Keeping with the theme of one day behind, here's my account of what was a wonderful Friday in a garden in England.

Today I went to Somerset, to Bruton, to see the new garden being unveiled by Piet Oudolf at the Hauser and Wirth Gallery. In the interests of time I’ll get straight to it. A brief preface though: any of the blogs concerning gardens must be read with the knowledge that cameras can’t do them justice. Many of the photos turned out well, but nothing can accurately capture the colours, light, wind etc. that all work together to make these gardens so special.

Entry courtyard at Hauser and Wirth

The Hauser and Wirth Gallery in Bruton is not your average art gallery. It occupies a collection of historic farm buildings that – before Ivan and Manuela Wirth invested massive amounts of time and money in their restoration a few years ago – had fallen into a sad state of disrepair. The renovated gallery is beautiful. It respects its agricultural heritage (in some of the courtyards weeds are allowed to pop up between the old brick) but looks sleek, polished and very contemporary. The site is laid out with an entry plaza and patio space for the restaurant, an open lawn edged by smaller buildings, and on the opposite side of the building, the new Oudolf Field. This, along with an inner cloister garden in the centre of the main building, became Piet’s canvases.

I’m not sure what I was expecting from the cloister garden. I’d read a review in the Daily Telegraph that remarked on how subdued and refined the cloister was – a departure from the exuberance that usually characterizes an Oudolf garden. It is indeed very restrained with grasses playing the dominant role and perennials offering the occasional splashes of colour. Oudolf is one of the leaders of a garden design movement that brought grasses to the masses. Traditionally thought of as the fodder for lawns and pastures and nothing else, Oudolf’s designs often showcase the tremendous utility of grasses, both as filler plants among showy perennials that give your eye a break, as plants that catch the light and give a sense of drama, as plants that dance with the slightest breath of wind, and as structurally interesting plants in their own right. The idea that you could make a compelling and beautiful garden made mostly of grasses would have been laughable a few short years ago but after seeing Oudolf’s gardens, I think most would reconsider.

The cloister garden

The combination of Sesleria autumnalis and Molinia ‘Moorhexe’ in the cloister garden make as dynamic a combination as you could ask for, with the lime green foliage of the Sesleria complementing the dark brown, almost black, seedheads of the Molinia. The two amplify each other, the mark of a good pairing. The splashes of colour punctuating the sea of grasses at this time of year come from typical Oudolf pants like the burgundy-leved Actaea (bugbane), and the bright pink Astrantia (masterwort). These moments of colour, combined with the great plumes of Deschampsia cespitosa (tufted hairgrass) seedheads lead the eye slowly through the garden and give it some definition. Some of my favourite details are the grasses that have been planted outside the edges of the beds into the gravel paths. It suggests a sort of playful spontaneity, plants that have migrated and gone rogue. This informality, or at least the suggestion of informality, is another characteristic of Oudolf’s body of work. Informality and accessibility are directly related I think. We tend to feel more at home in a place that’s a bit messy, a bit chaotic, a place that isn’t stuffy and pretentious.

Runaway grasses

If the cloister garden is Oudolf restrained, the meadow garden is Oudolf unleashed. The moment you step outside you’re greeted by an explosion of colour and texture that leaves you standing star-struck. It’s a bit like looking at an Impressionist painting. You have to stand back and appreciate it as a whole first before you begin to look more closely at the colour combinations and various individual elements. But once you’ve gathered yourself you can begin to get into it and appreciate the intricacies that make it so special. At the talk afterwards Piet spoke about making this a garden to get lost in, and likened garden making to writing a script, where chapters unfold one by one each adding to the larger story of the design. There are a number of ways he’s accomplished this. One is by weaving paths through and around the contoured plantings so you slowly move through the garden, chapter by chapter. Another is by situating tall plants at the front of the gardens, with smaller ones behind. This is another unconventional move – contrary to the popular British border which arranges plants by shortest in the front, tallest in the back – forcing you to see plants through a filter (another typically Oudolf design theme) or forcing you to move further along the path to get a different perspective. These are all intentional actions aimed at creating an immersive experience where you feel like you’re “in” the garden rather than looking at it.

