The big spring tour from Courtyard to Cottage

Join me, my friends, as we wander through the gardens. I can share all that is happening and all that I have made. This is no mere guide. I hope with this piece, you'll feel like you're really here!

Breathe it in, my friends! 🌿

Take a long, slow, deep lungful of spring! The kind that’s laced with the sweetness of blossom, a spritz of narcissus perfume, a dash of leaf-mould magic, and maybe just a hint of freshly disturbed compost… ahh, nature’s cologne, splash it around! Bathe in it!

Beneath our feet, the garden is stretching its limbs and yawning itself awake, wrapping us in the soft green hug of soft new leaves, as birds pipe and flute cheerful tunes and the bees bumble and buzz like they’ve had one too many nectar-shot espressos. There’s something utterly irresistible about this season.

My winter lows tend to loiter well into February, clinging like cold damp socks. But the very moment the spring equinox flicks its switch - “Click!” - I feel myself rising like an army of spring bulbs surging through frostbitten soil. Shoulders back, chest out, head up, and hello again enthusiasm! Hello energy! The black dog, tail between legs, disappears over the garden hedge with a whimper.

For me, spring is less a season and more a grand annual reawakening. A glorious, scented fanfare of new beginnings and hopeful mayhem. It’s petal-powered mood medicine, with a gentle accompaniment of birdsong. And yes, the old bipolar brain throws its usual fireworks into the mix, but these days we’re mostly on the same team. Mostly.

Right now, the garden is so full of good things I don’t quite know where to look. I’m like a gardener let loose in a half-price perennial sale, with sparkling herbaceous wonders in every direction, and not enough boot space to hold them all. So let’s steady ourselves. Take a breath. Arm in arm, if you fancy, we’ll stroll gently through this mêlée of greens and burgeoning life. But first… “Click! Clunk!” let me swing open the gate and invite you inside.

Welcome to the spring garden

With the huge timber gates yawning on their hinges, you are most welcome to join me on a little tour. Don’t linger out there in the cold shade of the fir tree, step into the sunshine! It’s far more agreeable on this side. The warm air circulates here, heated in the sun-trap driveway, intensified by white walls, heavy with the very finest spring perfume. Step inside, my friend, and let the gentle hush of this hidden courtyard give you a little cuddle. So glad you could make it!

The driveway is overflowing with narcissus perfume: honeyed, vanilla, jasmine ribbons swirling around our chests and filling our hungry nostrils. To me, each breath feels like I’m drinking sunshine. I’m quite mad for it. It’s intoxicating! Just out of sight, tucked behind the open gates, skimmias blend the bouquet - their lily-of-the-valley notes enriching the scent and giving the whole thing serious boutique-perfumery energy.

In this sheltered courtyard, the air doesn’t rush—it loops and lingers, growing heavier and headier as the sun climbs. With so much fragrance, this is pure, unfiltered spring bliss. (Yes, I know I sound like a walking poetry book. I’ve made my peace with it and so should you… There’s plenty more on the way!) Thankfully, only the birds see me fling open the front door, close my eyes, and inhale dramatically like a woodland sprite. No shame. No shame whatsoever

Crunching across pale cream gravel (a gentle nod to the nearby Cotswolds) we pass our largest olive. Still young but maturing nicely, underplanted with erigeron, all in a beautiful A Place in the Garden zinc planter. Yes, I’m name-dropping, but just look at it! Its fabulous! Admittedly, I do have a bit of a weakness for planters, as you’ll see.

We reach the Courtyard…

The garden’s radiant ‘look at me’ centrepiece (and by far the most popular garden on Instagram). Six years ago this was a lone bench and three straggly olive saplings. Today, there are over forty vintage galvanised planters - buckets, boilers, baths, troughs, dolly tubs - arranged in what I like to call ‘curated maximalist chaos!’ They’re beautifully mismatched, all with that dreamy powdery grey patina. You’d think I’d stop collecting. Oh, but you’d be so wrong!

Providing the structure and height, a medley of evergreens: Bays with their double-helix trunks and deep glossy green fragrance, Olive’s grey-green shimmer, Pittosporum’s silver-edged elegance, and the glaucous cool of a young Eucalyptus. Tucked between the trees, centred right beneath each cottage casement window, deep riveted water troughs brim with Rosa ‘Desdemona’, their fresh new leaves still garnet, stems tucked beneath a froth of Mexican fleabane just about to bloom.

Lean in and explore the narcissus—see if you can catch a hint of bay leaf, or maybe a whisper of wallflower beneath their rich perfume. This is definitely the place to pause. Let the hum of bumblebees and the babble of water settle the pulse. Warmth, light, sound, and scent… this is spring’s alchemy. And you, my friend, are in exactly the right place.

