Longwood and Stoneleigh in November

I’m still processing through photos from my recent trip to Philly to keynote the Ecological Landscape Alliance’s conference Regenerative Solutions for Resilient Landscapes. I’ve already written about my visit to Chanticleer and the things that I learned there. Today, I wanted to share my visit to Longwood Gardens and Stoneleigh with you. I love these two gardens for all that they have to offer horticulturally. My only regret was that I didn’t have more time!

LONGWOOD Gardens

Since the conference was held at Longwood Gardens, I found a few gaps during the day where I could explore. Longwood’s Chrysanthemum Festival was wrapping up, but there was still plenty of beauty to see in the conservatory. This combination of the purple Salvia leucantha (Mexican bush sage) was striking with the white mums.

I finally got to experience the giant Thousand Bloom mum! I’ve had this horticultural marvel on my bucket list for a while, and I was fortunate as this year is the first year it’s back after a two year break. This specimen of ‘Susono-no-Hikari’ has a total of 1,366 blooms, stretches 12 feet, and it took 18 months to grow it from a single cutting!

We have Senna bicapsularis (winter cassia) growing on campus, but this lighter flowered form named ‘Butter Crème’ turned into a standard was striking.

The contrast between the carpet of Chrysanthemum × morifolium ‘Himegokoromo’ (mum) and Sansevieria (mother-in-law’s tongue) was so striking. I thought this could also be easily done with summer annuals like vinca or Profusion zinnia.

Chrysanthemum balls hang above this reflecting pool in the conservatory. Don’t you just love the wall of plant tapestry beyond?

I made my way down to Peirce’s Woods to enjoy some of the fall color of Longwood. This mass of Deschampsia cespitosa (tufted hairgrass) was a nice foil for the colors of Cornus florida (flowering dogwood) and Hydrangea quercifolia (oakleaf hydrangea) to pop against.

The seeds of Halesia diptera (two-winged silverbell) glow like ornaments against a hazy sun.

I always chuckle seeing Eupatorium capillifolium in gardens because it is a weed around my house. But, what a spectacular weed it is! This selection is appropriately named ‘Elegant Feather’.

I swooned over these Sarracenia (pitcher plant) bowls near Pierce’s Woods. They had such a wild yet formal look to them.

STONELEIGH

The next day I made my way to Stoneleigh with Steve Foltz after we visited Chanticleer. Stoneleigh is a young garden that is building quite the reputation for its focus on natives. I’ve covered it in previous posts during visits in June and August, and I interviewed director Ethan Kaufmann on The Plantastic Podcast. But, having never visited it in the fall, I was excited to see what treasures the garden held at the end of the growing season. We were fortunate that Lead Horticulturist Eloise Gayer gave us an engaging tour of the grounds.

Looking up towards the house at Stoneleigh we enjoyed the fall color of Rhus scattered about.

When I visit gardens, I keep my eyes peeled for good color combinations, even if the plants are not close. For example, these fuschia-colored fruit on Symphoricarpos orbiculatus (coralberry) were a glorious color. Then…

…when I got near the house, I noticed these Opuntia humifusa fruit glistening with rain. I didn’t recognize the color echo between the two until I got home and started going through photos. That’s the benefit of taking many and processing them after a trip!

‘Tis the season of the witchhazels, and Hamamelis virginiana ‘Green Thumb’ was in full bloom. I always admire these plants that hug the end of the gardening year. Is it the end of one growing season or the beginning of another?

I have longed to be able to grow some of the heat-sensitive Acer pensylvanicum (striped maple) in the deep south, but I’ll have to settle for seeing them when I travel north. The orange-red stem color of ‘Erythrocladum’ with these bleaching yellow leaves were a nice analogous pairing.

While they can look a little ratty due to the faded pitchers of the growing season, my favorite time to see Sarracenia is in autumn when many species produce fresh fall pitchers. The colors on them seem even more vibrant than when they first emerge in the spring.

Near the bogs, these Aronia arbutifolia (red chokeberry) were loaded with fruit. Ethan shared with me that this selection seems to be heavier fruited than others in the trade.

I can now say that I have seen a Baccharis halimifolia (sea myrtle) hedge! The white pappus added a nice effect to the tapered plant. On the right was another native that generated some discussion while I was visiting Philly gardens—Helianthus argophyllus or silver-leaf sunflower. The leaves feature a gorgeous silver pubescence, and then in autumn the plant is loaded with flowers.

We just had to stop and admire the twisting, sinuous bark of this Thuja occidentalis (eastern arborvitae). Eloise told us this specimen was one of her favorite plants at Stoneleigh.

When I visit Stoneleigh I’ve delighted to see cultivars of native plants I never knew existed. This garden was the first place I ever saw the weeping Cladrastis kentukea ‘White Rain’ (yellowwood). The fall color was just starting to show.

