SPARAXIS–STARS THAT SET THE SEASON

More than a month earlier than I expected, the first Sparaxis at the front door opened on 5 August. For the first time they had not been lifted but overplanted, and when the young leaves started to push through in early winter, we cleared out other planting. No food, no nothing. This is what I call economical gardening with bulbs! (CLICK ON THE TITLE OF THE POST TO SEE IN A LARGER FORMAT)

Since then I’ve enjoyed welcoming new flowers in new colours on an almost daily basis. They are not known as “Harlequin Flower” for nothing!

DECIDUOUS AZALEAS–ALL THAT AND SCENT TOO

For weeks I’ve been photographing the deciduous azaleas – to my mind the Bollywood princesses of our gardens; impossibly beautiful and graceful. Most of them have finished flowering now, but the one behind the house is in its prime, and was photographed today. Their flowers develop as a claw-like grouping at the tip of stems and most of them are sweetly scented – sometimes very powerfully so, making them of the most intoxicating flowers I know. Their colours range from near white through soft yellows, salmons and pinks to clear yellows and various saturated pinks and oranges through to copper. Unlike the evergreen azaleas (ours are mostly Indica and Kurume hybrids), they all seem to have some yellow in their make-up.

Realising that I didn’t have a close-up of the above azalea, I went out now to photograph it in the dark by flash. The result was a cool mauve-pink and I started manipulating the image. This really is not the true colour, which I would describe as light rose pink. But what is interesting is the amount of yellow brought out by manipulating the colour in an attempt at getting it right. It would seem that the yellow pigments are right there even when we don’t see them. Perhaps I must get a shot tomorrow to add in here!

Next morning: it IS much less pink, much more peach on close inspection!

Several days later: I have at last edited my photos of the deciduous azaleas, and will try to add them in a somewhat orderly way – not easy as they were taken over weeks with two cameras!

This to my mind is a classic pure yellow and rightly or wrongly I think of it as the type. A close-up follows (no excuses…) and then a selection of the paler colours.

As they get darker they more and more, in photographs, give the impression of being over-saturated in post-production. The camera doesn’t quite capture the translucent quality of the cells, giving the impression instead of a grainy texture, and in the process often not capturing the amazing gradient from light to rich of the complex colour combinations.

These colour gradients are illustrated even in this relatively pale flower, where the buds are a rich pink and the yellow markings have a saffron intensity. But ye aint seen nothin yet…

Up in the arboretum a number of them are planted close to dark-leaved prunuses and copper beeches. I’m pleased with these pics, better than any attempts in previous years…

And now – drum role – if these were Bollywood princesses, here is their queen!

But let us end on a gentler note – the greens in the bud suffusing the soft yellows of this plant.

Gearing up for Spring

Winter is a time to clear away the debris of the summer’s growth. The surrounds of the Makou Dam have been strimmed, and soon the blue Iris Sibirica on the banks will start pushing green growth along the edge.

Malus floribunda, the Crabapple, thrusts forth  a few shivering miserable blossoms from June, as though testing the air. But we’ve had some lovely warm days (this morning I turned to switch off the bathroom heater and realised I had never switched it on!) and this afternoon I looked across to the arboretum and realised there was significant blossom colour up there already. So that is where we walked to.

Prunus x blireana is another early bloomer, and I discovered our still small tree smothered in blossoms.

A larger flowering pear (I think Pyrus calleryana – we grew it from seed harvested from the neighbours at Cheerio Gardens) also seems to have burst into full bloom overnight. I love the way the delicate blooms are grouped.

Not to be outdone, the camellias I reported on last are getting better and better – this almost white one with flecks of pink on a palest pink base compliments the blossoms best.

Right. Back to business. This is where guests visiting the gardens will be arriving in just over a month when the Spring Fair starts. It is NOT a spring garden… But we have planted some annuals – primroses and stocks – and I am pleased to report that numerous white pansies from last year’s planting are coming up and many are already in flower. And then we have pots and pots of plants waiting to be put out when the time comes. May this Spring be a good one!

AN ACHE IN AUGUST part 2

I ended my previous post with a dying camera as I was about to take the above scene – so let us continue from here, for this is where the ache comes in: I have waited ten years for this effect to mature. And now Sequoia Gardens is in the market.

