The June Garden: Floof, Fragrance & Flop

From acers to alliums, here’s a brisk walk through my gloriously overgrown June garden. Roses are shouting, delphiniums are dancing, and even the peas are performing.

Hello again, and welcome back. It’s June and the garden has basked in weeks of warm sunshine with barely a drop of rain. Everything has grown tall and lush, spurred on by that early spring warmth. Though I can’t help but feel they’ll be paying the price for such early vigour.

It could be a trip to Flop City, so plant supports were installed early and reinforced every week. Watering is strictly limited to pots, newly planted additions, and leafy crops in the veg beds. The root veg? They’re left to fend for themselves. It builds character and flavour. They’ll get their share when I want them to swell.

But enough of the climate-induced highs and woes. Step inside, my friend. Don’t linger at the gate. The birds are singing. The garden is waiting. Let’s take a brisk stroll through together.

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A Nose Full of Rose

The t-shirt and shorts are on, wide-brimmed hat firmly on the noggin. Last time you visited, the driveway was heady with the scent of narcissus. But now? Now, it’s the season of the rose, and oh, are they in their pomp! The whole garden is smothered in blooms, pumping out a heady mix of old rose, fruit, and myrrh. It’s like walking through a particularly decadent apothecary.

Just a tidbit of info: across the gardens there are over 30 cultivars and nearly 70 shrubs, climbers and ramblers.

Just on your left, behind the gates, is the shady Kitchen Courtyard. Rarely seen, rarely shown. It has potential, though it’s a tricky spot. In deep shade from October to March, then hot and sunbaked all summer. In my mind, I see it as a grand new container garden, filled with shade lovers on one side and as the planting arcs round, they become unabashed sun worshipers.

Still dreaming. Still plotting.

Anyway, for the moment, it’s currently home to the hellebores, quietly recharging after their spring show in the main Courtyard. They’re tucked around a large, riveted galvanised tank where Viburnum tinus ‘Eve Price’ stands centre stage, underplanted with Erigeron and skimmias. Skimmia for winter scent. Erigeron for summer floof. And floof is a word you’ll hear a lot today! This garden is bursting with it.

As you crunch along the gravel drive, we pass two galvanised buckets of Ilex crenata (Japanese holly) flanking a handsome zinc planter from ‘A Place in the Garden’. It holds our largest olive tree, again underplanted with frothy Erigeron. The hollies keep the olive company because it just looked a little stark without them.

I imagine your nose is tingling by now, breathing in the mingled scents: bay leaves warmed by the sun, a wisp of mignonette, an undertone of peony, and the unmistakable waft of rose from ‘Desdemona’ blooming nearby.

As we move closer, we pass a pair of armorial lion guards (a dash of theatrical fun) flanked by white marble bowls. A Lotus Bowl pool gently babbles, sending soft echoes of water and shimmers of light across the courtyard walls. The Courtyard Garden is really a study in zinc with the occasional stone or copper flourish: buckets, boiler pots, troughs, dolly tubs, baths, hoppers and tanks. A quiet industrial glamour.

The Courtyard isn’t quite in full summer swing yet. It’s still building to its crescendo. There’s plenty lingering from spring: the white violas, the floofy clouds of Erigeron karvinskianus. The mood remains tranquil, calm, a tapestry of greens and silvers. Glaucous juniper, silvery pittosporum, deep green bay and peony, the pewter sheen of olive foliage, and lavender in soft green grey.

Peony ‘Shirley Temple’ was headlining just days ago, flaunting her enormous, blousy blooms with a blush of pink. But now? It’s Rosa ‘Desdemona’ stealing the spotlight, arching gracefully into the space and perfuming the air with every breeze.

There’s a gentle, refreshing ripple of breeze through the Courtyard, with the occasional gust funnelling down from the ash and birch above. It stirs the whole canopy into motion: a feathered shuffling, trembling, and shimmering of leaves. Dappled light dances across the lawn in the Cottage Garden beyond… and that, my friend, is precisely where we’re heading next.

The Cottage Garden: Literary Blooms & Shaggy Charm

We pass the fluffy yew hedge, still untrimmed, and gloriously so. That fresh lime-green growth gives it a shaggy charm. It practically begs to be stroked, like some sort of horticultural labradoodle.

