Years ago in 2010, I went on a school trip to England to expand my horticultural horizons. My colleague Lis drove us north out of Bath to visit the gardens at Hidcote and Snowshill, and I with camera in hand was photographing everything I could to document my first trip to the UK. As we rode along, a lovely tree line in the distance presented itself to the west. As an admirer of fencerows, I thought the starkness of the tree silhouettes along the flat horizon interesting and snapped a picture. As we drove on, the tree line faded from view, and after some time, from my memory.
“There’s the tree line,” I said to Karen as we turned on to a one lane road last summer during our UK trip. I was now in the driver’s seat. The road was tight with hedges, tighter than any you’ll see in the US. I prayed we didn’t meet an oncoming car.
After a mile or so, we came to a break in the hedge. “I think this is it,” I said as I parked on the road and opened the gate. I hollered a hello and asked if anyone was there. Near the house, a voice rang out.
It was Dan Pearson, and we were at Hillside Gardens. If you haven’t heard of him before, Dan is one of the world’s premier landscape designers and horticulturists. It seems silly to attempt to parse his life down into a few sentences, but I’ll try. His training at places like RHS Gardens’ Wisley, the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh, Jerusalem Botanical Gardens, and the Royal Botanic Gardens Kew has led to a plantastic life. He won many awards at Chelsea Flower Show, including a Gold Medal and Best of Show in 2015, he helped design Tokachi Millennium Forest and the new Delos garden at Sissinghurst, and in 2022 he was awarded Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (OBE) from the Queen. I think this sentence from his bio sums his focus up well. “His work is characterized by an innate sensitivity to place, an intuitive and light-handed approach to design, bold and painterly naturalistic plantings, and deep-rooted horticultural knowledge.”
Dan came out to help us move the car in. Exiting the vehicle we exchanged introductions, and Dan took us toward the sitting area just outside the house. It was a large covered pavilion with a wood-fired stove. The tables were glorious, hewn from large slabs of wood. And, though it was a dry July day, I could see where the gutters fed the rain water into catch basins. In the distance the line of trees stood stolid against the afternoon sky just as they had when I first laid eyes on them 12 years ago.
Huw Morgan, Dan’s partner, came out and greeted us with a jovial smile on his face. Together they have published Dig Delve, an online magazine where they have been capturing weekly the minutiae of their horticultural lives since 2016. Most weeks, Dan provides the words while Huw photographs and offers the occasional delicious recipe. And, of course, out bounced Wren, Dan and Huw’s adorable dog. Dan shared with us their late dog Woody had sired some pups before he unexpectedly passed. We could tell they were happy with her unbridled energy.
They were setting tea and invited us to join, which having travelled from Dover on the other side of England, we gladly obliged. They had biscuits with cream butter and jam. Huw noted they were their own raspberries but not their own strawberries. One of their gardeners John joined us.
We talked about our trip thus far, the changes in life the pandemic wrought, how dry it was here in England, how Dan and Huw work together to manage the design firm Dan Pearson Studio and their private garden Hillside, and how they met, through a friend of a friend.
I said, “Oh, I have a small item for y’all.” I pulled out a photo, the one I had taken of the tree line on the hill 12 years earlier, and I shared the story behind it, just as I did with you readers above.
I chuckled that it was interesting because I had forgotten I had even seen the tree line and had since learned it as Freezing Hill from reading Dig Delve. That is until a month before our trip, I was showing Karen old photos of Bath, and my jaw dropped. There was the line of trees I had photographed 12 years earlier, and that I now knew as one of the borrowed landscape aspects of Hillside. They were both appreciative and tried to ascertain where exactly it would have been taken on the main road. Since the trip was in 2010, Dan shared that I would have taken that photo around the same time they moved into their property here, when it was more farm than garden.
Having finished tea, Huw excused himself to do some work inside, and Dan said, “Let’s go have a look at the garden.” We stepped out from the porch. Right by their house was an herb garden with many familiars like fennel, lavender, sage, and rhubarb. Other species like Echinops (globe thistle) splashed in the beds and a Tetrapanax papyrifer ‘Rex’ (rice paper plant) near the house helped break up the round-mounds of herbs. In the distance I noticed two stone water troughs whose flat tops nodded to the Freezing Hill plateau far away, and beyond those were neat and tidy beds of vegetables. There wasn’t a weed in sight.
Dan talked about how they lived on the grounds for about five years before they planted gardens to get to know the space. They bought the property after the farmer who owned it passed away.
“Are you good to walk up through the meadows,” Dan inquired. “Sure,” we replied, and up we walked following Dan and Wren as grasses and forbs brushed against our legs until we stood on flat ground above the house with all of Hillside in view. It was here I felt the garden’s name so appropriate. Before us, the land sloped downward toward the southwest with the orchard visible before the ground curved back up and started rising past the tree line. To our right was Freezing Hill on the horizon, and to the left we saw a bulge of a hill with a curving thread of a path mowed through the grassy field. Each feature was in it’s own way a stark contrast to the undulating landscape, and both were visible for most of our time walking the property.