My first time experiencing fall color on Franklinia alatamaha (franklinia) was this trip to Philly. I had heard it turned a brilliant red, but I had never experienced it for myself.

And, even after the leaves fall, Franklinia leaves are blood red. The rain helped saturate the color.

At first, I thought this groundcover was native Pachysandra (pachysandra), but upon closer inspection I was delighted to see a thick carpet of Phacelia bipinnatifida (fern-leaf phacelia). In another correspondence, Ethan shared with me that this ruderal makes a great groundcover before flowering in the spring and going to seed.

And one last photo showing the new lovely water feature in Catalpa Court.

Chanticleer in November

I had a wonderful trip to Pennsylvania earlier in the month keynoting the Ecological Landscape Alliance’s conference Regenerative Solutions for Resilient Landscapes. The next day, I garden hopped to see some of the great flora of the region.

I so love traveling north in autumn to experience fall before the color starts to show in east Texas. Some years due to our drought and heat, that’s the only color I see. While the Philly area was just past prime for fall color, there was still plenty of leaves hanging on.

One of the highlights was visiting Chanticleer. While it had closed for the season, Steve Foltz, Director of Horticulture at the Cincinnati Zoo and Botanical Garden, and I got a behind-the-scenes tour of how the garden shuts down for the winter from dear friend and grounds manager at Chanticleer Jeff Lynch. Since Chanticleer was closed for the season, Jeff talked about how the garden deconstruction had begun and apologized saying that things didn’t look as good. Steve and I chuckled, because we knew that on a scale of 1 to 10 this meant things had gone from a 14 down to a 13.9. Tsk tsk. Jokes aside, visiting this magical garden anytime of the year is worthwhile to see the craft that the horticulturists have wrought through the seasons.

Bill Thomas also joined us for part of our visit, and it was good to catch up with him and get his perspectives on how the garden was changing. New paths were being installed for permeable paving, and we talked about how much of the garden equipment had gone to battery powered. I left inspired, and I hope that in the photos that follow you find inspiration and ideas, too.

The best fall color I’ve seen on Frangula (Rhamnus) caroliniana (Carolina buckthorn). The fruit of this native are beloved by birds.

A ‘Candy Roaster’ winter squash hangs in the vegetable garden in a macramé net. I’m always amazed how they make every inch count at Chanticleer, and that includes growing plants vertically.

A myriad of foliage textures and colors including Acorus, Pulmonaria, Brunnera, and Helleborus emerge from freshly fallen leaves. This time of the year is wonderful to inspect the garden for interesting basal foliage.

Jeff Lynch said that Epimedium ‘Domino’ (barrenwort) is one of the best performers for them. Even when not in flower, it forms a wonderful green carpet.

Leaves of all shapes and sizes float in a stream at Chanticleer.

Dan Benarcik grew these seedling Metasequoia and used them as a miniature forest in the tennis court garden step planters. It’s a cute idea to use saplings that pop up in plantings.

The rain picked up for a bit while we were in the tennis court garden. At this time of the year, I could really see the winter bones emerging. For example, the lime green stems of Cornus sericea 'Bud's Yellow' (yellow-twig dogwood) popped against Taxus × media 'Hicksii’ (yew).

Areas of the lawn where bulb displays are planted are not cut in the spring until the bulbs have time to store up energy for next year, and then after their initial cut, they were kept short. But, this summer to be more ecologically friendly and provide habitat for insects, they mowed these areas about once every six weeks. The halo in the image above shows one of these areas that had just been cut.

Massive Strelitzia nicolai (white bird of paradise) made it through two nights of around 25°F Jeff said. He also noted the ingenious idea one of the gardeners had of building a wire cage around plastic pots, filling it with sphagnum, and then planting the quickly spreading Chlorophytum comosum ‘Variegatum’ (spider plant) in the sphagnum to hide the pot.

But, the Aechmea blanchetiana ‘Hawaii’ didn’t fare as well. Even in their demise, the ghostly foliage still look stunning.

The flowery lawn behind the house is always inspiring to me. Using a mix of fescue grasses as a matrix to plant other things into is a brilliant idea. The yellow foliage was from Hemerocallis ‘September Sol’ (daylily).

A bowl of fruit on a table near the house shows the abundance of the season. How many different species can you identify? I see blackened Musa velutina (hardy orange), Magnolia gynoeciums, the orange Rohdea japonica (sacred lily), the yellow Citrus (Poncirus) trifoliata (hardy orange), and green brains of Maclura pomifera (osage orange).

Avid readers know I’m an aster nut, and this Ampelaster caroliniana (climbing aster) on the elevated walkway made my jaw drop. Jeff provided an excellent scale of just how large this climber was. It’s a later flowering plant that can usually skirt around light frosts.