Now glance down—go on, don’t be shy. Every conceivable gap has been enthusiastically (and perhaps a little obsessively) claimed by vintage buckets and old boiler pots, the odd gleaming white marble thrown in for a note of difference.

They’re all jostling shoulder to shoulder, cheerfully overflowing with white blooms: purest whites, buttery creams, palest creamy yellow from narcissus, tulips lifting their creamy white goblets skyward, and bright white iberis tossing peppery perfume into the mix like it’s seasoning the air. Primroses and muscari chime in too with their lemon drops and grape juice. The perfume hangs heavy here in the Courtyard, lush, rich, and heady, like Spring is wearing her best party fragrance.

Let’s take a moment, shall we? Pull up a slightly wobbly bistro chair, lean back, let the sun kiss your cheeks. Listen: the soft bubble of the lotus bowl, the low lazy drone of bumblebees, a robin’s silvery and melodious warble, and above us, bay and olive leaves whispering in the breeze. Breathe in deeply… to me, this is spring, distilled. And just you wait until June—when those roses unfurl, creamy and decadent, right at nose-height. You’ll have an olfactory front row seat. I highly recommend a return visit! Shall I book you in now?

From this sun-drenched courtyard, cast your gaze across the gravel drive to the Cottage Garden. Already it feels like another world entirely - shadier, cooler, with its deep luxuriant verdancy. Up there, a white bench nestles between two shaggy Viburnum tinus standards. Is it just me, or is it beckoning us onward? Let’s leave this sun-baked corner behind and step into a deep green calm. Crunch… crunch… crunch…

To the cottage garden

The heat dissipates with every step. The air softens, turns fresher. As we climb the shallow sleeper steps, we pass beneath the Gothic Arch—an elegant gift from Agriframes—that now towers above us, perched on the front borders that rise over a metre above the Courtyard. Its frame is still bare, and the roses freshly planted. But return in two summers, and ‘James Galway’ will have claimed every inch. Look down: already, satisfyingly chunky shoots are unfurling… are they promising a canopy of bloom to come? Let’s hope so.

This arch and its roses now stand where two dwarf cherries once grew. Their blossom was fleeting but lovely. Sadly, too fleeting. And their overly enthusiastic roots sapped moisture and nutrients from the whole border. I lifted them as gently as I could and rehomed them in the Flower Garden, where they have a family of cherries for company and my regular attendance. A bittersweet farewell to their ephemeral spring show, but in exchange: summer-long roses, fragrance, and the bold vertical lift of this glorious, slightly imposing arch.

Look either side of the steps and you’ll see the rose border glowing with spring’s renewal. Fresh leaves gleam bronze and ruby where the dappled light lands. Rosa ‘Desdemona’ flanks the entrance, while ‘Olivia Rose Austin’, ‘Queen of Sweden’, ‘Scepter’d Isle’, ‘Harlow Carr’, ‘Emily Brontë’, and 'Mill on the Floss’ extend a soft-shouldered procession from gatepost to garage and beyond.

Between their thorny canes, forget-me-nots and snow-white tulips are deliciously entangled, their pastel nodding blooms catching the breeze. On the shady flank, behind the roses, hellebores with their rich burgundy double blooms casually bump into tulips and Narcissus ‘Thalia’.

Filling the gaps in-between, lime-green mounds of Geranium ‘Rozanne’, Alchemilla mollis, and Astrantia major grow daily with each fuzzy leaf taking a small, satisfying scoop of bare soil. In a month, every centimetre will be covered. And there, see those garnet peony shoots pushing skyward? Give them just a few weeks and they’ll erupt into full floofy glory: enormous, blousy blooms, all soft ruffles and pink delight.

Let’s step onto the ‘lawn’ and pause here for a moment… let your feet gently sink into the moss. Yes, moss… not grass. Isn’t it wonderful? So lush and spongey, it lets out a small sigh beneath our feet. I don’t regret letting the grass decline, nor yielding to the steady advance of moss. It was never much of a show lawn anyway. But oh, the relief! Free at last from the tyranny and dogma of the ‘perfect lawn’. This mossy green, peppered with wildflowers and stray seedlings from the borders, is far gentler and far kinder.

(My neighbours probably think I’m a disgrace to gardening)

The air is so much cooler here. You can really fill your lungs. There’s a delicate, peat-rich perfume, spiked with the faintest sweetness - crushed grass, perhaps? Or is it moss? Probably. There’s always moisture in the air and a gentle woodland-floor musk, the legacy of last autumn’s leaves still carpeting the borders. Lifting those earthy notes, the first panicles of wisteria are just beginning to unfurl their soft violet wings, releasing a velvet-smooth perfume into the cool shade. That’s Wisteria floribunda 'Issai' (Domino). A gift from my parents. Lush.

