Dorset in September 

 Hydrangea - a shrub or climbing plant with rounded or flattened flowering heads of small florets, the outer ones of which are typically infertile.

Back in the garden in Dorset after a month in France, and things are flourishing. It's tricky to leave a garden unattended and expect it to be coming up roses when you return, but this time, all is well. There has been enough rain for the Christmas cactuses (cacti?), Dipladenia and cape primrose, turned out of the house into the fresh air during our absence, to be looking as if they've been on holiday.

 It's now obvious which plants feel they belong here. Euphorbia, herbaceous clematis and archangel seem to have taken over. A few other plants put into pots awaiting the builders' return and the organising of the garden have died, but I'm not sure what they are. Rather like those amorphous packages in the freezer which have lost their labels, they look brown and uninteresting, so it doesn't really matter what they used to be. Note to self to use the newly-acquired, beautiful black labels more efficiently.

 Lady's mantle is popping up through the most unpromising-looking cracks between paving stones and bits of concrete, making the whole area feel clothed. The pale pink Japanese anemones are in their prime, having been dug up and repositioned last spring. These plants are worth every inch of their space – reliable, self-supporting, long-lasting and utterly beautiful; form and function in perfect harmony.

 We broke the journey home in Sussex and visited a specialist hydrangea nursery. Macrophylla 'Redstart', 'Lanarth White' and 'Dr Jean Varnier', paniculata 'Early Sensation' and 'Kyushu', and three petiolaris are jostling for space between the dumpy bags in the garden here, and helping to make it look attractive before they find their way to France. We must call in on Dieppe sometime to see the French national collection of Hydrangeas. I just love the connections to be made between the countries.

France in August
A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except for learning how to grow in rows.
Doug Larson

It's time for a fresh onslaught on the French garden. Although the weather in the first part of the summer was exceptionally warm and sunny, mid-August brought very unsettled days with a mixture of cooler temperatures and showers. Beautiful conditions for gardening on this very friable soil. The task of gardening just now is circumscribed by two main factors. The roofers will be arriving soon, and the bindweed has been beavering away over the last few weeks and covered most of the soil.

There isn't much point in leaving anything in the path of the artisans, because they will simply do their work, without regard for delicate plants. This means that anything that I value must be moved to a new position. There are areas that need filling out, so lambs' ears, peonies, lily of the valley, Vinca minor, Echinops, hollyhocks and primroses can be moved, even though August is hardly the right month to be disturbing them. After a good watering by the heavens and the hosepipe, they look relatively happy. I have brought Cyclamen hederifolia corms from England, and they get dug in under the Norwegian maple, where I hope they will surprise us with their little nodding heads of pale pink later in the year.

Bindweed is a most beautiful plant, with its delicate, bright leaves and gentle pink flowers, but with roots that can travel 40 feet underground, it has to be got rid of. This may take a lifetime, but with the help of Becky, our visitor, I pull and tease out the long white threads. I have another helper. Piers has bought a new ladder and is using it to tie in the extending shoots of the climbing roses. Every day they put out new growth, and we hope to have plenty of healthy flower-bearing spurs next year.

Our French friend came to visit one evening and jumped up to the branches of the hazel bush to bring down still green clusters of nuts. He dry-roasted them, added honey to the pan and we ate them straight from the stove. I would rather we had the feast than the dormice did.

Off to the Seaside

I don't like formal gardens. I like wild nature. It's just the wilderness instinct in me, I guess.
Walt Disney

On a glorious day we set off for Ringstead Bay, a very wild part of the Dorset coast looking over to Portland. The garden in our sights is set on 4 acres of cliff-side and is approached by a steep, winding path through the blackthorn and alder directly above it and below the National Trust car park.

The owners were certainly up for a challenge when they took this on. They share the plot with badgers, deer and rabbits, which means that any new planting has to be protected by none-too-pretty-looking chicken wire. The salt-laden winds lash to such an extent that the trees take on that particular tapered shape to their tops.

Despite all this, the garden is interesting. Wilderness gives way to tamed woodland and then to relatively flat areas (including a small amount of lawn) around the house. Meandering paths and a series of concrete steps wind between bluebells, hellebore and comfrey planted under specimen trees such as acer and bay (which was flowering beautifully).

One gets glimpses of the ever-present sea between the branches. Facing uphill, the sea becomes the background and the landscape of the garden, the view.

As we toil back uphill towards the car park, we feel we have had a week's exercise, and wonder at the wonderful calf muscles the owners must possess.

Cowden Farm

Supporting people to develop independent working skills
- mission statement, Cowden Farm
www.cowdenfarm.org

Several months ago a brightly painted sign appeared beside the road a couple of miles from the village. It says Cowden Farm. Then, soon after that, a supplementary sign saying Nursery Open. Curiosity drove me to explore what was behind the signs.