This incredible yet little used climbing aster deserves a close up! Even though the garden was closed, these treasures could still be seen.

I have longed to see a mass planting of Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar) in the autumn, and this display quinched that thirst. Pycnanthemum incanum (hoary mountainmint) seed heads dotted throughout were a nice touch. The foliage has also dropped enough off the Salix alba ‘Britzensis’ behind to see the firey stems smoldering.

Asian woods were all aglow with colors from Acer palmatum (Japanese maples) and Lindera angustifolia (aka Lindera salicifolia, Asian spicebush).

The comment was made, “Look up!” Above us we saw a majestic and enigmatic Emmenopterys henryi (emmenopterys) with its persistent bracts. To see it in flower this summer would have been stunning. The species has only flowered a handful of times in the US, and people are still trying to understand the flowering mechanics.

Up on the rock ledge we were able to appreciate the complexity and coherence of colors and textures around the pond. I love the echo of the white bark of the Plantanus (syacmore) with the white pappus of Baccharis halimifolia (sea myrtle).

The gravel garden was mostly absent of flowers, but the evergreens contrasted nicely with the grasses.

A late Liatris elegans (elegant blazing star) still has colorful, lavender-colored bracts

Steve and Jeff stand next to a beautiful specimen of Hydrangea anomala subsp. petiolaris (climbing hydrangea) that scales the ruin at Chanticleer.

One of my favorite Hydrangea quercifolia (oakleaf hydrangea) cultivars is SNOWFLAKE™ (‘Brido’). I love the double bracts, and in the fall the foliage turns lovely shades of maroon.

Acer palmatum ‘Sango-Kaku’ burns bright in the Sporobolus heterolepis (prairie dropseed) prairie.

Where some gardeners might see disaster, at Chanticleer they see opportunity. This fallen tree uprooted part of the garden in Bell’s Woodland, but after making paths accessible, they allowed the rootball to remain. Now, asters bloom on this green wall, a seedling Cercis (redbud) has sprouted on the top, and other seeds have been sown to take advantage of this windfall. We talked about how the holes they leave behind in the ground are great habitat for salamanders and frogs.

Symphyotrichum drummondii | Drummond's aster

We’ve had our first light frost a few weeks early.  It was 29°F the morning of our Fall Plant Fair.  Figures. As if I didn’t have enough going on that day.  

At home I brought in what I could and covered a few things that I hadn’t finished enjoying for the season like my Passiflora coccinea (red passion flower) that just started flowering.  Further in the garden the cold was enough to wither the tender Ipomoea alba (moonflower), blacken the Senna alata (popcorn plant), and collapse my various Celosia cultivars.   

However, the late season perennials march on, slightly burned from the chilly air.  Helianthus angustifolius (swamp sunflower) now has white halos on the rays, and Symphyotrichum georgianum (Georgia aster) is still standing tall, its purple frills a bit sagging.

One plant that made it through unscathed is Symphyotrichum drummondii, or Drummond’s aster.  Its persistence is wonderful for all the insects that swarm this native.  Fiery skippers, hornworm tachinid flies, bees, wasps, and various others dart from bloom to bloom underneath the waning sun in a vanilla sky.  The dainty flowers—white rays with yellow disks that fade to a light pink and eventually brown—bob on their arching stems with all the activity.

Sprays of Symphyotrichum drummondii spill through Eragrostis spectabilis.

Here the disk color shift on Symphyotrichum drummondii from yellow to pink to brown is apparent.

Having these late season flowers are not only good for garden ecology but also for having late season color since it flowers for four-to-six weeks in October and November. And, in a world of confusing asters, I was happy to see the heart-shaped leaves at the base with long petioles that helped narrow it down to Drummond’s aster. As the foliage rises early in the spring, their shape offers a different texture amongst the finer grasses in the garden.

I give the plant a good cut back in early-to-mid spring when it still has its basal leaves.  So many of our asters bulk up enough foliage in late winter that they are triggered into flowering by the short days.  The reduction in foliage resets them for fall flowering and prevents ganglyness.  In summer, the basal foliage disappears as the wiry stems elongate and produce sprays of side shoots that will eventually be covered with flowers.

Symphyotrichum drummondii finds its way amongst other Asteraceae members.

I’m not 100% sure where my plant originated as it just appeared in my garden.  I noticed an odd basal rosette of leaves that whispered aster. I was patient to see what it would become, and I was greatly rewarded.  That’s not always the case with stowaways that find their way into the garden.  My guess is it was a seed stowed away on a clump that I wild collected, or perhaps it sprung up from bird droppings.  But, no matter how it found its way here, I’m happy it did.  

Drummond’s aster spills over the patch fence amongst Celosia and Gomphrena.