To our right stands the Hornbeam Border. The shade here is dark and deep. Let’s take a closer look—though mind your footing… this subtle slope has a knack for catching you off guard.

Step under the green shade of the hornbeams and feel the temperature dip. It’s a cool, jade-lit haven after the bright glare of the dazzling Courtyard. Overhead, new hornbeam leaves tremble with the softest whisper in the breeze, glowing like stained glass in a thousand shades of chartreuse. Only the fresh leaves of beech rival these for the title of ‘most perfect spring green.’

At their feet, ferns uncurl from coppery knuckles, lengthening into luminous green fiddleheads. Winding their way through the hornbeams, a blend of Polystichum setiferum (the soft shield fern) and Dryopteris filix-mas (male fern). A ribbon of Brunnera ‘Jack Frost’ lifts the shade with metallic, silvery leaves, while tiny forget-me-not-blue flowers float like joyful notes in the partial gloom.

Arching stems of heart-shaped dicentra weave through the fresh foliage of Japanese anemones, hardy geraniums, and astrantias. The evergreen forms of Irish yew columns, clipped box balls, and tussocky Libertia grandiflora give the whole border a quiet backbone. One day, I’ll lay a soft woodland path winding through the cool hornbeam alcove, with a simple seat tucked within—just somewhere to sit and cool off when summer temperatures peak.

Continuing our circuit, we slip beneath the dappled shade of lofty silver birch and ash, their new leaves whispering above us in a soft sussurrus. Perched on the bank, these trees cast a gentler kind of shade - high and light, like gauze. The ash, ever the dawdler, still stands bare-branched: the last to leaf and the first to let go.

The bank border is a world of rounded shapes and quiet punctuation. I could only say “topiary” with an acutely raised brow - it’s more suggestion than precision! The buxus balls are decidedly fluffy and overdue for their spring trim, and the Viburnum tinus ‘Eve Price’ lollipops are positively wild-haired and shaggy. Only the cloud-pruned privet looks remotely presentable, having recently submitted to razor-sharp Japanese steel. Still, the whole scene hums with character. These orbs, blobs, and lopsided globes bounce along the border with gentle repetition.

Among them, stout stems of recently pruned Hydrangea ‘Annabelle’ are beginning their ascent, unfurling the palest green leaves. At the bank’s edge, fluffy cushions of Geranium nodosum, G. macrorrhizum, and spotted pulmonaria tumble onto the mossy lawn. Their dainty flowers (white, pink, and blue) swaying in a gentle dance. Take a closer look at the bank: forget-me-nots and sweet woodruff, Galium odoratum, have claimed every inch of soil. In a week or so, this whole bank will shimmer with a blanket of starry white blooms.

Let’s pause on the white bench. Close your eyes, just for a moment. Hear that? A wren’s bright trill echoes between trunks. Chaffinches, blue tits, and sparrows chatter in the hornbeams. Bumblebees buzz in their bumbling way around the Viburnum blossom, bobbing from bloom to bloom, and the breeze sighs softly through the canopy. Take a breath. Fill your lungs. The world is very gentle here.

Glancing to the right, your eye lands on a radiant Acer palmatum, its fresh leaves glowing in a cheerful, lemony green. The fine feathery foliage reaches out several metres, yet casts the lightest shade. It’s the only acer in the garden planted directly into the ground—a bit of an experiment at the time, but a gamble that’s paid off beautifully.

Despite our strong alkaline soil, this tree has absolutely thrived. It was a gift from a neighbour, and after years of being root-bound in a too-small pot, it now stretches wide and happy in its new home—easily four times the size it once was. A quiet triumph, and a reminder that sometimes, taking a chance in the garden leads to something unexpectedly wonderful.

Further along that border, a whole gang of Annabelle hydrangeas are waking up, mingling effortlessly with Digitalis lutea, aquilegias, thalictrums, Japanese anemones, and astrantias. These plants spill into each other like old friends at a garden party, and together they do a fine job of covering Annabelle’s bare legs. Behind them, a tall yew hedge stands like a deep green wall… dark, steady, and solid. A foil for the planting, but also marks the quiet divide between this space and what lies beyond: the Kitchen Garden.

And just like that, we’ve come full-circle. In front of us now, the sunny rose border glows with the promise of what’s to come. But the tour doesn’t end here. If you’ve read this far and thirsty for more, follow me around to the east side and see what’s stirring in the Kitchen Garden…