Climbing the steps, you’ll spot Geranium nodosum self-seeding into the crevices of the gnarly old sleepers. Nigella, sown earlier in the season, is popping up with feathery fronds. And here comes Rosa ‘James Galway’, romping cheerfully up the sides of the new Gothic arch from Agriframes.

On either side of the path, more ‘Desdemona’ in full bloom. And just beyond, a whole book club of roses: ‘Olivia Rose Austin’, ‘Mill on the Floss’, ‘Harlow Carr’, and ‘Emily Brontë’, all gathered in fragrant conversation.

At the top of the steps, two box balls sit like fluffy sentinels, also untrimmed, giving the whole scene a soft and inviting feel. Stepping onto the lawn, we’re suddenly surrounded by a sea of green. To the left, herbaceous perennials wrap around a yew cone, which points like an exclamation mark toward a towering clump of Thalictrum ‘Black Stockings’.

There’s a splash of yellow from Aquilegia ‘Lemon Queen’, guiding the eye toward the fresh chartreuse leaves of a Japanese maple. In front, a lush, ivy-covered embankment, seamlessly blending into tree trunks, fence panels, all swallowed in glossy green.

I know some gardeners can’t wait to rip it out their ivy. I did, once. But the embankment is a tricky spot: steep, dry, and shady. Finding something that could cover the ground, fix the soil, limit erosion, and suppress weeds? Ivy won, in the end and it’s easy enough to tear back when it outstays its welcome.

At the foot of the bank, Hydrangea arborescens ‘Annabelle’ is gathering strength, not yet in flower, but swelling with promise. Libertia grandiflora is already dancing in the breeze, its white flowers fluttering like butterflies. And around their base, the pulmonarias have collapsed into a proper post-party slump. They’ll be cut back soon. A brutal haircut, but one that encourages fresh growth. Meanwhile, Geranium nodosum and macrorrhizum keep the colour going and the bees bouncing.

Let’s pause at the white bench, a focal point and a fine place to rest. It’s only up close that you’ll notice the Viburnum tinus ‘Eve Price’ either side, riddled with beetle damage. The leaves are almost scorched, they’re so badly chewed. Slightly distressing, yes, but that’s the trick to being a relaxed gardener: don’t look too closely.

From here, if you glance through the arch toward the courtyard, you’ll notice how the roses all turn their faces toward the house. Compared to the dappled sun filtered through the trees, the cottage walls reflect the brightest light, and after all, roses do love their spotlight.

Right, onwards to the Hornbeam Border and the cool of the shade.

The Hornbeam Border: Ferns, Epimediums & Head-Scratching

This little patch always feels like its own slice of a woodland glade. As we round the corner, we’re greeted by arching stems of Solomon’s seal, their pale, bell-like flowers dangling like antique pearl earrings. Mounds of Japanese anemone ‘Honorine Jobert’ are muscling in, doing their best to swamp the scene.

At the feet of the hornbeams, the hardy ferns (Dryopteris filix-mas and Polystichum setiferum) are holding their own marvellously. Some of them are a metre across now, having bulked up from the dainty 20cm specimens I planted. They create a kind of soft forest floor effect, green and shaggy and wonderfully Jurassic.

Threading through them is Brunnera macrophylla ‘Jack Frost’, catching the light with those silvery leaves and lifting the gloom. Toward the front of the border, we pass box balls, aquilegias (now self-sown), and spent geraniums waiting for the chop.

And then we reach that patch. A tricky, shady, dry strip that gets a blazing blast of morning sun. Then heavy shade. A horticultural contradiction. Add in the dryness and it’s a real trouble spot. I’ve added a mix of epimediums here, all tough-as-nails varieties that tolerate dry shade. A few more ferns have gone in too, carefully chosen after long chats with their actual growers - people, not web pages and chat bots.

They’ve had their settling-in soak, plus a couple of deep follow-up drenchings. Even in this particularly dry spring, they’re already knitting together nicely. It’s very much trial and error here. The gardening books always gloss over these awkward little spots, the bits that don’t comply to the norms.

You can do all the research in the world, but in the end, you just have to cross your fingers and get planting. And let’s be honest… the plants haven’t read the books either.

Oh, and I’ve added a white marble column, salvaged from the skip, no less. Placed just right, it draws the eye up from the drive to the white bench beyond. Sounds rather grand, I know, but somehow it works and it was free. A classical accent among all the woodland scruff.

Next stop: the Cutting Garden and Kitchen Garden and possibly a detour via a peony or two.