My single clump has enlarged enough that I made four divisions off it this past spring. And, next spring I plan to repeat that task so that I and the creatures that share my garden have even more frothy flowers to enjoy.  

The Grand Opening of the Plantery Trial Garden

This past Thursday night was one of the highlights of my life. My colleagues and students celebrated the grand opening of our new 7,000 square feet trial garden in the Plantery, our student botanic garden on campus. This project has been in the works since we applied for a $32,000 grant last fall with the Center for Applied Research and Rural Innovation. We requested the funding to build a trial garden to evaluate herbaceous native plants in the southeast similar to the gardens you see at Chicago Botanic Garden or Mt. Cuba Center. I can’t tell you how many hundreds of hours went into this project, but we are beyond proud to have it to the point where we can open it to the public.

I’ll have a more detailed post at some point in the future, but I can provide a brief design synopsis. Since the site is sloped, we decided to build a terrace out of 1/4 inch metal similar to Corten steel with steps running offset through the middle and a platform near the top. Our aesthetic in the Plantery is for the space to look like a reclaimed farm since we are part of the Department of Agriculture, and when the metal rusts, the patina will fit in nicely with the landscape. Their are five large terraces that will allow us to do replicated trials of natives over three year periods, and the surrounding space will feature less formal evaluations of species. Perforated pipes were installed and covered with grit to allow for rainwater capture on site so that the terraces don’t turn into the Plantery waterfall garden.

What amazed me was the capability of our team and the spirit of the students. We didn’t contract things out. No, instead it was over 30 students working alongside faculty to get this project accomplished and learn lifelong skills. We still have to finish planting some things in the spring, but it is so good to get the garden to a point where we can share it with others. Here’s a few pictures to give you a sense of the site.

The site in February 2023 before we began deconstruction

The new terraced trial garden in November 2023

The bottom of the trial garden will feature a Sporobolus prairie with a mixture of herbaceous perennials.

The terrace steps are a big improvement over the previous iteration of the site. They now have consistent rise and run.

We integrated our trial garden grand opening into our Fall Plant Fair where we sold student-grown plants. And, if you’re going to have a grand opening, it is important to have cake and mocktails! Enjoy these photos of the night.

Kate, one of our Plantery apprentices, made this beautiful terraced cake to match the terraced trial garden. Notice the already rusted metal, the gray gravel Rice Krispies, and the graham cracker soil. Such talent!

Tess (L) and Kate (R) cut the terraced cake and served it. It was delicious and a highlight of the night.

We also had three flavors of autumn-themed mocktails. Tess (R) and three of her hospitality friends served them for attendees.

We also had wonderful acoustic music from local artist Jackson Wendell.

And, with a plant fair, we can’t forget the plants! Students grew some great winter annuals for our attendees to purchase.

The weather had cooled off, and Dr. Michael Maurer reprised his role of managing the s’mores station.

An overhead shot of the s’mores station showing how our summer color somehow made it through the 29°F the morning before!

Our other plantings that students had done were in their fall glory. The gravel garden grasses were in their full haze, and in the veggies behind in Sprout looked delicious.

We also debuted a new logo this fall thanks to Kubs Kubisch in SFA marketing. Not only do we have shirts but also a swanky new sign painted thanks to our talented Plantery apprentices Jadyn (L) and Kendal (R).

We did a trial run of putting colored panels on the glasshouse this fall for a fun effect, and they glowed with the twinkle lights behind.

An overhead shot of the Plantery with luminaries and twinkle lights all aglow. You can also now see in the terraced trial garden that we have a gator accessible pathway through the Plantery, something that we were greatly lacking before.

And, one last shot of the terrace steps with luminaries. This night will be one I will remember for many years to come thanks to all the hard work from my colleagues and students.

Lycoris radiata | red spiderlily

It’s finally autumn, and I certainly am celebrating this year after our torrid summer.  It’s amazing how different the garden looks.  A few rains, cooler night temperatures, and shorter days make a world of difference on plant growth and my sanity.  

After such a harsh summer, it’s a miracle that plants survived.  Geophytes are fortunate, having waited out the worst of it dormant in the ground.  And, for me there is no better harbinger of autumn than red spiderlilies.  

I grew up with Lycoris radiata back in Tennessee where I heard them called naked ladies since they bloomed sans foliage.  We had several massive clumps on the south side of our house that were so old they didn’t flower well.   I never really appreciated them for what they were, a plant that could take the worst of summer and pop up days after a rain.  To me they were old fashioned and not new and cutting edge.

My tastes have changed in the fifteen years since I left home.  I’ve learned that not everything new is good and to see a plant for what it’s truly worth.  I now have a hefty collection of Lycoris bulbs.  They have come from three locations near our home.  