The meadow

Echinacea and Mountain Mint 

Sanguisorba officinalis

I think my favourite moment comes directly in the middle, when the main path, broken up by small circular lawns, is flanked by two meadows of Sporobolus heterolepsis (prairie dropseed). I don’t know if there’s a nicer grass. Sporobolus is not a plant that makes its presence known individually. If it’s placed alone next to almost anything else it will fade into the background. But when it’s planted in a great mass, it is an arresting sight. Its seedheads, rising to about 2 feet form a delicate haze through which you see the companion perennials. It makes a truly naturalistic picture, evoking the softness and sensory richness of wild meadow habitats. The meadows are another testament to the potentially rich rewards that await you when you flip convention on its head.

The Sporobolus meadow

The two gardens are in many ways total opposites, but they have to be. Subtlety and restraint doesn’t work in a large garden because it becomes monotonous, while floral exuberance and richness doesn’t work in a courtyard because it becomes overwhelming. The meadow suits its site because it can be free to spread out and put on a show, opening out to the wider countryside while the cloister suits its site because it sits comfortably within, it’s content with being contained and restrained.

Following our glorious garden revelling we were ushered in to the restaurant for a lunch of grilled chicken, potatoes, salads, and a splash of white wine. Both the meal and the conversation with fellow plant-lovers were delightful. The happiest accident of the day was encountering American garden designer Adam Woodruff. He has been mentored by Piet over the years, including visits to Piet and wife Anja’s home in Hummelo, Holland. We chatted for a while, both in the garden and at the lunch that followed, about the nature of planting design as an emerging profession, thoughts on the new garden, suggestions for people to talk to and gardens to visit, and Adam even graciously introduced me around to others he knew at the event. It was a great stroke of luck and another sign from the man upstairs that this trip was something I had to do.

As I embark on this great garden pilgrimage I feel like I’m on a rite of passage. The great designers before me have all in some form seen, worked at, or learned from the great gardens. As Piet spoke of his influences in the talk after lunch he mentioned the names of people I hope to meet (people like Dan Pearson, Tom Stuart-Smith, James Hitchmough, Rick Darke, Beth Chatto, Roy Diblik and others) and the gardens that had influenced him (gardens like Great Dixter that are on my to-do list for the coming days). Everything he said resonated with me, everything made sense. If the garden and the other people I’d encountered throughout the day hadn’t already affirmed my belief that I’m doing the right thing, Piet’s words definitely did. I feel like I’m not only embarking on a rite of passage, I feel like I’m entering into a wonderfully small, collaborative, and inspiring community of like-minded people. Best of all, as Adam had told me (and demonstrated himself!) while we were talking in the garden, even with the people at the very top – people like Piet – there is never any sense of ego. This had already been made clear to me when in the exhibition room showcasing his plans Piet approached me and asked about my thoughts. Star-struck, I told him how incredible it was to see them in person especially seeing how rough preliminary work can lead to such a polished and beautiful end product. He was glad the exhibition had showed his process so completely, but he admitted to me that still it wasn’t perfect. Here is a man, at the top of his game and at the top of his field and still not completely content. Such is the mark of a genius, and such is the nature of designing gardens. Humility is important with this kind of work, there’s always something you would change, and nature will inevitably throw you a curveball. It’s incredibly reassuring to know that even Piet Oudolf can’t solve this eternal problem, and to know that the plan is not the end. The real struggle – the real measure of your mettle – begins once you’ve started the garden in motion. The real trick is sensing when to intervene and when to let go.

It was an altogether extravagant day, a day that confirmed that I had found my vocation and I had found my kindred spirits. It is a day that I will remember for a long time, hopefully the day I can look back on and say, “That’s where it all began”.