Great Dixter and Sissinghurst

Buckle up people, here’s the “catch-up” two-for-one blog.

Yesterday I went to Great Dixter. It is a place steeped in history, both from an architectural and gardening perspective. The house is part 15^th century and part twentieth century, the latter built by renowned British architect Edwin Lutyens. But the reason I was there, and the reason most make the trip to the tiny village of Northiam in East Sussex, is to see the gardens made famous by the iconic English gardener Christopher Lloyd. I think it’s apt the house and gardens are called Great Dixter, because great they are. Good Dixter just doesn’t have the same ring.

If Piet Oudolf’s garden at Durslade Farm is exuberant I don’t know what Great Dixter is. The words that characterize my first impressions of the sunken garden (the first that greets you after entering the estate) were: sumptuous, luscious, voluptuous, voluminous, extravagant, delicious, and resplendent among many others. But you decide for yourself.

The sunken garden

Sunken garden, looking toward the house

The other gardens are no less spectacular. The theme of exuberant, prolific floral glory continues throughout yet each element and each garden room is without question a unique individual within the whole.

The long border

Note the lovely peacock topiary

I think a true testament to the genius of Christopher Lloyd, and his protege Fergus Garrett who’s run the gardens since Lloyd’s death in 2006, is that Great Dixter has made me, of all people, rethink the dahlia. As much as I tried to convince myself that there was a special place in hell for the dahlia, at Great Dixter, they’re simply too wonderful to ignore. They are truly extravagant, some with blooms that would require to hands to hold, and look right at home in the floral abundance that characterizes the gardens. Dahlias used to represent all that I thought was wrong with gardening. They’re annuals, grown for their flowers and little else, usually grouped with other annuals in gaudy and ugly ornamental displays. But at Dixter, planted among perennials and grasses, or in terra cotta planters, they fit in beautifully. What Lloyd’s done is convince probably the annual’s greatest skeptic, that every plant has its place.

The dahlia: no longer the enemy

Dahlias and anemones

Now, dahlias, and cosmos (another annual I’ve greatly warmed to) are part of the palette at Dixter that is in constant flux. Plants are continually rotated in and out to ensure a vibrant display throughout the year. Contrary to Oudolf, who chooses plants that look good regardless of the season, Dixter uses plants that look spectacular in flower, and when they’re finished, they’re swapped for something else. It’s hardly sustainable and indeed if management were to cease tomorrow the impact of the garden would diminish greatly, but the intensive management is part of the beauty and legend of it. Great Dixter shows you all that is possible if you give it some effort. It is an unnatural, technically unsustainable thing, but it embraces its artifice and makes no attempt to conceal or hide it. There’s always the risk that gardens that are so intensely gardened become formal and stuffy and a bit staged, but nothing of the sort has happened at Dixter. The plantings are absolutely stuffed with plants, and even though I knew that some of what I was seeing was probably not there a month ago, it all felt so natural and it all worked so well together. The diversity is astounding and the informality makes the garden feel spontaneous and free even if in fact it is tightly controlled. Overall, the garden just feels immensely well-loved, it’s palpable. Plants are all healthy, many have been lovingly staked or tied for support, sometimes with incredible intricacy, and sprinklers are frequently encountered (another sign that the garden is very much a human construction), all signs that this a garden that people care deeply about. It’s simply a fact of gardening that a garden is only as good as the maintenance and care that goes into it, and Great Dixter is the ultimate demonstration.

After some deliberation I decided not to bite off more than I could chew and instead take a day to do Great Dixter and be able to travel at a more leisurely pace, less worried about trains and buses. I’m really glad I did because this also meant I could leave Eastbourne and instead stay at Canterbury that night, in a hostel that mercifully served breakfast (the Eastbourne hostel was self-catering only). I had wanted to see Canterbury while on exchange, and it was still within easy reach of Sissinghurst for Sunday, so I went for it.

The hostel was lovely, and my roommates – two fellow Canadians among them – were great company. The breakfast this morning was definitely worth the switch, there’s nothing like starting a day with a breakfast that will sustain you until supper. I felt a bit guilty when the chef admitted he didn’t eat an English breakfast, instead opting for muesli and yogurt, but then I remembered how little I cared and dug in with reckless abandon. I rounded out my brief stay in Canterbury with a wander around the magnificent cathedral. I very nearly walked past it to the train station, trying to convince myself that I must be on my way, but thankfully turned around and scrounged together the 10 pound entrance fee. Some things you just have to pay for, Canterbury Cathedral is one of them. I walked in and was swept away by the voices of the congregation, echoing through the cavernous stone vaults. It is an awesome structure of weathered stone, whose floors have been worn down by centuries of worshippers, adorned with splendid stained glass. I strolled through the cloister that immediately took me back to some of the colleges of Oxford, and through the church gardens before gathering my bags and getting on my way.