A few originated here at Ephemera Farm.  One of the joys of buying a new property is discovering plants that aren’t visible when the closing paperwork is signed.  The fall after we moved into our log cabin, a single inflorescence emerged along the east fencerow between barbed wire and a lone water oak.  Even from almost 300 feet away I could make out the coral red amongst the shadows.  Shaded out for years the bulbs had sat there quietly, barely photosynthesizing enough to sport a flower let alone stay alive.  Once more rains came, the foliage appeared in a neat row following the fence line.  I dug them and moved them to a spot closer to the house.  I counted 60 bulbs.  

Another 200 bulbs came from near an old oak on a backroad that likely was some old home place.  I’m glad I got them when I did.  The oak and the surrounding forest are now gone as they clearcut the woods this past spring.  

And, I noticed some growing along the fencerow of one of our neighbor’s property four years ago.  I asked him if I could dig the clump, and he obliged.  I counted 258 bulbs from what I dug, save for the handful I gave him as a thank you.  

So, by my count I’ve planted at least 500 Lycoris radiata in my time here, and this time of the year I love to see the flowers of my labor.  Where I found them is a testament to just how tough these bulbs are.  Most of the Lycoris radiata in the southeast are triploid and thus labelled the variety Lycoris radiata var. radiata.  A tripled chromosome count means that they don’t produce seed, but that saved energy is diverted back into the plant for vigor.  

For now I’ve had them lined out on either side of the front pathway between the double fence surrounding the patch. They don’t all flower at once, which is both a blessing and a curse.  The good is that I get to enjoy them for over a month’s time as the bulbs hydrate and spring forth, their scapes rising in bud like a candle with a waxing flame.  But, the bad is there inevitably are gaps.  I wanted more of a shock and awe effect with their bloom.  I mean can you imagine over 500 Lycoris radiata in flower at once?  I have seen pictures of understories that look like a crimson tide.  And, as I have begun planting the front of the patch with more perennials, I find the Lycoris more difficult to see.  Also, it’s a pain to dig into dormant bulbs all the time.  

I’m leaning toward moving them into the grassy areas in the orchard, a space where I dominantly have reds, pinks, and yellows.  And, to help me decide, this evening I picked a handful of Lycoris blooms, pried the turf’s soil open with my soil knife, and stuck the stems in to get a sense of what they would look like in this space.   I stood back and was happy with the result.  

And, come a cold winter day when I’ve forgotten just how hot summer is, I’ll move the bulbs with their green and gray foliage to this space to enjoy the flowers for many autumns to come.  

Granddad's Cowpeas

I’m always delighted at the people who say they’ve read my story on my website and how they learned that my great-grandfather got me into horticulture.  His name was Eron Edward “Crip” Conley.  Crip was a heartless nickname that came early in life when someone accidentally chopped off two of his toes with an axe.  But, I knew him as Granddad because that’s what mom called him, and even though he was my great-grandfather, the name stuck for me.  

He was the man that taught me to garden.  We used to work his plot together, he pushing his Troy Bilt and I following behind raking our footsteps left in the tiller’s wake.  We buried tomato stems to help them form new roots. We used string to mark straight rows.

Once he realized my interest, he started a small plot for me to grow some of my favorite vegetables like corn, beans, and tomatoes a few feet away from his garden.  Any question I had he could answer.  I loved every minute of gardening with him.  

He passed away when I was 12 going on 13.  The year after he died, my Granny, his daughter that lived with him in his house, allowed me to take over his garden since we didn’t have a good spot at our house due to the shade.  And, his absence and the desire to learn more about growing would take me on a path that would eventually lead to a Ph.D. in plants.  

But, that’s a different story. Today’s tale goes back to that first year I inherited his garden spot.  It was a piece of land about 30 feet wide and 50 feet long.  That year I grew what I normally would grow—tomatoes, corn, and beans.  But, off to the side of the garden I noticed what looked like a bean plant but wasn’t.  Once it got some heft to it, I realized it was a cowpea, and it was a seedling from Grandad’s crops the past year. Though he had left me, one single seedling from his plants from last year had germinated. I was delighted and ecstatic. I let it grow in the less than optimal spot, and at the end of the growing season, it produced a single pod with nine seed in it.  I planted those seed the next year and the next and the next until I had saved up a nice bag of seed. They were much more vigorous growing in better soil.  I’ll be honest. I really didn’t like to eat them back then, but I did like to use them as a cover crop, their nodules fixing nitrogen in my garden’s soil.

2007 was the last year I had a garden up at Granddad’s house because I moved away to graduate school in 2008.  The peas went into the fridge in my parent’s basement and were forgotten.  