Dan pointed out that the ridge we were standing on was where the soil was dug off the hillside and moved to level down by the house, thereby creating two plateaus, one from where the soil was taken and the other where it was added. They terraformed because of the hardships of gardening on a slope like pushing a wheelbarrow. Seeds from a nearby meadow by St. Catherine’s Church were broadcast over this cutaway. He commented their origin was likely near our AirBnb for the night.
Dan then explained how they managed the meadows to create openings for wildflowers to grow. Their greatest ally is Rhinanthus minor (yellow rattle), a hemiparasite that needs the grasses to grow on. After sowing, the Rhinanthus numbers are few, but once the rattlebox numbers build, the grasses are greatly weakened and perish. The rattlebox number quickly dwindles as they have nothing to parasitize. He said the cycle then repeats, ebbs and flows, and allows for the spontaneity of open spots for wildflowers to grow like the patch of wild marjoram Karen stopped to photograph. I recognized this cycle was much like the rabbit and wolf prey-predator cycles I learned about in ecology classes years prior.
Rhinanthus minor seed
Dan commented that such an approach prevented the grasses from dominating and helped encourage species diversity. He pointed to a plant of Dactylorhiza fuchsii, a common spotted orchid that had finished flowering and talked about how the seed need mycorrhizae to be able to grow. He paused and commented, “Well, you probably know that.” I replied, yes, but enthusiastically added that shouldn’t stop him from sharing. I was happy to learn as much as I could.
Dactylorhiza fuchsii
We walked to the end of this plateau and headed back down through a small copse to see the orchard. He commented on the fruit trees saying these were plums, mirabels, and damsons, and there were other fruit trees further below.
As we rounded the corner, a mass planting of ruderals were in full bloom at this end of the plinth that extended westward from the house. It was shocking to see so much color after going through the muted meadows above. I wondered how I hadn’t seen it before now, but I realized the barn and growth on the hillside above had hidden this Pictorial Meadows planting. The Pastel Mix of Ammi, Cosmos, Centaurea, and Papaver provided color while the plumes of winter rye offered texture above.
I was at a loss for words and started spewing adjectives. I probably sounded like a babbling moron to one of the top garden designers in the world, but Dan agreed that it really was spectacular. He commented how other visitors had compared it to walking through a Disney movie.
“Here, let’s walk through it,” something I wouldn’t have been audacious to do. It was hidden from the side, but we found a narrow path through the flowers that Dan said he had made to allow one to be immersed in the planting.
Dan Pearson with Pictorial Meadows Pastel Mix
“Your shirt really matches,” Dan joked. And, he was right. It was an unintentional perfect color combination. Even Karen and Wren had to get in on the photogenic flowers.
Yours truly
One of my favorite photos of Karen
Wren wanted her photo with the mix, too.
We exited the Pictorial Meadows mix and found ourselves at the back barn were a naturalistic planting grew. “These plants are mostly in rubble,” Dan shared. North American natives like Baptisia (wild indigo) and Amsonia (bluestar) were thriving in the gravelly mix, and Stipa gigantea (giant oat grass) punctuated the planting. I noticed how the colors of some species echoed the neutrals on the building. The bronzed Ailanthus altissima ‘Purple Dragon’ (tree of Heaven) and Foeniculum vulgare ‘Purpureum’ (bronze fennel) were a nod to the rust metal and the silvery Eryngium giganteum (Miss Willmott’s Ghost) and Thalictrum flavum ssp. glaucum (yellow meadow rue) played off the gray stone and metal that hadn’t weathered yet.
In a small circle where Erysimum (wallflowers) were fading were a few young pumpkin plants. “The pumpkins are late, everything is,” Dan said, attributing it to a cool spring.
Stipa gigantea
Ailanthus altissima ‘Purple Dragon’, Eryngium giganteum, Foeniculum vulgare ‘Purpureum’, and Thalictrum flavum ssp. glaucum
Foeniculum vulgare ‘Purpureum’
We then walked back toward the house along the plinth they had made by bringing in excess soil, past the vegetable garden where corn, peas, lettuce, zucchini, and other vegetables grew in neat little boxes framed with aged metal.
Asparagus officinalis and Tropaeolum majus ‘Mahogany’
We returned past the house and paused by a little planting near the milking barn that glowed in the afternoon light. “Oh, Liatris pycnostachya (prairie blazing star),” I said. Dan shook his head in agreement. We talked briefly about how it grew in Texas along ditches and in forest clearings. Here it was planted with Sporobolus heterolepis (prairie dropseed), which grows well for me, and Bouteloua gracilis (blue grama), which I kill. In the background were Calamagrostis × acutiflora ‘Karl Foerster’ and giant fennel rising against a third water trough to soften its hard edges.