Canterbury city centre

Canterbury cathedral

After an uneventful combination train and taxi ride, I arrived at Sissinghurst. Before going in I decided to recharge a bit. I picnicked under a great English oak munching on the sandwiches I’d made at the hostel before I left. With National Trust gardens it’s a good idea to save money where you can since admission can be a bit steep and Sissinghurst at 12 pounds, is no exception. That said, it’s undoubtedly worth the money. Sissinghurst is delightful, and in many ways the foil to Great Dixter. Where Great Dixter is brash, exuberant and raucous, Sissinghurst is refined, classical, and romantic. Walking through the entry gates you open onto a courtyard anchored by the castle’s tower. The lawn is, in good British style, immaculate and bordered on either side by conventional herbaceous borders that spill out from the brick walls behind. From here I went left to explore the poetically informal woodland cottage garden. Richly textured with ferns, hellebores, astrantias, and an explosion of pale pink crocuses it was a joy, and a rare moment where informality was allowed to reign supreme.

The tower and entry court

The woodland cottage garden

From here I went back across the entry court to the walled garden beyond.

The walled garden

I must admit, against my better judgement, just as Great Dixter made me rethink dahlias, Sissinghurst made me rethink roses. Not all of them mind you, I still think double roses are one of the most garishly ugly plants you could ever have, but some of the single roses in the walled garden are wonderful. The cultivar ‘White Wings’ was a particularly pleasant surprise. Another vice that I must admit to loving are the Japanese anemones. The walled garden had some truly wonderful clumps of pink and white and they are at their absolute peak at this time of year. Like at Great Dixter, the walled gardens are stuffed to bursting with plants, but unlike Dixter there is a sense of order to it that is more classically traditional. The plants tier from the front to the back and the colours and textures combine in a way that’s much more subtle and harmonious. Hedges organize the garden into distinct rooms – another classic English garden theme – with impressively crisp walls of yew at the back and low box lining the paths. As well as the hedges work to define space, there is always the danger that when a shrub dies or needs to be removed, it gives the impression of a missing tooth. Regardless of how perfect the other teeth are, all you see is the gap. This has happened in a couple of instances at Sissinghurst and although the gardeners must be horrified, I kind of like the imperfection it implies.

The 'White Wings' rose

The walled garden

The missing tooth in the hedge

The other slight imperfection was in the white garden, where some of the beds were completely empty as plants that had performed poorly were being replaced and the soil was being replenished. Again though, it’s a welcome bit of reality. Gardening is never perfect. It is a perpetual struggle and labour of love. I love that, but I can understand perfectly how some may despise it.

From the walled garden I followed the lime walk – a linear path lined with pleached lime trees – to the garden at the south cottage. This garden room brings a burst of warmth, but again, it’s a gentle warmth, not the intense heat of the Dixter borders. From here I walked through the orchard to the back of the garden, along the edge of the reconstructed medieval moat, and back toward the house through the hazel coppice. Coppicing is another traditional method of woodland management in England. It involves cutting trees to the ground on a rotating cycle (perhaps every 7 or 8 years) and allowing the suckers to re-grow. Apparently with trees like hazel that lend themselves well to coppicing, it is a way to dramatically lengthen a tree’s lifespan. So when you come to the end of the hazel coppice and meet the pleached lime trees of the lime walk, it makes an interesting contrast between two ways gardeners have traditionally altered trees to suit a particular purpose. I love the coppiced hazel trees and the effect of walking through their low canopy and filtered shade while I find the limes a bit sad and their treatment a bit harsh. The fact that the limes are in poor health probably doesn’t help matters, but even if they had been in full leaf I imagine I would prefer the lushness and looseness of the hazel.

The lime walk

The hazel coppice

A final leisurely circuit through the gardens, and a trip to the top of the tower to take in the views of the countryside (another trait worth mentioning is that it seems all the great British gardens have a close relationship to their surrounding countryside), and I was on my way. Onward to London.

With that, my foray into the British south has come to a close. I’ve gone nearly from coast to coast, from Bristol to Canterbury with a few stops in between. I’ve seen places I’d missed during my exchange – which was one of the motivations for this trip – but more importantly, I’ve seen some of the holy sites for garden designers, and they have left an indelible mark on me. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Now that I’m back in London, it’s time to reacquaint myself with the Thames. And of course my old friend and namesake Big Ben.