Originally the Japanese Walk was simply too sunny for mosses to take hold. But now the wisteria has grown and the Japanese maples have matured, and the rocks and stepping stones we manhandled into position with such effort are beginning to look as I imagined they would…

Taken a few minutes earlier in full sun, I thought the contrast in this photo would be too strong, but I just love the streaking resulting from the sun through the reed fence. The round objects are beautiful clay beer-brewing pots made in a traditional way in the local rural communities. Do you see why this minor part of the garden has ranked so high in my expectations over the years, even though it seldom featured in photographs? Here is another view of this area, taken several weeks ago from the opposite end and used a few posts back:

The wooden pergola is planted with wisteria and below  Alfred’s Arches and on the opposite side of the pergola I planted hedges of seed-raised chaenomeles (Japanese quinces). They proved a bit of a mixed bag, but the best one ended up, we discovered three years ago, in the best position!

It has a strong, clear colour, large and profuse flowers and, best of all, a vigorous inclination to climb. So it has joined the wisteria on the pergola and for a short, breath-taking period their flowering overlaps as these photos from spring 2012 prove.

I have a soft spot for chaenomeles, about which more anon. Enough said that in yesterday’s  sunny moments I enjoyed photographing these brash blossoms that hide coyly among dark twigs.

There are subtle colour variations from bush to bush: tomato red to darker shades, and some where white pigment gives shades of pinky orange. Notice how the petals are sometimes stalked, resulting in a less clean cup shape – the third, pale example below has lovely full petals.

In fact some flowers are white. (The seeds came from a mixed planting of red, white and crimson bushes.) It is a good, clean fully albino white – but can’t compete with the reds – or can it?

I was first inspired to plant chaenomeles seed to see what came up by a lovely but shy-flowering ‘apple blossom’ self-seeded shrub below our original planting. It remains one of our more special seedlings.

Lastly one of the parents, a bought shrub from the days when impulse buying rather than knowledge dominated our purchases – I think it might be ‘Crimson and Gold’: it is lower growing and less strong than the norm, but quite floriferous.

I said I had a soft spot for the flowering quinces, or Japonica as my grandmother, whose story I now tell, called them. I grew up with a painting which today hangs in my house. It was painted by her friend and neighbour Gerda Oerder (who also signed herself Oerder Pitlo, adding her maiden name), the wife of Frans Oerder; he is one of South Africa’s great impressionist painters, known especially for his still-lives of flowers. His death on 15 July 1944 is the start of my story. Listlessly Gerda went out into the garden on a bleak mid August day. The vague desire to paint again sent her in search of subject matter for the first time since his illness. All she found were a few twigs of chaenomeles, which she picked and placed in a beaker. Then she became absorbed and at last forgot about her unhappiness. Until she stood back, looked at the result and thought “Oh, I must call Frans to show him!” And returned to reality. My grandmother was next on her list. She came over, christened it ‘Eensaamheid’ (loneliness) and bought it immediately. Eensaamheid has always demanded a wall to itself, and after my father’s death I tried it in several spots, before hanging it on its own in the guest bedroom.

 

AN ACHE IN AUGUST

August is the cruellest month around here – but we’re not there yet. By now winter has stayed too long and bleached too fully – but this warmer winter has hardly bleached the lawn. Overnight there was a little rain, and although this Sunday was bleak, it had none of the relentlessness that makes August so cruel.

Yes, there are plenty signs of winter, but they tend to be of winter’s beauty, like these flowers from Hydrangea arborescens. We had visitors staying in the cottages this weekend and they loved the gardens. So no despair there.

Because the winter has been mild our camellias, usually decidedly marginal for most of their season, are looking good.

They have also now reached a size where at least some blooms are protected from the worst frost damage, even in a cold year. So that was where my focus lay on today’s walk.

In fact camellias were not the only blooms – more and more azaleas are testing the waters. I expected to find magnolias, but didn’t.

Here they are in the New Old Rose Garden, a red azalea almost the same colour as the stalky Rosa moyesii ‘Geranium’ in front of it, which will be blooming by mid October. Behind them our best beech hangs on, as beeches do, to its browned leaves. But back to camellias: two lovely pinks, followed by a red.

One of our most thankful shrubs is Spiraea cantoniensis known in South Africa as the ‘Cape May’ – a misnomer if ever there was one: spiraea are known in the UK as ‘May’ because they are spring blooming, but to us May is autumn; and it comes not from the Cape, but from China, if its name is anything to go by. Also known as The Bridal Wreath, that is an apt name for its arching stems densely packed with tiny sprays of minute white flowers. But it has another trick up its sleeve. When you think autumn is quite over, its leaves turn most photogenically.

