Broadwoodside Part 2: South Garden and the House Field

Following the path around the ochre tower one enters the South Garden. What I like about this garden is how domestic it feels, and yet it looks so stylish with excellent use of color, witty art installations, and simple but repeated plantings that form a rhythm along the path. It doesn't hurt that it faces a bucolic pasture that housed, on that day, two stunning white horses that were kicking up their heels as if on command to frolic.

I'm not usually fond of purple smokebush (Cotinus coggygria). I suspect it's because for the five years I lived near Washington, D.C. I had to walk past a solitary, unhealthy, and pathetically maintained specimen going in and out of my flat each day. I itched to put it out of its misery, but lacking that agency I just let it sour me on the whole genus. I keep trying to come around, but its slow going. This garden is probably the first in which I found myself enjoying Cotinus, most likely because it is well-maintained and so effectively used as a dark accent along the walk. The perfectly chosen and contrasting blue on the posts also goes a long way toward my enjoyment of the Cotinus. Imagine the image below without the blue posts and Lutyens bench at the far wall. Not nearly as effective, right?

Further into the South Garden is a very inviting patio and a few pieces of art that I really enjoyed. I always like a big tree trunk repurposed as landscape art (a la David Nash), and this elm with its golden sphere hits the spot. Once again notice the color work here--that sphere picking up the tones in the ochre building. Beautiful. Cover either the sphere or the building with your finger and see what happens to the composition. 

I also loved these mirrored portholes making a feature out of what is potentially a mechanical eyesore. They looked especially nice covered in raindrops. 

From the South Garden one passes through this gate on the way to the House Field. The stone plinths beneath the urns read "Going to" on the left and "the Dogs" on the right--a joke that didn't reveal itself until I found the pet cemetery in the far corner of the field. 

Looking back toward the house I failed to see the point of the House Field. I suspect it may have been a timing issue, as I've seen photos of the bed by the wall filled with bright red blooming Crocosmia. Again it's not a favorite plant but it makes a strong statement when flowering. I really couldn't tell what was going on with that bed between the two mown areas. It had a few little blooms but mostly just looked like a weed patch.

Another view of the South Garden shows a hint of its borrowed landscape. This spot was one of my favorites at Broadwoodside, possibly because I feel most at home in places with long countryside views. What can I say other than I'm a typical Homo sapiens with an evolutionary bias toward the savanna--just like Capability Brown! 

I'll leave you to follow that link for some fascinating reading and when I return we'll head into the courtyards for Broadwoodside: Part 3.  

Broadwoodside Part 1: Entrance and Walled Garden

On June 4 Broadwoodside, a private garden in the small village of Gifford, opened for the National Garden Scheme Open Gardens. For one day a year the public is invited to see the the garden that Anna and Robert Dalrymple and their gardener have created over the past 17 years from a derelict farmstead. 

Broadwoodside has received lots of positive attention from horticultural publications far greater than mine, which you can read about here, so I'm loathe to repeat those stories here. Instead I'd rather write about what Broadwoodside actually looked like on this particular day, and how it felt to be within it. 

The garden is entered up a simple mown grass path through a meadow interplanted with trees and roses. After having worked so hard at my own farm to maintain mulch circles around trees that were essentially planted in a hayfield, I would like to embrace the relative ease of this cultivation technique. I like the casualness of this approach as it feels like the beginning of an adventure into a private space, which of course it is. If you couldn't tell it from the artwork displayed around the entrance meadow, it becomes clear when one passes through this garden gate that what lies ahead will be a creative and whimsical space. 

Through the gate one immediately enters a small vegetable garden. It's not really enough space to grow anything on a scale I'd like, and not as lush as the surrounding borders, but I appreciate the nod to the walled garden's practical origins.