Kitchen Garden: Peas, Pagodas & a Few Plant Crimes

We pass ‘Shirley Temple’ once more: pale, full, and pink with the faintest blush. You’re quite right to stop and bury your face in a bloom. It’s the classic scent of a florist’s shop: powdery, heady, a little nostalgic.

Crunching over the gravel, echoing off the garage walls, we arrive at a small theatrical flourish… the white pagoda-style beehive in the Cutting Garden. It’s surrounded by Erigeron and lavender, now flowering profusely. The lavender’s looking particularly pleased with itself after a ruthless late-summer haircut. Green, fragrant, gloriously fluffy.

The hydrangea mopheads are budding up again, which is a relief. After looking so dreadful for so long, they were brutally cut down to the ground a couple of years ago. But just look at them now: lush, strong, and healthy. A reminder that sometimes, harsh intervention pays off. No guts, no glory.

The Cutting Garden itself? Well… ahem… it’s a bit of a jumble this year, and that’s being kind. Last summer it was a dahlia haven, but now it’s more of a mishmash: sweet peas climbing a makeshift frame, a very formal row of tomatoes, Nigella seedlings, patches of Calendula, self-sown dahlias have made an unexpected return, rising spectacularly from missed tubers.

Around the edge, you’ll see all the in-and-out pots. Things that have either gone over or haven’t yet gone in. There are tubs of agapanthus waiting to dazzle, and a few Hydrangea paniculata I rescued from the Flower Garden. Swamped there, they’re thriving here. I’m almost tempted to put them back… but I think they’ve earned their Terrace ticket and we’ll have plenty of show-stopping blooms.

Stepping into the Kitchen Garden proper, we’re now amongst the raised beds, packed with edible promise. Broad beans are standing tall (no sign of blackfly yet… but give it time). There are neat rows of carrots, lettuces, beetroots, salad leaves, and chives. Some crops, like the rocket, have already bolted and been unceremoniously twisted out and flung into the compost.

Next bed: calendula, tomatoes, squash, and coriander that’s bolted dramatically into three-foot towers. Garlic chives and spring onions are doing their best impression of being organised.

Beyond that, the Blauwschokker peas, flopping unrepentantly over their supports and attempting to smother the poor tomatoes beneath. They’re beautiful though: burgundy and pink flowers, deep purple pods. I’ll let them finish their show, then clear them out and let the tomatoes breathe and bask in the sun.

In the last beds, more onions including the glorious Roscoff (sweet, pink, and best I’ve ever grown), interplanted with sweetcorn. Then an entire bed of dahlias, already budding up. These are the Dutch-grown tubers, incredibly healthy, vigorous, and ready to perform.

Among the dahlias, I’ve tucked in whatever I had spare: more sweetcorn, the odd courgette, a rogue cucumber. It’s a bit of a patchwork, but that’s half the joy. Bare soil is a missed opportunity in a productive garden. Stuff them in!

And the peas. Oh, the peas. They’re podding now, and while a few make it to the kitchen, most are unashamedly eaten on the spot. Sunshine-warm, sugar-sweet, fresh from the pod. Cooking them would be sacrilege.

In front of us, the wild bank is looking thoroughly dishevelled. Blackfly are having a rave on the docks, but that’s intentional. A messy corner acts as a decoy, drawing pests away from the crops. The alkanet has collapsed (as it always does) and it’s overdue its big summer chop. A month from now, it’ll be back, three feet tall, full of bees.

Around the Kitchen Garden, forlorn pots and planters are filled with straw-coloured leaves. The spring bulbs (mostly narcissi) have died back naturally and ready for me to lift them, clean them up, and store them in the garage until autumn rolls back around.

Time is ticking, so let’s loop around to the Terrace Garden and my beloved Shady Table.

The Terrace Garden & Shady Table: Acers, Hostas & Gentle Babbles

More crunching gravel underfoot now as we make our way past the slightly less glamorous corner: trays of seedlings, compost bags, staging tables, a tangle of old hosepipes, piles of plastics pots. The behind-the-scenes bit. You know. All the glamour.

And then, we arrive at the Terrace. The first thing that catches your eye is the deep red Acer palmatum, the Japanese maple. Once a tiny weedy bargain-bin plant from Costco, now a showstopper. It’s graduated through several pots and now sits grandly in a handsome zinc planter, thriving despite the odds.