All of this happens as the promise of flowers to come becomes ever more visible…

And there are the flowering quinces and other delights – but as my battery died after the last shot, this is where I leave you for now…

SUMMER BRIGHTS FOR SNOWED IN FRIENDS

In my previous post I promised some more summery pics to show that autumn was not all… Now as I read about England caught in yet more snow, I think it is time for a colour injection. These photos were taken on last weekend’s walk, and summer heat is still with us although some early mornings have called for a sleeve.

These cannas grow below the old barn – the red is a species (or near species I grew from seed collected some 25 years ago and the yellow is a later acquisition. The spotted canna was only planted this summer, given to me by my father from a single plant he planted a few years back in Johannesburg, and which was recently divided and moved.

The above photo from 5 years back when my lovely Border Collie was still with us shows this area as a whole – and here you will find a post from 3 years back on a canna garden I wish to revisit!

This Red Hot Poker grew wild on the farm and we moved into the Cottage Garden some years ago. Its season is short but dramatic.

One last pic for now (most other flowers are white and can wait); this is a dark cosmos, blown over and seen against the weathered brick of the wall below it  – rather a nice way of seeing these dramatically simple daisies I think!

ABANDON CONTROL NEGLECT

I was planning a post on our wild flowers to slot in with the celebration of Wildflower Wednesday and have been saving suitable pics for days – it being high summer and wild flowers plentiful. But my own recent writing has prompted thought on the subject (see my nature/nurture pic on my previous post) and as a direct result of that  post I discovered http://thinkinGardens.co.uk This is a fascinating forum for serious talk about gardening and why we do it; about gardening as art, or at least as highly conscious construction.

This morning when I stuck my head across the gate of the Ellensgate Garden it struck me, not for the first time but more forcibly than before, that this most considered and contrived of my gardens had shown me a toffee and done its own thing – rather spectacularly well. What is more, self-sown wildings like the ferns, the mass of Gladiolus dalenii and the yellow arum, Zantedeschia albomaculata contribute substantially to this mutiny. As do the mosses and lichen on the very expensive sandstone trimmings from 800km away I commissioned – even if they now might just as well be cast concrete…

The Ellensgate Garden  was the first development along the new axis from the front door. I started on it in 1996. It came to be because my father acquired the gate made by his father for their family home back in the 30s – read more about it here and follow the link given for full explanations of the material used etc. That original description, first used on a gardening forum nearly 10 years ago, makes for amusing reading against the backdrop of my present plight – is this carefully designed and built garden all about control? Is it the living abandon within the framework of control that makes it a success or a failure? Is what we are witnessing now simply the result of neglect? And then we can ramble on to the ethical/aesthetic debate around “can a garden which is the result of neglect even be considered to be a ‘good’ garden?” And as every gardener knows, that question leads on to all sorts of issues like the passing of time and the need for maintenance, which are like frame and wall to a painting…

You see, the above is to my mind one of the most successful parts of my garden. Snag is that the only human intervention here has been the removal of some dead branches every few years. The trees were planted by nature. So were the grasses and the creeper. All natural, indigenous, endemic, native. Does that mean that it is not a garden? Or that I am such a poor gardener that I can’t compete with something so totally random?

What if I told you that the deepest joy of my gardening is these random incidents? The moments where Nature says – so it seems to me – ‘well done, Jack, and as a reward I will give you this as well!’ Witness these wild daisies in the arboretum growing, you guessed it, amongst wild grasses and other wild plants but against a backdrop of highly exotic camellias.

Here it is in close-up: Berkeya setifera, called Buffalo Tongue because of its large rough leaves…

Of course it is easy for me in our mountain’s kind climate with its varied flora to call on nature to contribute… The garden lobelia in the pot and the agapanthus beyond are close relatives of our wildings.

This is Lobelia erinus, the species of the garden hybrid, photographed growing wild on the farm; individually possibly more beautiful, but not as floriferous as the garden hybrids.

And here, planted in the narrow bed up against Alfred’s Arches and raised from seed from a wilding on the farm, is Agapanthus inapertus, a different species from those most garden Agapanthus hybrids originate from.

Above, the same two flower heads, photographed a few days earlier from the opposite side, together with possibly our most spectacular wilding, Crinum macowanii, seen in more detail below.

Of course not all the wildings are spectacular. The two flowers below are each no bigger than a finger nail, the yellow Hypoxis hiding in rough lawn and the blue Wahlenbergia floating inches above it on thin stems.

