Tag Archives: Tikorangi: The Jury garden

Ideas and observations (part one)

Just a market stall, one of many, with an outstanding display

At a time when we rail in this country about supermarkets and excessive prices – concerns also matched in Australia – the inner city Barcelona food market delighted me. The Mercat De La Boqueria in the city dates back to 1217 which is pretty astonishing. Obviously, these people shop more frequently than I do and, were I living or working nearby, I would quite possibly pop in every other day to pick up fresh food. I feel our fruit and veg displays in this country lack flair and of course, being Europe, the cured meats and variation in cuts of meat make the offerings here look decidedly pedestrian.

You can do a lot with smooth flat stones if you are willing to faff around. Attention to detail makes a difference. How much more attractive are stones embedded side on in concrete rather than a utilitarian concrete drain? I photographed this at the entrance to Villa Thuret in Cap d’Antibes.

St Paul de Vence, with a nod to modern expectations in the ugly sealed path over ancient cobbles on the right

The same flat stones were also used in subtle nod to mosaic in the medieval village of Saint Paul de Vence, the same village where Marc Chagall ended his life and is buried. In Europe, people are well used to uneven surfaces and rough cobblestones that would be seen as health and safety hazards in countries like ours. Wear sensible shoes, I say, while acknowledging that this is not an environment that accommodates people with compromised mobility.

I played ‘spot the keen gardener’ in Saint Paul. In an environment where buildings and people are crammed in like sardines, where personal space is small and contained vertically in tall buildings, largely of stone, with little or no personal outdoor space, you can’t keep a determined gardener down. This person’s home was like an oasis amongst permanent and impermeable materials.

I photographed these ideas for low fences in the Ephrussi de Rothschild garden. I particularly like the natural style and informality of the fence constructed from garden prunings. You would want to be using a hard wood rather than a softer option which would rot down too quickly. It may also be that it takes longer than one might think because much depends on selecting the right pieces and trimming to fit but isn’t it charming, in an understated way?

The bamboo fence is easier to construct in a short space of time, if you have the right sort of bamboo to hand. It appears to be tied with a natural jute string which will need replacing before the bamboo but is easy enough to do. We have swapped to jute string in the garden because it blends in and breaks down in situ but the fine string only lasts about a year at the most, the coarser jute twine maybe two years. Both these simple fencing options probably cost nothing in materials bar the string.

In Clos de Peyronnet, I noted this approach to the perennial problem of garden hoses. Hoses lying around can be a hazard and even coiling one up to hang keeps it in full view. The retractable hose reel options add more plastic to the garden and don’t usually accommodate long hoses. Dig a hole, large enough to hold the coiled hose and put a slatted cover on top. I assume this cavity was a little too small to accommodate the length of hose but you get the general idea. It could be done with more precision, but even as it is, it stops the glaring intrusion of the garden hose which is not a thing of beauty.

In the same garden, I noted the presentation of the bulb collection. They had all finished flowering but the garden is noted for its specialist collection of rare bulbs with over 200 species. This is one way to display your bulb collection – somewhat like an outdoor auricula theatre. I immediately wondered about – but failed to find – the service area ‘out the back’ where they must carry out repotting. We have a huge bulb collection here but only the most difficult bulbs are in pots and they mostly live out of sight in a covered house. Over the years, we have transferred almost all our bulbs into the garden to avoid having to repot them at least every two years but it does take an attentive approach, skill and experience to keep rare or difficult bulbs growing in a garden situation. If you have a bulb collection in pots, you may like this presentation.

I took this photo because I couldn’t help but notice how tight parking spaces were in the south of France. You drive anything bigger than a small to medium sized car at your peril. The roads, too, are not designed for the oversized SUVs and twin cab utes of modern design so favoured in this country. Indeed, in Paris the parking fees were increased by referendum.