I was home this past March, and I saw the bag in the fridge.  It hadn’t been touched in 16 years. And, now that I was a connoisseur of cowpeas, I was curious if they would still grow.  I had yet to find a good variety that I liked to cultivate here in Texas.  I had thought at times of Granddad’s peas, but I was worried they might fail here like many of my other plants I used to grow in Tennessee. I did a test sowing of the seed to make sure they were still viable after sitting in a fridge for 16 years, and sure enough a few days after putting them in a bagged moist paper towel, out they popped.

After prepping the beds, I sowed them using the trick of holding a waist-high piece of PVC pipe to plop the seed in the tube to limit bending over as I walked down the row. A few days later up they came.  I cared for those plants like it was the first plant I ever grew so many years ago.  I fertilized them, I thinned them, and I even used our mini-Dyson to vacuum leaffooted bugs off them (don’t tell Karen!).

The lovely purple flowers of ‘Conley’ cowpea

They grew and flourished, the first purple flowers appeared, and then came the blushed pods and green peas.  I ate the first couple of handfuls of seed in the garden raw.  It’s an acquired taste I suppose you could say—earthy and fresh, but sans bacon grease that we normally use to flavor them.  And, with the first mess, that’s exactly what we did.   

But, what were they?  Sure, they were my Granddad’s peas and a family heirloom, but I loathe not having a cultivar name. Greg Grant and I bounced possible cultivars of black-eyeds, Crowders, and purple hulls off each other but none stuck based on flower color, seed pod, and seed color.  The closest we got was ‘Whippoorwill.’  So, for now I will call them ‘Conley’.  

What amazed me as much as 16-year-old seed germinating and successfully growing was the number of insects the plants attracted.  From cultivating them years ago in Tennessee, I don’t recall the plethora that I now see flitting and stirring in front of me as I make my way down the row. Gulf Fritillaries, Gray Hairstreaks, American Bumble Bees, Winged Red Velvet Wasps, Eastern Tawny-horned Spider Wasps, Swarthy Skippers, Northern Cloudywings, and Clouded Skippers were a few of those I could identify.  Even in the leaf litter below I found assassin bugs waiting for prey. They were coming because cowpeas have extrafloral nectaries on the leaves and the inflorescences. Most species that have these nectaries outside of the flowers attract beneficial insects that then reduce pests on the plant. And, in such a rough summer where much of the garden was a desert, I was happy these insects found sweet nectar in my the oasis of my pea patch.

Gulf Fritillary

Northern Cloudywing

Clouded Skipper

Common Thread-waisted Wasp feeding from extrafloral nectaries

Gold-marked Thread-waisted Wasp

But, the plants are now tired, and the pea harvest is coming to an end. I have enough dried seed for next year and perhaps a batch or two for New Year’s. I’ve started clearing the vines to make way for collards and other greens that will no doubt accompany the first meal of 2024 with them. As I was clearing the vines dotted with pods I overlooked picking, I noticed a single cowpea had broken ground and germinated from the recent rains we’ve had. And, I thought back to many years ago when I found that first pea seedling that gave rise to the 60 foot of row I’ve enjoyed this summer.

I doubt anyone has ever rejoiced over cowpeas this much, and I doubt Granddad thought anything special of them. They were probably just what the farm store had in stock that day.

But, to me, these seeds are priceless. That’s the power of saving seed. The act transcends generations. Saving seed reminds us of who we are, who we were, and who we are going to be. One day when Magnolia is old enough to help me sow seeds, I’ll share this story with her. And, I hope that after I’m gone, she’ll keep growing these cowpeas, too.

Passiflora 'Incense'

The weather lately has been brutal.  Since June 24, we’ve gotten a mere 0.4 inches of rain at Ephemera Farm.  The heat dome has made the usual summer dryness worse.  I’ve lost count of the days that have been above 100°F; the worst we’ve had at the house is 114°F.  It is discouraging watching plants wither away, whether it be transplants I just plugged this spring or the ancient post oak that’s turned brown up the road. I can only drag so many hoses and sprinklers. But, these extremes inform the mean and help me better understand what plants will survive for the future, whether the weather is extreme or not.  

Take my two year old Passiflora ‘Incense’ that has still been blooming and growing through it all. I was afraid that I lost it this past winter; however, once the days warmed, ‘Incense’ was lit, and it exploded into growth from the roots that overwintered.

Passionflowers are quite vigorous, but ‘Incense’ is a hybrid, developed in the 1970’s by crossing our native Passiflora incarnata with the tropical Passiflora cincinnata. Being a hybrid, it is pollen sterile, which means that it doesn’t produce fruit and is able to redirect that energy back into growth. I planted it in a back spot along our blackberry fence where every summer the soil dries out. There it could grow wild, and it has been fairing well with little irrigation.  I did finally break down the other day and throw a hose at the base.  