Some are little more than weeds. Weeds? Ah, there too is a whole argument. Rephrase: some are so fleeting in flower and willing in seed that they have no garden value, tend to spread, and have value only as sudden little incidents in the wilder parts of the garden. Ergo, the kind of flowers I love. The flowers of Vernonia, below, are a case in point, especially in a strongly coloured example such as this one, seen against a little fern. Ferns too are worth an investigation on their own…

I have told the story before of how, on a tour to Sissinghurst, I was first attracted to Phygelius. ‘Don’t you know it?’ asked a lady on the tour, ‘It is from South Africa!’ I didn’t explain that just because one came from Washington DC it meant one knew the president. But I remembered the flower.

To my absolute surprise I discovered huge sheets of it just below Freddie’s Dam’s wall on my return to South Africa. But one needs to wade through the marches to get to see it in close-up. Which is well worth doing.

It took me another 15 years to strike a cutting, and that has been languishing for over a year on my kitchen window sill. That is the kind of sharing of one’s inadequacies which leads to angst – or perhaps stills it. (Never mind; I’m not nearly as angst-ridden as you might suspect. ) However it does reopen the debate about neglect and good gardening… Change the subject.

We move further and further away from Wildflower Wednesday, and I have been away overnight to my cousins on Samaria near Mapungubwe – see this post which tells more about Samaria and links in to many of my other current thoughts. It was hot – night-time minimums equalling day-time maximums in less extreme parts of the country during last week’s heat-wave. And I want to share just one plant from this visit: an indigenous plant but considered a pest by many farmers; its English name, Devil’s Thorn, gives just one reason. The seed has vicious prickles. I have more than once had it go right through the sole of a shoe into my foot!

My sister tells of arriving in the arid city of Windhoek as a young woman. Dotted around her sandy ‘garden’ were the prettiest yellow flowers. So she dug them up and planted them on either side of her concrete entrance path. She wondered why the neighbour looked at her strangely. Until the seeds developed and she understood…

Sticking to the joys of wildings, I am pleased to report the survival of an attack by baboons (which you can read about here) of the Eulophia orchid. Here is its first flower of the season, on the only stalk. Not as robust as before, but alive!

I end this post, written over several days, with a reference to one of our quieter but more pervasive wildings, a flower that grows on you with close scrutiny – Thunbergia natalensis: a perfect example of the charms of a wilding as expressed by gardeners around the world on Wildflower Wednesday, a monthly post initiated by Gail of ‘Clay and Limestone’.

RANDOM ROSES

‘Tis the season of the rose… Many of mine are once flowering old-fashioned types, others are so tatty by the end of summer that they hardly have a leaf left. Mine is not the perfect climate for roses, and my adapt or die attitude does not make it easy for them. But after months in which I doubted the sanity of growing roses by the hundred, propagating them from seed and cuttings, owning shelves of books on them and generally being more than a little obsessive about them, I am once again overwhelmed…

Intoxicated by their scent, I am pleased I planted a dozen cutting grown Jacques Cartiers outside The Plett – a typically high-shouldered Portland which does brilliantly with me.

Despite having lost well over half the roses planted in the Anniversary Garden, it is still possible to take an impressive picture there – the deep gold is ‘South Africa’ (KORberbeni, marketed in other countries as ‘Golden Beauty’) The pale one is the David Austin rose ‘Molineaux’.

Then there are the two nameless roses I received from two favourite aunts who live 1400km apart. They are very similar, but definitely different. Both are heavily perfumed, tend to suckering and long whippy growth and are once-flowering. I would describe them as Centifolias of obvious Gallica parentage, but can do no better. Aunty Corrie, pictured above and below, is a rich fuchsia pink with a silvery sheen to the reverse of the petals, and it darkens to a lovely rich pink. In fact, the colour ‘old rose’ seems to have been invented for this rose.

Any help in identifying them will be hugely appreciated! Aunty May is a slightly smaller rose,  a little paler, with narrower petals and  less robust in growth, but she also darkens with age. Here she is below.

The next rose I can identify with certainty. She is Mme Ernest Carvat and was introduced to the world by the widow Schwartz in 1888 after sporting from Mme Isaac Pereire. Bourbon climbers, they are two of the most beautifully scented roses in the world. I have several of the darker pink Mme Isaac Pereires, having grown them from cuttings, but I lost my two original plants.

