-type dwelling to a more modern glass-sided split-level with cathedral windows. The 60-acre spread includes a rustic indoor-outdoor restaurant that serves off-the-grill steaks and ribs good enough to attract a noonday crowd willing to make the drive up the mountain just to have lunch.

We hadn’t reserved a room, and that was a mistake: El Pital Highland was fully booked. We ended up at the EntrePinos Hotel %26amp; Resort at the foot of the mountain. It was clean and economical, and it was a solid base camp, but it lacked El Pital’s spectacular natural setting and the Rodriguezes’ personal touch.

After depositing our luggage at Entre Pinos, we pointed our rental SUV up the mountain and made it to El Pital Highland in less than an hour.

Although we weren’t staying there, we got a warm welcome from the Rodriguezes.

Like other hoteliers and campground operators around El Pital, the Rodriguez family is trying to market a new image of a region that many Salvadorans still associate with civil war.

“We went against the grain,” Rodriguez said of his choice of location for the lodge. “Everybody goes to the beach, so we decided to come up here.”

Among the guests during our weekend visit were the Larreynaga family, spending a few days hiking before turning back and hitting the beach. Enrique Larreynaga, 32, a taxi driver who said he was kidnapped into the Salvadoran army as a 15-year-old a fairly common occurrence during the war had heard of the area but never imagined he would be able to visit, because in the old days it was guerrilla territory. “I only thought of the danger,” he said.

Now, Larreynaga was standing with his family on a wooden platform overlooking a pond on the hotel grounds. Elegant native water lilies dotted the pond, part of a larger project to restore the local forestation. The Rodriguezes have planted cypress trees on the property to replace those destroyed during the war and have tried to prevent illegal tree-cutting on the mountain.

A cool vista, and warmth

It already was midafternoon, so we set off with Rodriguez to explore the mountain’s upper reaches in the remaining daylight.

Driving a few hundred yards up the road to a small, unobtrusive parking area, we passed scattered groups of locals some on foot, others crammed into cars and trucks arriving to spend a night under the stars on El Pital. Several carried pillows, blankets and even mattresses. Others were headed for one of the numerous public and private campgrounds tucked onto ledges and plateaus here and there.

As we hiked into the forest, through clumps of thistles and other strange plants resembling perching birds, we seemed to be retreating into a world that both time and men forgot. Along the trail, Rodriguez pointed out a spot where he wants to bring Costa Rican goats to pasture so that their milk can be used to make cheese for the restaurant.

Clouds skittered across the surrounding peaks as we climbed over a massive fallen tree trunk. Rodriguez seemed intent on showing us something. “Just a little farther,” he said in Spanish as we scampered down a slippery embankment toward a clearing.

Then we saw it: a superb sunset vista of mountains and volcanoes stretching north toward Honduras and Guatemala, with the Lempa River winding lazily below. Beneath the ledge we stood on, the wall of rock dropped away to a hidden high valley, a distance of perhaps 1,000 feet.

Rodriguez, looking blissed out, lay down along the edge of the drop-off and took in the view. We lingered. But darkness was falling fast, and it was growing chilly. As we returned to the main trail, we could make out the lights of the capital city of San Salvador, through the haze, scores of miles away. Back in the restaurant, we rekindled our energy with coffee and the Rodriguezes’ unflaggingly amicable spirits. The air may be brisk on the heights of El Pital, but I’ve seldom felt more warmed by human company.

Tags: , , , , , , ,
0

Monday, February 4th, 2008

Landscaping Rock No Comments

Lush times in the valleys of drought

The Awatere Valley used to break farmers’ hearts, writes MIKE CREAN.

Withering droughts made farming marginal in this part of Marlborough. So, when large wine companies began planting grapes in the nearby Wairau Valley, Awatere folk watched with interest.

The big companies wanted to expand their industry in the 1970s. They considered the Wairau Valley as far south as they could go before the threat of rogue summer frosts made grape-growing uneconomic.

The Wairau Valley, around Blenheim, proved ideal and quickly became New Zealand’s top wine-producing area. Success pushed land prices up, so that growers began to look south again to continue the expansion.

The valley of the Awatere River, which flows from Molesworth to the sea, near Seddon, was an obvious target. And Awatere farmer Peter Vavasour was ready to try his luck with grapes.

Vavasour comes from a Yorkshire family that traces its ancestry back to Normandy, at the time of William the Conqueror. He remembers his father telling how a visiting Frenchman once observed that his farm, on the Awatere River’s north bank, east of State Highway 1, would suit grapes.

The first vines were planted in 1986. Twenty years later, Vavasour Wines markets its products under several labels and is among the top producers in the Awatere Valley.

Joining Vavasour at that time, after studying winemaking in South Australia, was Glenn Thomas. Watching on was local boy Stu Marfell, who later studied winemaking at Lincoln University. These two now run the Vavasour enterprise.

Thomas says early attempts to establish grapes in the valley met scepticism from the community. However, this began to dissipate when Vavasour invited local farmers to sample the first vintage. All were impressed.

Grape growing in the Awatere Valley has boomed and changed the landscape. I remember watching a header harvesting peas on the north terrace of the river 50 years ago. Relentless sun scorched the ground and fried thistles to frizzled stalks. Glaring light reflected dazzlingly off bare brown hillsides. The harvest seemed a race against time before the peas wilted and died.

I return to the terrace and the change astonishes me. I turn into Redwood Pass Road and drive 10km towards the sea. On one side of the road, vineyards extend almost without break, interrupted by a couple of olive groves.

The olives are another attempt to diversify cropping in the face of drought conditions. The economics of olive growing are tough but the oil obtained is of excellent quality. Few trees have been pulled out to make way for grapes.

Columns of vines march down to the river. Across the river, more vines troop over the gentle hills of Sea View and disappear into the distance.

Next, I drive upriver on the Molesworth Road. Again, vines line the road, with just a few breaks, for about 5km. A wine map shows more vineyards growing in sheltered valleys further upriver.

Marlborough produces more than half of New Zealand’s wine, from 15,000 hectares of vineyards. The Awatere Valley accounts for a quarter of the region’s output.

What were once Awatere’s heartbreak hills now yield 18,000 tonnes of grapes a year. And the industry is still growing.

The key, says Glenn Thomas, is irrigation. Vineyards take water from the river when it is high and store it in ponds. The life-giving liquid is trickled on to the vines throughout their growing season.

Marfell says the conditions suit grapes, as long as water is available. His father’s 20ha of vines are more productive than his 200ha of sheep and crop land.

Not all farmers have changed to grapes, though. Some have sold their land, others leased theirs, to wine companies. Many grow grapes under contract, just as they would previously have grown cereal or legume crops. They see it as just another branch of farming.

Thomas says farmers are a canny lot and quick to work out what is best for their land. Any outsider who plants vines without tapping farmers’ local knowledge is foolish. Farmers can provide detailed observations on where frost bites hardest and where winds most often blow.

Frost, wind and drought cannot dim the Awatere wine industry’s optimism, says Thomas. However, grape growers do fear “the bubble will burst” if the area’s reputation for quality is ever harmed.

Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,
0

Thursday, December 27th, 2007

Hillside Landscaping No Comments


website counter