First instar Gulf Fritillary nibbles on an ‘Incense’ bud

Hanging by a thread… make that tendril

It looked good and lush up until recently. But, the heat and drought wasn’t the issue; the caterpillars were. The Gulf Fritillaries we’ve enjoyed darting around the garden had found the plant and laid their eggs. The spiny orange larvae look fearsome, but as long as you don’t eat them, they are harmless.  

The butterflies reach their peak in the fall when we have a few dozen that enjoy our autumn flowers. Now, we’ll have even more as soon they will crawl away, make their chrysalides, and enjoy the flowers that will come with autumn. There’s a “cold” front forecast this week that will drop temperatures below a hundred, and we got 0.25 of rain Friday evening. Better weather is on the way.

An adult Gulf Fritillary clings to Schizachyrium on a cool autumn morning

Enjoying Peaches

One of my first aspirations for Ephemera Farm was to plant an orchard.  It didn’t have to be big.  I just wanted somewhere we could go out and pick some fresh orbs ripened in the summer sun.

Fruit trees take time to grow, so determining where was a priority when we first moved here.  I decided after a year of watching the sun traverse the property to plant fruit trees in a small patch west of the house.  The area was mostly full sun and rode the mesic line of a shallow hillside. The space allowed for about a dozen fruit trees. Diversity was key, especially for the peaches and nectarines, as I never know what might afflict a single cultivar.

I used the Harris County, TX “Recommended Fruit and Nut Varieties” guide to chose varieties for warmer climates. For us in east Texas we reliably get somewhere around 800 chilling hours, though some years it has been as low as 500. Chilling hours is the amount of cold below 45°F that flower buds on a plant need to perceive to flower. So, having some with low chilling hours and others with a bit higher count helps increase the chance that a crop will bear with either an inadequate amount or a late freeze.

That’s what happened this year. ‘Tropical Beauty’ and ‘Sunraycer’ are the only two so far to make it to bearing age. I got them as larger three gallons instead of little whips. The late March freeze we had zapped all the open flowers on ‘Tropical Beauty’. The buds on ‘Sunraycer’ had barely opened, and I was delighted to see a few weeks later the start of a good crop.

The tree was loaded with fruit for its first crop.

I was so afraid that the heat that set in at the beginning of July would cause the fruit to abort, but they continued to get larger and started to blush. A few days before Magnolia was born, I set up our motion-activated sprinkler to keep the raccoons off the tree.

Once we got home from the hospital, I picked the first fruit. It was glorious, sweet and juicy and ended a bit tart. But, it was at this moment I realized that I don’t think I have ‘Sunraycer’, though I’m happy to be corrected by any experts out there. One, the skin has fuzz meaning it is a peach. Peaches and nectarines are the same save for a single gene that conveys fuzz on peaches and a smooth skin on nectarines. And, two the skin color doesn’t really match. ‘Sunraycer’ is a fully crimson red skin while mine is yellow-orange with a red blush. Being sold the wrong cultivar frustrates me so. But, at this point, I’m not going to cut the tree down.

The supposed ‘Sunraycer’ nectarine

I went out each evening and gave each fruit a gentle squeeze on their blushed spot before picking. I know, you’re not supposed to squeeze a peach. But, it was a good check for ripeness. In total, I picked over 50 fruit off the tree. Dad and Mom came to visit, and I made a cobbler from the pickings for us to enjoy. 

Peach cobbler ready to be enjoyed with vanilla ice cream. My favorite is Tillamook’s vanilla bean.

I grew up eating what mom called poor man’s cobbler where the ingredients are just poured together instead of making anything intricate.  Though cherry was my favorite growing up, it wasn’t until I had peach cobbler at my friend Jeff’s several years ago that I fell in love with Prunus persica. Before that I wouldn’t touch a peach. And, now I am growing them! The proud moment of the day was when Mom said that I had beaten her on taste with my cobbler, though I was just following the recipe I had from Southern Living. She attributed the better taste to my using more fruit than she typically does.

And, because we don’t like anything to go to waste, we saved the peach skins and boiled them with a 1 part water : 1 part sugar simple syrup. Once filtered, it keeps in the fridge for a week, and we use it to flavor teas.

Peach syrup is Karen’s favorite for flavoring teas.

We put up two jars of fruit to capture a bit of summer for later this year. It’s such a joy to be able to preserve the goodness of these warmer months.

An Afternoon at Hillside

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.

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“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.

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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.  

The Plants of Oudolf Field

A couple weeks ago I wrote about our morning visiting to Oudolf Field last summer on our trip to the UK. I felt the content too long to try to cover it all in one piece, so I decided to focus on overall design approaches for the first part and the plants for the second part. To walk through an Oudolf planting is a masterclass in planting design. To see the knowledge and experience that a man has observed and witnessed over a lifetime of working with plants made real in front of you creates for breathtaking scenes and pairing. What delights me is how simple some of them were, even if it was a bright morning with strong light that intensified the colors and made the shadows harsh.