The next two I truly believe I grew from seed. The first I named ‘Mothertjie’, my pet name for my mom, adding the Afrikaans diminutive. It is a slightly remontant rambler and I grow it through a tree at the water lily pond. It featured in a recent post – here the photo is again.

And here the close-up – a pretty rose with textured pink on white colour and a creamy-yellow towards the centre.

The other seed raised rose intrigues me no end – especially as I can only assume it was seed-raised. It looks as though it will be a tall many stemmed shrub, although it might prefer to be a climber; it has reddish pink flowers and the new growth is beautifully dark. I will be watching it carefully for it might be a winner.

‘Penelope’ possibly the best of the Pemberton Musk roses, is another I have raised successfully from cuttings. Then I decided some years ago to plant The Mothers’ Garden with only ‘Penelope’ – and over two years struck not one cutting successfully! So now we have other plans there.

Growing away lustily in the New Old Rose Garden (read more here if you want to know how we came to move the roses) is Rosa moyesii ‘Geranium’ – in fact I wish a few more of these roses would grow as well… this is their first full summer in their new site and we lost several more roses over winter, as well as seen several to be slow to get going after the winter.

Lastly we have one of the great curiosities of the rose world: Rosa moschata, the Musk Rose or Common Moss Rose, growing alongside Freddie’s Dam. Those are not thorns on the bud, but glands which when stroked release a musk-like fragrance. The flowers are beautifully and typically scented though.

Whilst in Johannesburg we spent many happy hours in my cousin’s garden where there are more beautiful and interesting roses than I’ve seen anywhere in South Africa. When we left she gave us 6 roses waiting to be planted. And when Louis refused to let me buy petrol I bought him 3 more at Ludwig’s. A double bargain for me, I’d say! Here they await planting, which happened today.

Oh – and I bought Rosa rubrifolia (syn R. glauca) for myself, having managed to get one I raised from imported seed to not die over 15 years… and I bought my cousin one too, as well as a Cardinal Hume which I consider to be one of the loveliest of roses. Rosa rubrifolia is my all-time favourite foliage plant – it stands in the foreground with its steel-blue leaves and wine-red stems and young growth.

This photo of the Ellensgate Garden with the mauve-pink rambler on the opposite side – another of my mystery plants – somehow didn’t make it into the story. And lastly, my little storm story. I add it in sympathy for the millions who suffered under Sandy, not just at the time, but who face the heart-  and back-breaking task of clearing up… we lost just two major branches off one of our oldest trees in a storm earlier this week and it was a mission to clear. How much worse is the process for all these people!

 

FIT FOR A BRIDE!

A week has passed since I walked down to The House that Jack Built to make certain that all was ready for the arrival of the bride and her groom, my cousin’s son, the next day. What I saw took even my breath away, despite 11 years of calling this spot ‘home’. It has never been more beautiful.

Even before he proposed he asked me what the most beautiful time was on the mountain in spring. I said mid-October. When he proposed he had his plans laid out, the venue booked…

This is where they came after the wedding and reception at the neighbouring Cheerio Gardens to spend their wedding night. As a little boy he had seen me build this house, and this was where he wished to bring his bride…

I took these photos either the day before or the day after the wedding. I remember the earnest little boy, fishing rod in hand, talking to me as I worked on the space where the curved wooden window now stands. With him then was his best friend, the photographer at the wedding, who took a set of photographs here more unique, from what I’ve heard, than you will ever find. I hope to share a few in due course…

Across the dam the yellow azaleas under the purple  Japanese maple were more splendid than ever.

So I wondered in to photograph them, and got caught up in the beauty of the Japanese maples as well.

Growing in the shade below the wall of the Carpetgarden, almost completely hidden these days by the purple maple and a dogwood, are two dissected Japanese maples, one green, one purple – or wine red, which better describes their leaves.

Here you can see what the leaves look like on this exquisite low-growing tree, and below the soft mound it forms. Beyond is the purple form.

The yellow azaleas also demanded more attention.

But these yellows, as you could see in my previous posts, do not alone represent the deciduous azaleas – here are a few more photographed in recent days.

This last one is growing right outside the glass doors outside the living room of the big house. Here it is again:

There are more, and when I return from Johannesburg where I am spending time with my father, I will hopefully get to photograph them too…

It is also the season of the Japanese flowering cherries, and I have not photographed them sufficiently.