“The increase in parking rates will affect cars weighing more than 1,600 kg (or 2,000 kg in the case of electric cars). An hour of parking for SUVs in the city centre now costs €18 instead of the usual €6, whilst in the outskirts the cost is €12 instead of €4. For six hours of parking in the city centre, SUVs will be charged €225 instead of the previous €75.”

As one who deplores the bloated size and intimidatory presence of many modern domestic vehicles (all too often, that intimidatory presence is matched by intimidatory driving), I mentally cheered when I read about some UK councils responding to approaches to make car parks larger and longer to accommodate many popular modern vehicles by… banning them. Over-sized domestic vehicles just don’t fit into existing infrastructure.

I failed to photograph the acres of truck parking at the borders but I could not help but notice the hundreds of big rigs parked up as we neared the border from Spain on a Sunday evening. That is because France has banned freight trucks from 10pm Saturday night to 10pm Sunday night. Sundays, apparently, are for safer driving on the roads by families. They do things differently there.

Of no relevance to the above writing but I wanted to finish with photos – Villa Thuret, an interesting private botanic garden which was set up to trial plants suitable for the climate
It was a little damp and gloomy on the morning we visited Villa Thuret but really interesting despite that.

Cork trees, wildflowers and vineyards in charming Occitania

Collioure in Occitania – possibly light on celebs with holiday homes, definitely lighter on tourists than the Riviera but also more charming, in my eyes at least.

I do not have a good sense of direction and what I do have deserts me entirely in the northern hemisphere. I may have known intellectually that travelling from Occitania (formerly Languedoc-Roussillon-Midi-Pyrénées) where my daughter is living across to the French Riviera (or Côte d’Azur) was going eastwards, but everything in me declared it was in a westerly direction.

That is quite some fortification in Collioure

The Riviera borders Italy and has long been the place for the rich and famous. I am not big on celebrities and my interest level in having Elton John’s villa in Nice pointed out to me is somewhere around zero. I simply felt appalled by the huge area adjacent to the airport that is set aside for the parking of private jets (it was full) and Monaco struck me as being the Dubai of the Riviera – too much ostentatious wealth, too many high-rise buildings, too little good taste and no nature left at all that I could see as we passed through.

The view from terrace where my daughter and her family are spending the year. That is the Pyrenees.

Occitania borders Spain and also sits on the Mediterranean with equally glorious sea views and coastline, but is a lot more low-key. It has many local villages which seemed to be full of locals, not the rich and famous, so I found it more charming. I also had time there to wander and look.

In late spring and after unusual levels of rainfall, there was an abundance of wildflowers. And a clear absence of glyphosate. The countryside around where my daughter lives is predominantly vineyards and cork trees. I didn’t see any farm animals although there are wild pigs which are doubtless best avoided. Daughter’s partner was despairing at the damage the pigs caused as they cut through their garden. I am trying to remember what the sapling tree was he had just planted. Maybe a jacaranda? It had been snapped off in the night, about a metre up, in an act that looked more like spite from a pig than an accident or a search for food.

An orchard of cork trees! Quercus suber.
Missing its pyjama pants

Cork is harvested from  Quercus suber. Most trees will die if the bark is cut or removed from the full circumference of the trunk but not the cork oak. The ones growing in the paddocks near my daughter’s home had been harvested relatively recently. They made me think of somebody who had forgotten to put on pyjama pants, really. Apparently the cork can be harvested every 9 years once the tree has reached 25 years of age. It is probably just as well most of the wine industry has moved to screw caps rather than single use corks because that is not exactly a high yield of cork.

That bark is an eco-system but I worried about the hornets in Italy on an earlier trip

I have never forgotten this cork tree we saw on an earlier trip to Italy. It is not just the interesting nubbly bark. This one was home to a nest of hornets. We don’t have hornets in New Zealand and the sight of just one struck terror in my heart. Imagine an aggressive wasp over four times the size of the common German wasp we have here – that was the hornet. Thank goodness for our border control.