We then walked up the steps pasted our parked car to a long linear grassy path that ran between the hedge by the road and their perennial garden. Dan talked about the history of this space. This spot was where they had their first vegetable garden and trialed plants like Sanguisorba (burnet) and various asters to get a feel for what they would do on site. He commented that the choice ones were in the planting, and threaded underneath all the foliage were the asters waiting to emerge for autumn.
Dan paused for a moment to stoop and pull a few weeds along the edge. I asked him about mulching and he said he used much of it. He commented that a few weeds were making their way back in to the beds. I said, “Well, everything looks great,” thinking I hadn’t see a weed yet, and he in typical gardener fashion said, “I see everything that needs to be done.”
About halfway down the hedge, a path into the garden appeared, and we walked into the middle of the planting finding ourselves surrounded by the coolness of pinks, purples, and blues amid a sea of various green textures.
It was in this space that I asked him the one question I wanted to ask before we arrived—how he could perceive right plant, right place so well? I commented how in his writings he will talk about how the slightest perceived detail will determine what plant will go there.
He said this skill came with time and practice, of getting to know the plants and place intimately. He had been doing it long enough that it became second nature. Part of it was experimenting and feeling his way.
We paused in the center of the planting for a chance to soak it in. The garden exuded elation. It was a celebration of plants and how they should be grown, together. Each plant seemed to be in its prime as if each one was right where it should be.
We both mentioned our love of Clematis ‘Rooguchi’ (hybrid clematis); here it was scrambling up mostly hidden hazel branches, a technique I also noticed they used on tall plants like Sanguisorba. We talked about how electric blue Salvia patens (gentian sage) was. We discussed frustrations with Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar) and how I had seen it in the wild the previous April. A pink Asclepias incarnata (swamp milkweed) brought Karen into sharing how she reared Monarchs in the spring. And, at a lone Cercis griffithii (Afghan redbud) Dan mentioned how he was gifted the plant and thought the glaucous foliage would go well with the colors in this spot. Each plant had a conversation with it as we made our way down the slight curving path.
Clematis ‘Rooguchi’
Sanguisorba supported with branches
Cercis griffithii
Salvia patens
The path terminated at a metal gate, and a stream planted with Inula magnifica 'Sonnenstrahl' (giant fleabane) and Filipendula ulmaria (meadowsweet) was visible just in front of us. Beyond was the hillside field with the narrow walkway through the grass that we had seen from the meadows above the house. A bit down the hill and to our right Persicaria alpina (knotweed) and Sambucus nigra subsp. canadensis ‘Maxima’ (elderberry) dotted the grass through the space toward the pond.
Persicaria alpina and Sambucus nigra subsp. canadensis
Pointing southward, Dan shared with us that they owned the next two hills over, the one we saw with the thread of a path through it and the hill behind. He reiterated the farmer who owned the property before them had kept vegetation in check to grow as much grass as he could. But, they had relaxed the land and allowed the wildness to return.
“They will mow the grass soon. They were talking of doing it today, so you are lucky you saw the path,” Dan said to us. He went on to explain once the grasses start growing, they bring sheep in on them again, and then they graze hard so that the rattle box he had showed us earlier can germinate and control the grasses the following spring.
He excused himself for a moment to move a hose while Karen and I stood there soaking up this part of the garden. After Dan returned, he said, “Let’s head back up the path.” We passed the blues, pinks, and purples we had seen earlier. The path forked, and suddenly an incredible planting of yellows and whites was revealed to us.
Euphorbia ceratocarpa, Digitalis ferruginea, Hemerocallis altissima, and Kniphofia rufa
“Wow, I had been so focused on the blues I had totally missed this bright planting,” I said. Dan smiled, and I could tell he enjoyed the surprise reveal much like we had with the Pictorial Meadows mix earlier. “We went the quiet way first,” Dan commented. It was shocking going from such cool colors to the rich brilliance before us.
In this space Digitalis ferruginea (rusty foxglove), Hemerocallis altissima (tall daylily), Hemerocallis citrina (long yellow daylily), and Kniphofia rufa (red hot poker) erupted from a layer of Euphorbia ceratocarpa (Sicily spurge). Dan commented on how both daylilies were night-flowering, moth-pollinated plants and were starting to open.
Kniphofia rufa
The sun was softened against the high clouds. Dan commented how the light was just right during our visit, and I said that Huw had recommended late afternoon as our time to visit when he and I first corresponded several months prior.
Since the grouping of yellows was at the fork in the path, I could explore how the sunlight interacted with it. With our back to the sun, the plants beamed yellow. But, after walking behind them, the planting glowed against the setting sun filtered through high cirrus from the back. This spot provided such a good example of how to use plants to play with light dynamics in the landscape.