In the dappled shade beneath the acers, there’s a cool, calm understory. Ostrich ferns, Japanese forest grass, and Hydrangea ‘Limelight’ all mingle, softening the space. Out front, Rosa ‘Eustacia Vye’ is absolutely smothered in blooms and stealing the show.

Cobbles cover the roots of the acers now. A defence against strong sunlight (keeping their roots cooler) but also the blackbirds and squirrels who seem convinced treasure lies just under the surface. But the planting is looking wonderful: the balance of foliage and texture, movement and stillness.

The Terrace is a grand procession of acers (nine in total) each in a large planter, some zinc, others reclaimed cast iron boilers with ornate bath feet from Catchpole & Rye. Apparently acers aren’t supposed to like metal containers, but mine haven’t got the memo. They’re thriving, as long as the planters are shaded… no hot roots, thank you very much.

The terrace is peppered with architectural stonework: finials, balusters, and urns that lend a grounded elegance to all the froth.

There’s fragrance too. The peonies, planted in blue-and-white ceramics, are glorious. ‘Alertie’ is here white, with a delicate blush and an irresistible perfume. Reine Hortense, blush pink with outstanding fragrance. Their combined scent hits you as soon as you step onto the terrace.

The newest arrival here is Rosa ‘Young Lycidas’. Deep purple, almost blackcurrant, with flowers larger than my hand. Richly perfumed and very dramatic. It’s hard not to stop, gawp, and inhale deeply.

And then we come to the Shady Table. Rebuilt last year, as the last one was beginning to sag and buckle. Now it’s a beast. Aircraft carrier proportions. Solid, broad, and commanding. But painted a muted grey, so it all but disappears under the planting.

It’s surrounded by giant ‘Blue Angel’ hostas in galvanised baths, Japanese forest grass, and large ferns crowding around the bubbling lotus bowl water feature.

On the table itself: Hosta ‘Halcyon’, ‘Blue Mouse Ears’, ‘Bressingham Blue’, and a host of others I can never remember the names of (I will never be a plantsman.) I’ve added Solomon’s seal and epimediums this year. A little variety, a little flair. It’s a picture. And, miraculously, almost no pest damage.

Just beyond, the first of the potted dahlias are budding. They sit proudly in galvanised buckets, flanked by topiary box cones and balls, all pleasingly woolly.

At the kitchen end of the terrace, we’ve had a reshuffle. The largest box cones now frame the largest acer in its handsome riveted tank. The smaller acers that once flanked it were constantly scorched by sun and wind, so they've been moved to more sheltered spots. One now sits proudly on the terrace beside the Shady Table, adding an extra dimension of foliage. The other waiting patiently in the Cottage Garden for a permanent home.

The benches? One has migrated to the Kitchen Garden. It had a broken slat and needed a little love. The other, has had a good scrub (you don’t want to know how much bird poo was involved) and now sits serenely among the topiary. From here, you can look right down the terrace to the red acer at the far end. A satisfying vista.

There’s another lovely peony here too, ‘Sarah Bernhardt Red’. Not much scent, but the colour more than makes up for it. ‘Coral Sunset’ was the first to flower and has already gone over, leaving behind those plump seed pods.

I’ve just noticed that the birds have been at the compost again, despite the cobbles. One day, I’ll find out what they’re looking for. Maybe its vine weevil larvae and they’re actually doing me a favour?

Oh, and at the mere mention of favours, Bobette (my robin friend) has appeared. She’s clearly expecting a snack. Hold on a mo…

Right then. Let’s follow the breeze down to the Flower Garden, our final stop, and an absolute showstopper this month.

The Flower Garden: A Sea of Bloom, Buzz & Blue

It’s hard to believe this used to be lawn. Now, the top borders stretch over 6m deep (nearly 20ft) and they’re positively bursting with growth. Roses, yew pillars, herbaceous chaos. It’s all gone slightly wild. Nepeta has swallowed the paths, tumbling in waves of blue haze flecked with orange geums and upright spires of Lupin ‘Masterpiece’.

It’s a sight that stops me in my tracks. And occasionally makes me mutter, "Did I really make this?" Apparently so.

It’s been a peculiar time. The garden and I have been on telly: equal parts surreal, joyful, and emotionally exhausting. The messages, the kindness, the attention… it was a flood. So now, being here, in this soft blue sprawl of planting, feels like taking a deep breath. Still tiring, yes. But anchoring, too. I marvel at this space. Every morning I stand on the stairs and look out. It’s never boring. Always changing.