The vineyard next door to where my family are living. I walked across it and the heavy clay soil squelched right up to the top of my shoes after a bit of rain. It is all stoney clay which I imagine sets like concrete in summer.
Terraced vineyards closer to the coast

The countryside around Occitania was undulating to steep but intensively worked, mostly in grapes. These were not like the big commercial vineyards we have in this country – soulless expanses of tanalised timber, taut wires and grapevines trained with military precision to obedient compliance. This was more laissez faire in its approach, more traditional and I am guessing pretty much managed by hand. I can’t see that machinery could be used on the narrow, steep terraces.

Collected from just one area of long grass

One side effect of this lighter-handed touch on the environment is that wildflowers can thrive. There is something delightful about seeing an abundance of wild lavender and rosemary in flower. I picked one of each flower in the rough paddock with a few cork trees behind my daughter’s current home. Where there are wild flowers, there are of course many insects and whole eco-systems that are self-sustaining.

We went for a walk around a recently installed lake near their home. I say installed because apparently it has been specifically created as a recreational reserve. At one end is zip line and tree-top adventure course, placed somewhat discreetly. I think the lake is swimmable but only warm enough for paddling that early in the season. A low-key entry track and equally low-key parking areas belied the creation of a public facility that is designed for local families and is clearly being used extensively. Most recreational areas with a natural style that I have seen were put in many, many decades ago. Modern recreational areas seem to need acres of sealed parking and turning and the installation of sealed areas for activities like skateboarding. I found this gentler approach most charming.

Civilised drinking, French-style

Being France, there was a pop-up bar near the water’s edge. Of course there was. The French don’t seem to need to separate off drinking facilities to control adults who drink to excess. It is just integrated into the wider park. We didn’t stop for a drink because our baby was due for a sleep.

It was cold and windy and not exactly a roaring trade happening at this wine bar on a roadside layby

I was equally surprised by this wine bar set on a windy promontory with a look-out to the Mediterranean Sea. I can’t imagine New Zealand ever allowing a wine bar on a roadside layby.

Near Banyul, as I recall. More terraced vineyards.

While the French seem to manage social drinking well, the same can not be said of dog poo. I first visited Paris in the mid 1990s and, along with losing our elder daughter on the underground (she was 15 so it wasn’t too big a drama) and the Eiffel Tower, I still remember the dog poo. It seems things have not changed, at least not in the semi-rural south. Many people own dogs and these canine companions seem to be well socialised and amiable. But poo-y. Maybe it is that their owners take them out of their terrace housing and apartments to relieve themselves outside. Walking along footpaths needs constant vigilance to avoid tramping in dog shit.  It is everywhere.

We could learn a few things from the French on reducing our use of glyphosate and on civilised drinking habits; the French could learn about poo bags and owner responsibility from us. A fair exchange?

Wild lavender.

Mānawatia a Matariki

It is Matariki time again – the rising of the Pleiades star cluster marking the Maori New Year. I marvel that long ago, well before the arrival of any European settlers here in the antipodes, Maori worked out the timing of the winter solstice and the rising of the star cluster that marked the start of a new year cycle. To the naysayers who deny indigenous knowledge and science, I say just look at that. Maori worked out a time that corresponds to the northern hemisphere new year, coming soon after the shortest day. It makes far more sense than having a new year start on January 1 as we go into full summer here. Matariki has become our own unique festival in Aotearoa, rooted in history and observations that go back well before the country was named New Zealand.

Magnolia campbellii var campbellii

I am a bit sorry that I lived most of my life without knowing a single thing about Matariki. Even before we recognised its significance, I had arrived at a similar personal recognition that, for me, a new gardening year started around the winter solstice when the first flowers on the earliest blooming magnolia opened, the magnificent M. campbellii. It makes it a richer experience to add Matariki and the historical and cultural context to the mix.