There is more, azaleas and other Japanese maples, not to mention the first irises and roses… They will have to wait for a further post. My time is limited, and it is time now for bed…

PROGRESS TO REPORT–AND THEN SPRING PICS

The hedges are planted! After more than a year in which the rectangle of barren earth needed constant explanation, the Mothers’ Garden is laid out, the hedges planted and the central yew trimmed dramatically in preparation for training as a pyramid. I hummed and hahed before realising the obvious… The pillars of the lower steps must be visible and the yew must not obscure the dam. But it is surprising how long it took me to realise that a pyramid would be the ideal shape. Since the newly laid grass path has a topdressing of compost similar to the beds, it rather disappears at the moment. And in the harsh light the irrigation pipes are the dominant line. But I promise you: when you sit on the bench looking across this view, with the curves of the New Old Rose Garden to your left, the big lawn and the blobby rhythm of the Upper Rosemary Border to your right, and an assortment of trees framing the view and protecting your back… it is, I believe, potentially the most beautiful spot in the garden. You can read about the planning of the garden here. We have revisited the choice of roses and made some changes. Hopefully when we go to Johannesburg at the end of the month we will collect the 26 roses due to go in here. Although quite frankly at this stage I’d be happy for the hedges to settle down first.

Here is the view from across the big lawn. To the left you can see where we dug up the grass for the paths and are still digging for other lawn work. In the process the upper border is being squared off and enlarged. This will give a new area for annuals and other flowers. I want to start collecting dahlias, as there are a great many old varieties around Haenertsburg. There is a whole new development waiting here! In the process the lawn is now finally surrounded by straight lines – the wavy top border, its shape never really planned, was more and more of an anomaly.

When I turned my head from taking the last picture, this is what I saw. With a bit of imagination you can see the water-spout beyond Alfred’s Arches. Last year I decided the Arches, of pussy-willow, had to be cut down and grow out again; then I relented, but in the winter decided that the Arches really were looking tatty. Now I look at them as they start to fill out with young green, and I find the rustic rhythm totally enchanting. What to do? I guess there is so much else that needs doing that this is far from a priority!

The dogs and I make our way down the Arches, past the Garden Celebrating an Imperfect Universe (much more of a priority!) and down to the Makou Dam. Where we stop to enjoy the reflections and the thousands of backlit plants in the arboretum.

Along the edge there is a self-sown clump of the beautiful local lily, Scilla natelensis. Usually they choose stony well-drained slopes, but these, perched on the edge 30cm above the water, are blissfully happy. Which makes me so too.

Around the corner on the dam wall grow the clump of Siberian irises we first planted there 20 odd years ago, and which we thought had disappeared. As you can see – they are back in force! Then we stop to collect stones for a rosemary bonsai I am preparing as a birthday present for Felicity, my dad’s care-giver and my adopted sister.

Here it is, settling in in the greenhouse. I know nothing about bonsai and have never attempted it before. I’m sure my rocks overhanging the container break every rule, but I’m quite pleased with the way I managed to arrange the gnarled plant as though it had grown out from amongst the stones, just like the ones I found growing in the garrigue when I was in the south of France… But onward and upward (to quote my blogging friend Frances…)

I stopped to photograph the pink flowering cherry, but it was the view of the garden that intrigued me. Look how neat the hedges are on the left, and how good the Upper Rosemary Border is looking with its regular shrubby rhythm. To the right of the red azaleas (which are looking great against the long blue line of the rosemary hedge) there is over 100m2 of recently planted scatterpack. It is germinating nicely and a green haze lies across the ground there. I’m hoping for a fortissimo display by December. And in the bed below that the cannas are beginning to make an impression.

 

This is the area I particularly came to see:  the mollis azaleas in shades of yellow and orange near the darkest of our three copper beeches. Let’s take a closer look.

Difficult to capture the luminous darkness of the beech without the orange of the azalea looking washed out by the strong sunlight.

So we need to take a look at the azalea on its own – and even then the light is far from ideal…

The yellow one, in the shade, is easier to capture. But what I can’t share is the heavenly scent of these azaleas.

For richness of colour, delicacy and perfume these azaleas are a match for the best roses can offer – what a pity that they flower for only a week or two!

I spend some time here, treasuring the moment, enjoying the scented shade.

Taubie agrees and joins me; Mateczka and Abigail snuffle around happily, chase down paths, then come back to check all is OK with us. Monty is away patrolling his territory, probably entertaining visitors at the Cheerio tea-garden, relishing his role as the alpha male (human and otherwise) of the valley…

All in all it is a good place to be… especially at this time of year.