We descend the stone steps, pass between two stone finials, and land at the top of the 14m (45ft) long double borders. The path is barely a metre wide and the plants are enthusiastically trying to join the tour. Especially the roses that like to tap you on the shoulder, just in case you missed them.

On one side, tall obelisks are engulfed by Rosa ‘Etoile de Hollande’, a deep red climber, and ‘Constance Spry’ in pure baby pink. They rise from a sea of shrub roses, peonies, veronicastrums, hardy geraniums, astrantia, bistorts, with puffs of white Valeriana officinalis. Tucked beneath, a riot of Alchemilla mollis, sprawled and fizzing with lime froth, great cushions of Geranium 'Rozanne'.

Salvia ‘Caradonna’ threads deep purple spires through the mass, with Geum ‘Totally Tangerine’ punching orange in all directions. Geranium ‘Orion’ cools the scene back down again. It’s a visual rhythm (beats and rests) and then a sharp pause from the dark-leaved Dahlia ‘Twyning’s After Eight’.

Your eye can’t help but travel along the path, pulled forward by the repeated pulses of nepeta, geum, and salvia. It’s a gentle wade now, through the floof, sorry, bumblebee, just squeezing past.

To the left, a white bench sits beneath Rosa ‘Rambling Rector’, heavy with bloom. Some of the shrub roses here have reached seven feet already, flopping with theatrical abandon across the path. I happily provide support in the form of rustic steel hoops and obelisks, to lean into like old friends.

Around them, delphiniums in blues, whites and pinks rocket skywards, chartreuse euphorbias fizz with citrus zing, Sambucus nigra ‘Black Lace’ froths delicately, and purple alliums bob and glint in the light.

The veronicastrums are everywhere. Some were Chelsea-chopped last year as an experiment. The result? More stems, more flowers. Highly recommended.

On the far side of the path, a softer jumble: ‘Emily Brontë’, ‘The Ancient Mariner’, and ‘Gertrude Jekyll’, all underplanted with a froth of hardy geraniums. Giant scabious leans heavily into its neighbours, jostling with Wisteria ‘Ikoyama Fuji’. Somewhere in that floral mêlée, Rosa ‘Claire Austin’ is making her presence known, pushing up with elegant, showy white blooms and that unmistakable old-rose perfume.

In the back row, the border lets its hair down. Delphiniums tower, perennial sunflowers and rudbeckia promise brightness, the blues of Echinops and Verbena bonariensis will soon pop up wherever they please. It’s big, bold, and utterly joyful.

Right, down the path we go, right to the bottom, into the quiet hush around the Potting Shed…

A Shadier Garden: Cool & Green

This is the calmest corner of the Flower Garden. A green retreat, slightly overlooked by a neighbour’s window, though you wouldn’t know it now. The planting has matured into a lush screen, cocooning the space in dappled shade and shelter from the Himalayan birch.

There’s a softness here. The colours are quieter, a haze of purples, greens, and whites. You look up the path into the relative gaudiness of the main planting, then up to the terrace and see reflections of the garden, above Shady Table. The garden mirrors on the gable give the illusion that the garden stretches on forever.

The anchoring plants here are Skimmia japonica and Sarcococca, deep green, glossy, and evergreen. Around them, the seasonal planting rises and falls: hellebores, dicentra, lily of the valley, Japanese anemones, astrantias, and, adding a touch of quiet drama, Persicaria 'Red Dragon'. It’s all soft texture and layered calm.

A subtle scent lingers… a mingling of allium, old rose drifting across the borders, a hint of spice from the peonies, and that earthy coolness only a shady border can conjure.

It’s quieter here. You hear the rustle of leaves, the distance babble of water, the occasional bee who’s taken a wrong turn, bumping into the potting shed windows. There’s no showy display. No shout for attention. Just a steady invitation to stop. To look and see how far you’ve come. To breathe.

And that, I think, is the best way to end our June tour. Not with a bang, but with a gentle friendly whisper. You can let yourself out the bottom gate… 🌿

Thank you for walking with me. If you've enjoyed this ramble through roses, vegetables, and shady corners, do leave a comment or share it with a fellow plant lover. The garden's never quite finished and that's a wonderful thing. Until next time, keep weeding, keep wondering, and don’t forget to waste a moment in your own patch of green. 💚