The Huatoki M. campbellii. I think there are three trees in the group amongst what are will be self-sown tree ferns
The Waitara Magnolia campbellii

I track several plants of M.campbellii. The mature trees in my local city beside the Huatoki Stream (best viewed from Powderham Street, beside the Liquorland Store) are usually the first to open blooms. The one in my nearest town, Waitara, in the grounds of St John the Baptist Anglican Church is arguably the best specimen and, being in a protected spot, usually has the most perfect blooms. It often opens a few days or a week after the Huatoki trees but was looking better than them this week.

Our specimen is still opening its first blooms

The third one is our specimen in the park. Because we about 5km inland and not surrounded by concrete and tarseal, we are cooler and always a couple of weeks behind. It is too early yet to get my photos of our campbellii blooms with the snowy slopes of our maunga, Mount Taranaki, in the distance behind. There are not enough blooms open at the top of the tree and not enough snow on the maunga yet. In fact, none of these trees are at their peak so there is time to get out and admire them in coming weeks.  All are the same clone which is the most widely grown form in this country – the Quaker Mason pink form. We are lucky it is a particularly good form because the species is variable in the wild and most commonly white.

We know that Matariki heralds the worst of winter to come in the next month. We have only had a few cold days so far and it is churlish to complain when the temperature has been hovering around 15° or 16° celsius (night time usually 8° to 9°) up until the last few days. But spring is already making a move and the season will gather pace around the anticipated cold spells.

Also flowering this week, Narcissus ‘Grand Soleil d’Or’
Mandarins on a winter’s day

Mānawatia a Matariki or happy Maori New Year today. We will be celebrating it with friends for lunch. May you draw breath and look forward to the next year, too.

and snowdrops both in the garden and in meadow situations

Give me colour, I say. Again.

The French are not afraid of colour – Collioure

Every time I fly into Auckland, my heart sinks at the expanse of dreary grey roofs. And every time I go to southern Europe, I am charmed beyond measure by the colour embraced by home owners.

My daughter’s local village in the south of France is not overly remarkable and, sadly, it lacks either a boulangerie or a patisserie. What is French provincial life if you can not wander down the road each morning to buy a fresh baguette? Daughter tells me the local council has strict rules, however, on colour and approved roofing tiles.

This roof seems to have added detail – and solar panels – but the tiles are the same

The roofing tiles are pretty much what I describe as half round terracotta pots. They seem to be clay tiles, not concrete, which gives pleasing subtle variations in colour. There is no long run roofing iron to be seen.

One of the approved colours in Montesquieu des Alberes

But the permitted colour palette is what struck me. No grey. I saw cream – no white – but mostly pale to mid yellows, pink, terracotta and pale terracotta in her village. Other villages and towns allow stronger colours. No grey. Anywhere. It seems the French real estate industry does not have an iron grip with an edict that Investment Grey is the way to higher real estate values.

A pink house – not unusual at all in the south of France

I stand by my earlier assertions that the time when houses in this country became investments not homes is the time we drained colour from our daily lives and I rue that day.There is quite enough greyness in the world without turning all our suburbs into a panorama of shades of grey.

Paua shell colours – in pastels on the left and the irridescent glory on the right

It led me to ponder what the colours are of Taranaki, where I live. With our high sunshine hours and our high rainfall, we are an area of blues and greens. Blues in the sky and the vast ocean that bounds our entire area. Greens in every hue from dark forest and bush to the verdant green of farms with too much nitrogen promoting bright green grass growth. Almost paua shell colours but with the addition of charcoal black with our huge black sand beaches. Not grey.

Colour even on public buildings in the south of France
Colour on a village church, not to be confused with a gingerbread confection.

Other areas have other dominant colours – golden hues and fruity colours in the Hawkes Bay, tawny browns and golds with azure hills in Central Otago. Not grey. I do not think the current love affair with grey both outdoors and indoors on our real estate helps them meld into the wider landscape. They just look what they are – joyless, timid grey buildings which do nothing to express the character and vitality of their owners.