Yellows with the sun to our back. Euphorbia ceratocarpa, Digitalis ferruginea, Hemerocallis altissima, and Kniphofia rufa
Yellows facing the sun.
Standing at the fork, I noticed that the upper path had more warm pinks, reds, and oranges. Most prominently in this space were Fergus Garrett’s collection of giant fennel from Turkey that billowed into the sky above. I asked if Dan paired the giant fennel to play with the browns and pinks here. “Yes, I did,” he said confidently. We brushed pasted dots of white and pink Dierama (angel’s fishing rod) that hung over the path. We passed blocks of Stachys officinalis (betony), Parthenium integrifolium (wild quinine), Veronicastrum virginicum (Culver’s root), and a lovely crimson flowered Nicotiana (tobacco). Along the way here, too, Digitalis ferruginea speared the sky.
Stachys officinalis, Nicotiana sp., Veronicastrum sp., and Parthenium integrifolium
At the top of this path where the gravel terminated, the reds and oranges became more prevalent. The crimson red Hemerocallis ‘Stafford’ was a warm welcome to this entrance. I noted how the orange in Asclepias tuberosa (butterfly milkweed) echoed the hues found in a fading Bupleurum. And, I admired the placement of Amicia zygomeris (yoke-leaved amicia) to highlight the crimson stipules.
Hemerocallis ‘Stafford’
Asclepias tuberosa and Bupleurum sp.
Amicia zygomeris
Dan looked toward the pond that they freshly dug. Wren was in the water so Dan excused himself so he could go spend some time with her as she was wanting to play. He encouraged us to explore the property and noted that the view at the top of the hillside in the distance was quite nice.
Before heading to the top of the hill, we explored the lower path to the left of the fork. Here, yellows faded into whites. It had become clear to me that grouping colors was a strength in this garden. The creamy buttons of Scabiosa ochroleuca (cream pincushions) danced along one side of the path. On the other Veronicastrum virginicum, Chamaenerion angustifolium ‘Album’ (fireweed), and Thalictrum ‘White Splendide’ (meadow rue) provided upright white that popped against the foliage of plants like Selinum wallichianum (milk parsley) and Salix purpurea ‘Nancy Saunders’ (purple willow).
Scabiosa ochroleuca, Veronicastrum virginicum, and the foliage of Selinum wallichianum
Chamaenerion angustifolium ‘Album’ and Salix purpurea ‘Nancy Saunders’
Sanguisorba officinalis ‘Red Thunder’, Salix purpurea ‘Nancy Saunders’, and Thalictrum ‘White Splendide’
Having indulged ourselves with the perennial garden, we headed toward the top of the hill that Dan invited us to explore. We walked back to the bottom gate where we had stood earlier amongst the cool colors, swung it open, and walked over a single log wooden bridge that Karen lusted after to cross the stream where the Inula rose to brighten the space. We turned around to catch a glimpse of the perennial garden before trekking upward.
On the other side, we walked the single mowed path through the grassy field to the top of the ridge and turned around to view Hillside in all its glory. From here we could still see the treeline on Freezing Hill. It was all spectacular, and even from hundreds of feet away I could still make out the individual silhouettes of plants in the perennial garden. The masses of Veronicastrum. The spears of Digitalis. The eruptions of Ferula. We just stood there, taking it all in.
Karen and I walked back through the garden one last time soaking up the golden light as it glowed on the planting. By this time, Wren had found us and wanted to play a bit, too. It seems we were being pulled into playtime as well.
Huw Morgan and Wren
Back at the house, Huw and Dan came out, and we said our goodbyes. I thanked them prolifically for their time and their hospitality, and they said they were glad they could share their garden with two visitors from the US. We left, driving the same road we travelled to head to our AirBnb for the night, and as we drove away we caught one last glimpse of the tree line on Freezing Hill.
It has been a year since we visited Hillside, and I often still think back to that afternoon, the warmth of the garden and the hosts. Even the non-horticulturist Karen comments about how she enjoyed her time there.
However, it is a world and a time away now. I still enjoy reading Dig Delve to learn about the progress they are making. In reading their weekly posts, I felt like I had snippets of their garden, but visiting Hillside was like reading the book. Being there I could tell they loved the land by every decision they made. Instead of endless reaping from the land like the previous owner did and like so many of us still do, they gave and gave and gave until nature runneth over in beauty and ecology. To me, that’s the hope and the value of the time that we spent with them, to better ask how can we all, as Dan said, allow the land to relax a bit for the wild to creep back into our gardens.
Even a year later, I’m looking at Ephemera Farm wanting to do more land management. I think of creating more spontaneity in the plantings. I think of how to illicit surprise in the garden. And, I think about the warmth of our hosts and that July sun that hovered above the tree line on Freezing Hill. I do hope to see it again one day.