Leaving the road, I came to a small car park and beyond it, a poly-tunnel. Inside the tunnel was a good selection of trays of bedding and vegetable plants. I picked out a tray of Iceberg tomatoes and looked for someone to pay. No-one around, so I ventured through a 5-bar gate towards an open door in a farm building. There, a group of about 20 smiling young adults were just finishing lunch. These are the 'customers' of Cowden Farm, who all have some degree of learning difficulty and come here to be taught how to work with animals, to restore furniture, and to become proficient in farm maintenance and organic horticulture.

Having paid for the tomatoes I was sent on my way with words of encouragement such as: 'They will grow really big', 'You must look after them well' and 'They will taste nice'. I'm sure they will!

Out and About in Spring

Behold, my friends, the spring is come; the earth has gladly received the embraces of the sun, and we shall soon see the results of their love!
Sitting Bull

A spell of warm and sunny weather lures us out to see our second NGS (National Garden Scheme) garden of the year. The first was a trip for the snowdrops at Mapperton near Beaminster in mid-February. They were a very welcome sight on the wilder fringes of this elegantly designed garden with its formal structures and punctuations of topiary; this garden looks good at any season.

Today's garden is less grand, but with more 
of the human about it. Set in a sheltered south-facing combe in Long Bredy in S W Dorset, the original designer knew just where to put the garden. The sloping site moves from angle to angle, presenting many different faces for planting. A framework of mature trees leaves spaces, which have been developed into areas of lawn, herbaceous border, fruit tree alleys and a walled vegetable garden.

The winter has been continuously damp, but the slopes have ensured that now there is no sign of soggy ground here. The winter has also been very mild, so the spring flowers are well advanced. 

Today the garden was a riot of blue, white, pink, yellow and green, studded with the occasional flash of strong red from tulips and strong yellow from fritillaria imperialis -  Crown Imperial. I didn't see any rhododendron or camellia shrub, and I can't say I was sad; they don't thrive on this chalk soil, anyway. The delicate spring flowers have just as much drama and impact.

My highlights were a carpet of anemone blanda in blue, white and pink, studded with cyclamen and interspersed with clumps of narcissus, the emerging buds of cherry on bare branches, an area of wild garlic with white hyacinths placed at regular intervals among it and the bed of broad beans, looking healthy and well-advanced and with a network of string already in place for when the plants need a bit of help staying upright.

Stirrings Mid-March

Consider what each soil will bear and what each refuses.
Virgil

Over a weekend two things have happened that have stirred me from my lethargy and encouraged me to go back in the garden. Some friends in our village in Dorset brought us a big clump of snowdrops dug up straight from their garden. And then we had two days of continuous, warm sunshine.

The garden is still a building site and I struggle over piles of scaffolding to get to the part of the garden that I call flower beds. While the builders have been digging trenches for drains, it has become evident that our garden is on greensand. Since we are surrounded by chalk downs, I had assumed that the soil would be chalky and alkaline; in fact, it is just about neutral. There are shell fossils among the rocks, bearing testament to the fact that this is a soil derived from marine sediment. It is naturally friable and rich in potash. I may have to consider different plants from the ones I had envisaged, but when I go to Google, I only find references to ways to improve the soil by adding potash – I'll do better to ask my knowledgeable friends what they would recommend for planting in this soil.

While I have been absent, the garden has been sleeping and then waking up. Although I have been frustrated by the delay in redesigning the plot, the work done over last year to clear weeds and unwanted plants has paid off and those plants remaining have had a chance to acclimatise. Skeleton heads of last year's flowers of Hydrangea petiolaris still cling to the branches that are now putting out fresh leaves. Lots of signs of pale pink Japanese anemone plants have emerged from under stone slabs, the creeping dead-nettle has taken over the whole space under the Viburnum plicatum, Euphorbia has sprung up, and of course forget-me-nots have seeded themselves in damp, shady patches of soil. I set aside spare Japanese anemones and dead nettle to go into pots to be sold in the village plant fair.

I don't think that we have lost many plants apart from some hellebores. I see them flourishing in nearby gardens, so I suspect that they just got too wet, rather than not liking it here. Of the two camellias in pots, one has a solitary bud forming and the other is covered in buds. I don't know why this should be, but barring a sharp frost or some strong winds, I shall still have plenty to float in bowls for the house in the coming weeks.

Promise

There is a harmony
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky...
Percy Bysshe Shelley

The garden in France is still a building site, but it reveals itself in the golden sunshine of a few days in November. The light filters through the leaves of the large Norwegian maple which shades the ground where the aconites will be blooming after Christmas, but which now is covered in stone and plaster dust.

As I remove the annual weeds from the soil which has just drained after previous rains, flights of storks call to each other high above, on the way to their winter homes. Forty or fifty of them in strings, constantly changing position in the air – absolutely magical companions to an hour or two's gardening. They are a metaphor for the gardening year: nature moves on to a place where the new cycle can begin.

I retire to sit by the fire during the dark months of winter, to think and to plan.