I can’t remember which beach this was – somewhere near the Spanish border not the Italian one so Occitania not Provence but some of the beaches around the Riviera looked similar

What we do have here, however, are sandy beaches of every description. The French Riviera and the Mediterranean have a huge reputation, but to a New Zealander, the beaches can often seem… well… underwhelming. Not all of them, but some at least. I don’t see shale rock as a beautiful beach.

I took this photo of cars parked on the beach as we drove past on the road beside the Med, coming out of Nice heading towards Antibes or maybe as far around as Cannes. What you can’t see is that it is a very narrow line of rocky shale that serves equally as carparking and ‘beach’ although it may have been compacted for the cars. I figured everybody must have swimming pools back at their apartments and villas and the beautiful bit is in fact the expanse of sea, not the beach at all.  

It is not that I liked these novelty items but the colour in a colourful village made me smile. I never feel the urge to smile at grey.

English gardens in Provence

The two gardens I enjoyed the most on my recent jaunt around gardens in the French Riviera were the private ones where we were welcomed by the owners. I can relate to the scale, the personal vision and the detail that comes in good private gardens.

When gardening is on terraces, as most of these gardens I visited were, long walkways are a common design feature. La Mouissone

La Mouissone, near Grasse, may have a French name but the owner and hands-on gardener, Lady Lockett, is as English as they come, even though she has lived there for many years – presumably since they purchased the property in 1998. A down to earth (how appropriate), characterful and energetic woman, it was a delight to be taken around by her.

There is a whole lot more than stonework to La Mouissone but there is also a whole lot of stonework. The stone masons were mostly Moroccan. I asked, having admired splendid Italian stonework in the past.
I liked that the stonework was not all the same. It is interesting to look at different styles and techniques.

Our tour leader told us in advance that it had taken 15 stonemasons 10 years to build the walls, or was it 10 stonemasons for 15 years? And Lady Lockett cheerfully told us the stonework cost a million euros. Gulp. As a result, I expected a garden which was all about stonework but au contraire. The stone walls and terraces were all about turning a steep, old olive grove into a series of terraces that could be gardened and lived in. The owner then set about planting to soften the stone and to feature the plants. She gardens in that soft-edged, romantic way that is so very English in style.

I mostly took this photo because look! A New Zealand flax plant – phormium. I had seen plenty of Australian plants in these dry French gardens but very few from Aotearoa

The garden covers 3 hectares and is built around 250 aged olive trees which are still in full production. It is still a comparatively new garden with an owner-gardener who is happy to experiment and change aspects as it matures.

Okay, so this view is is mostly olives and erigeron daisies (which are banned from sale and generally frowned upon in this country) but there is a seductive simplicity to this lush view .

In mid May, it was unusually lush and green because of the recent rains. Apparently, it is usually dry at that time of the year and I imagine it is now, with the heat wave hitting southern Europe. My daughter, who is living on the other side of the south of France (on the Spanish border, not the Italian border that meets the Riviera) tells me that the winds have blown up from the Sahara and everything around her is covered in a fine layer of Saharan sand. La Mouissone may look different this month – a reversion to the norm of dry grass in golden hues offset by the grey-green foliage of the olives.

The swimming pool was particularly attractive, situated close to the home and with expansive views across the French countryside and beyond.

I appreciated Lady Lockett’s attention to plants and her interest in expanding the plant collection as she finds other options to grow in the poor soils and hard climatic conditions. I also liked that it is clearly a family garden – a playhouse for the grandchildren, a family swimming pool, outside seating areas placed where it is likely they would be used, extensive vegetable gardens. It makes it a very personal garden.