The rest of the garden is an unusual mix of formal and casual as a rectangular pond edged with willow (Salix) provides the structural core around loose mixed borders backed by espaliered fruit trees growing on the walls. The willow pond was very much a "look at me" feature in this garden, and it felt like a space to pass through instead of a space to be lived in or even one that would invite much pause. I suppose the interest lies in the ever-changing Salix, which is cut each year and then allowed to grow up to nine feet tall over summer, effectively creating a room within a room and an area that felt a bit disconnected from the lush herbaceous borders around it. 

I enjoyed the view from a little bench tucked into the corner, below.

So often herbacious borders are viewed from one direction--outside looking in--and this perch provided the unique vantage point of being within the border. 

Next, we'll travel deeper into the garden and see some of my favorite bits. 

The beauty of antique plant catalogues

I just finished a late-Victorian garden design for a class. Part of my research included reading primary sources, such as William Robinson's The English Flower Garden, and digging up antique nursery catalogues to determine which plants and their varieties were available and popular in the late 1800s. 

In the RBGE library, one of my happy places on Earth, I found a catalog from the Veitch nursery. According to the Vietch Family History site, in 1771 a 19-year old Scot named John Veitch traveled to England and by 1808 had begun a nursery. John's son, James, and his son grew the nursery and purchased its Chelsea location in 1853. The dynasty carried on through the height of the Victorian plant collecting craze, with the nursery sending 23 collectors around the globe. These plant hunters returned with many of the specimens you'd recognize in a British garden today. One such treasure is the beautiful Davidia involucrata, located in China by Ernest Wilson. Despite being shipwrecked on the way home to England, Wilson managed to save the Davidia seeds. The Veitches were eventually responsible for introducing 1281 plants which were either previously unknown or newly bred varieties. Horticulture would not be the same without this impressive family. 

What impresses me just as much as their story is the beauty of their nursery catalogues, which are illustrated with detailed engravings and, in the late 1800s, very few colour images. In today's era of almost-instant digital photography and computer-aided layouts, the idea of engraving a catalogue is mind-boggling.

I am particularly drawn to these images of gardening tools, which are so beautifully composed that I'd happily hang them on my wall as art. 

I also enjoy this ad for the brand-new 'Frogmore Selected' tomato, though as I am used to growing 7-foot tall tomatoes outdoors with barely any attention at all, their meticulous indoor cultivation in Britain still strikes me as odd. The testimonials below the images are from the leading horticultural publications of the day, including Joseph Paxton and friend's 'Gardeners' Chronicle' and William Robinson's 'The Garden,' two magazines I've spent countless hours investigating during my studies at RBGE. 

This ad reminds me of one of my favorite watercolours by Eric Ravilious, 'The Greenhouse: Cyclamen and Tomatoes' (1935), which is now in the care of the Tate gallery. Clearly Ravilious too was moved by the beauty of full-to-bursting glasshouse.

A graft "failure" on Princes Street

I was on an after dinner walk down Princes Street, just below the castle, admiring the fallen cherry petals that were carpeting the garden with pink. I love ornamental cherries as they remind me of the five years I lived in Washington, D.C., where they famously circle the Tidal Basin.

This night, though, I was brought to a stop when I saw two very different blooms on one of the trees. "That ain't right!" was my first thought as I traced the branch back to the trunk to investigate. 

Turns out I'd found a textbook example of a graft "failure" in this ornamental cherry (most likely Prunus serrulata 'Kwanzan'). 

Though it is not essential to their success, Kwazan cherries are sometimes grafted onto other cherry rootstock, as you can see in the photo above where there is a grafting scar right below the main branches at the top of the trunk. But notice there is a stout branch going off to the left, right below the graft union. 

That branch belongs to the rootstock and is the source of our white-flowered blooms intermingling with the fluffy double pinks.

I also see a branch scar right below this branch, suggesting that at some point someone noticed the rootstock was trying to take over the graft and pruned it out. But in testament to the vigor of most roostocks, this one shot out another branch, which you can see blooming today. I know it's technically a horticultural "mistake," but I can't help but admire the tenacity of this rootstock and the delightful combination of two very different blooms on one tree. It makes me think about the many years of human cultivation, selection, and breeding that took a cherry like this white, more wild-flowered type and turned it into a confection named 'Kwanzan.'