Exploring Oudolf Field I was armed with a nice guide that I bought in the gift shop that showed a fold out of the design along with plants that were included in each section. I’ve used that to help me key out some of the plants included below. Feel free to let me know if you see any errata.

An analogous color scheme featuring reds, pinks, blues, and purples. A few of the stars include Helenium ‘Moerheim Beauty’ (sneezeweed), Veronicastrum virginicum ‘Erica’ (Culver’s root), Echinops bannaticus (globe thistle), Thalictrum delavayi (Chinese meadow-rue), and Eupatorium maculatum ‘Atropurpureum’ (spotted Joe Pye weed).

Near the entrance to Oudolf field were plants primarily in blocks where they could play off each other. For example, here the soft yellow of Nepeta govaniana (catmint) contrasts well with Echinops bannaticus (globe thistle).

Here you can see the repetition of white spikes of Lysimachia ephemerum (willow-leaved loosestrife) and Veronicastrum virginicum. Such repetition helps make a planting feel more cohesive.

And, just in case you couldn’t see how amazing Culver’s root is from the above image, here’s another featuring ‘Diane’. Wowzers! I don’t think I’ve ever seen Veronicastrum virginicum look this good in the US.

The silvery-blue satellite dishes of Eryngium alpinum (alpine sea holly) really pop against the chartreuse Sesleria autumnalis (autumn moor grass).

Phlomis russeliana (turkish sage) always has such good texture in the garden with the large leaves and butter-colored verticillasters, and its audacity here is softened by the slender Panicum virgatum ‘Shenandoah’ (switchgrass) and Persicaria amplexicaulis ‘Firedance’ (red bistort).

I loved the unruly looking Datisca cannabina (false hemp) next to the neat sombreros of Helenium ‘Moerheim Beauty’.

Piet Oudolf says that brown is a color, too, and that’s certainly true of these brown seedheads from Monarda bradburiana (Bradbury’s beebalm). I’m not sure how I feel about their early demise. It feels too soon with the riot of color around.

And, some of the pairings were so simple and easy. Take how the purple highlights in this clump of Pancium virgatum ‘Shenandoah’ (which I’ll add here looks a bit more purple than the maroon I’m used to) plays off the burgeoning spikes of Liatris spicata (dense blazing star).

In the middle of the field was the Sporobolus heterolepis meadow where many species erupted from the prairie dropseed haze, and with a good breeze it was fun to watch Dianthus carthusianorum (Carthusian pink) and Echinacea pallida (pale coneflower) straight species and ‘Hula Dancer’ dance in the wind.

I liked how the silvery Amorpha canescens (lead plant) amorphously blended into the silvery seedheads of prairie dropseed.

One of my absolute favorite combinations of the day featured the differing textures yet echoed colors of Sedum ‘Matrona’ (stonecrop), Allium christophii (Persian onion), and Sporobolus heterolepis.

Towards the back of the field, the plantings shifted more back into block style planting. From this angle, you can see a wonderful combination of purple plants featuring Symphyotrichum lateriflorum var. horizontale (horizontal calico aster), Stachys officinalis ‘Hummelo’ (betony), and Panicum virgatum ‘Shenandoah’. The glaucous Eryngium yuccifolium (rattlesnake master) punctuates the planting.

In some parts Nassella tenuissima (Mexican feather grass) was woven through the planting, and with the wind it added such movement to the planting.

It amazes me just how black Symphyotrichum lateriflorum var. horizontale gets in the UK, and really it is just that the plant is further north. For us, these asters tend to be green with a smudge of charcoal. And, how good is the aster paired with the dark inflorescences of Molinia caerulea 'Edith Dudszus' (purple moor grass) in the foreground!

Designers talk about transparent perennials, and I so wish that I could add Sanguisorba officinalis ‘Blackthorn’ (burnet) to my planting palette here in the south. It’s like looking at giant pink cupcake sprinkles—I just want to eat it up!

Karen stands for a sense of scale of the billowy Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar). Even in the UK, these bluestars can get huge!

A nice patch of the bronzed Aruncus ‘Horatio’ (hybrid goat’s beard) stands between a mammoth clump of Eupatorium maculatum ‘Atropurpureum’ and an elongating Symphyotrichum novae-angliae ‘Violetta’.

And, we saw many pollinators in the planting. I was delighted to watch this bee dot around on our native friend Asclepias incarnata (swamp milkweed), and when I got the photos on my computer, I was even more thrilled to see that I had captured some orange milkweed pollinia stuck to its feet!