Echiums thrive in this climate and that looks like agapanthus to the left – another plant derided in NZ but much valued elsewhere

The biggest disadvantage of being on a tour is that one must move at the pace of the tour. This is a garden I would have enjoyed spending more time in, taking time to sit and look, exploring further and then going back around in the opposite direction to experience it in reverse. It is a garden I would go back to except I am unlikely to return to this part of France. I see it is open to visits by appointment; their website is www.lamouissone.com

I coveted this artemisia, even though our climate is very different to the greys and yellows of the Mediterranean
The dog is a resident, the people from Northern Ireland and Tasmania. The bamboo is grown for both practical use and aesthetics at La Mouissone.
Le Clos du Peyronnet was very different but still distinctively English in style

While La Mouissone is firmly anchored in the modern style – call it the new naturalism, New Perennials or what you wish, Clos du Peyronnet harks back to an earlier generation, is well established in the Arts and Crafts style. The Waterfield family bought the land in Menton, close to Lawrence Johnston’s Serre de la Madone, and built the villa as a winter retreat at the end of the nineteenth century. The garden in its current form is 1950’s vintage. Humphrey Waterfield is credited with the initial design and plantings while William Waterfield, who took over in 1976, added the many layers of different plant material – including the extensive bulb collection – and extended the garden features, building upon his uncle’s earlier work.

More long terraces, carved from the hillside – a defining feature of so many of these gardens. The cypress arches are effective, even though they are crying out for some work on the dead patches

I think the reason I liked Clos du Peyronnet so much is perhaps that it was close to what I hoped Serre de la Madone would be – and indeed may have been in its day. Sadly, William Waterfield died in 2021 with no heirs. The garden now is managed by his wife, American Judith Pillsbury. She is no garden novice, having a garden at her Paris apartment that has been written up over the years and as a previous owner of La Louvre in Provence – a garden I recognised as soon as I googled it, from seeing on TV (maybe Monty Don on French gardens?). It was Judith Pillsbury who welcomed us and took us around the garden but the mid to long term future is in doubt.

This is a fair representation of the garden and some of us with established gardens with larger trees will relate to the situation where plants grow out at an angle to reach the light.
Water is an important garden feature in a climate renowned for its hot summers.
I looked at this photo and asked myself how I could have failed to check those steps. Do they indicate this pond was originally established as a swimming pool back in the days before chlorine and pool fllters?

What did I enjoy about it? Good design, interesting plantings, quality hard landscaping that has aged well down the years, character, discreet but attentive maintenance, brilliant location and views. What is not to like? It is English-style gardening in France, spanning seven decades.

That is a splendid specimen of loquat with large fruit

Peyronnet has a collection of fruits that are rare in that area of olive trees and citrus. Amongst them was a loquat – Eriobotrya deflexa – with the biggest fruit I have seen. And I spotted a feijoa tree,  Acca sellowiana. I subsequently read an article on line that referenced the feijoa – “the unrelated pineapple guava Acca sellowiana (‘tastes like sweet Harpic,’ he confides).” The he in this quote refers to William Waterfield and all I can say is that several million New Zealanders would like to disagree with his Harpic assessment.

The view from Clos du Peyronnet is remarkable
Looking across to Menton, the some time home of our own Katherine Mansfield

The feeling of privilege that comes with getting to see private gardens was reassuring to me to experience from the other side. These days, we only open our garden to a few special interest tours or individuals who manage to convince me they will be interesting people to meet. I had wondered if I was being a bit precious in creating such barriers to prospective visitors. No. It is a privilege to gain access to private gardens and to spend time with the owners. It makes it a special and memorable experience. 

This little dining terrace at Peyronnet was very charming even as I derived some amusement at the global nature of those outdoor chairs which we also have at our place. Indonesian and Malaysian hard wood, I think, and probably the cause of many orphaned orangutans.
To one side of that dining terrace is this fresco that I photographed before I found this comment on line: “He commissioned a local artist to paint a fresco on the wall of a small, enclosed garden that looks out across Menton’s west bay and depicts William as a bon vivant in all its senses.” Umm, is that William to the right? Or is there another fresco somewhere that I missed?