Portrait of a pear

One of my favorite trees at the Botanics is in bloom. I've been visiting recently trying to take its portrait, but the grey weather hasn't been cooperating. Then last weekend the clouds broke for a few minutes and I got the sun for which I hoped. 

This is Pyrus korshinskyi, the Kazhak pear. It is native to Kyrghystan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan, but it seems quite at home in Edinburgh. Unfortunately this tree is critically endangered in its native habitat because of overgrazing damage by livestock and harvesting. 

This particular tree at the Botanics is listed on the Tree Register of the British Isles as the largest Kazhak pear in cultivation. 

I especially love the upright habit of its gnarled, lichen-covered branches and they way it seems to lift its blossoms skyward. It is truly spectacular and a rare tree that some day I hope to raise in my own garden. 

Spring cleaning

It's been good weather for getting a start on the garden. Sweet peas are planted, herb and lettuce seeds sown. It felt like the right time to give my secateurs a spring tune-up. A light scrub with fine steel wool and white spirits removes any accumulated sap or rust. Then I sharpened each pair with a diamond sharpener. Ready for duty. 

Return of the sun: First day of spring

The sun has finally climbed high enough that for the first time since last autumn my front garden is getting some direct sun. It only lasts a little while, and is usually interrupted by skudding dark clouds (or hail, or snow, or sleet, or icy rain, all of which we've had this week). But in late March, after another challenging Edinburgh winter, I will happily take what I can get--even if it is only a few minutes that light up the awakening garden and give me hope that brighter times are on the way. 

Spring comes to the Botanics

In a break between classes yesterday I took a walk around the Botanics. My goal was to see if one of my favorite spring flowers, Pulsatilla vulgaris, was yet blooming. However, along the way to the rock garden I found so many beautiful plants that I had to share. 

First up is the amazing Corylopis sinensis var. calvescens, a late-winter yellow-flowering shrub that in my book beats Fosythia any day. This Chinese native, as you could probably have guessed from the name, is sweetly scented and its profusion of pendant racemes make quite a vision. It's a good-sized shrub, but if you're lacking in garden space the smaller-statured Corylopis pauciflora is just as pretty on a miniature scale. 

As I entered the rock garden I was thrilled to see that one of my favorite spring bulbs, Narcissus cyclamineus, was out in full force. It's severely reflexed perianth is the key to its species name, as it resembles the reflexed petals of Cyclamen. There was one super-large mutant in this clump, and though I am sure it would sell well if brought into cultivation (if it hasn't been already), I found that at such a size the flower lacked the charm of the smaller version. 

Narcissus cyclamienus will spread by self seeding, as it has done at the Botanics. What I love most about it is the graphic effect it gives to the landscape with its bright hatchmarks of gold looking as though they've been stroked onto the landscape with a fine brush. 

This little Erythronium dens-canis is complex and best observed up close. Plant it in a trough or somewhere closer to eye level to best appreciate its details. 

This strangely lurid purple plant is the romantically named Lathraea clandestina. It's actually a parasitic plant, living off the roots of mostly poplar and willow but sometimes other species. It has no chlophyll and instead survives by attaching haustoria (suckers) on its roots to the roots of its host tree, gaining its nutrition through the host plant. 

Finally I found what I was looking for, my friend the stunning Pulsatilla vulgaris. Its common name, the Pasque flower, refers to is tendency to bloom at Easter. This British native, which grows on calcareous (chalky lime) soil, is now endangered in the wild. Just last night in the bath I was reading Vita Sackville-West's Let Us Now Praise Famous Gardens, a selection of weekly columns she wrote for the Observer newspaper. Of Pulsatilla vulgaris she wrote, "This is a native of our Downs, getting rare in its wild state but still cultivated in gardens. It is a soft and lovely thing, pale lilac in colour with a silvery floss-silk surround." It is interesting to me that even in 1950 the plant was recognized as rare. I have been lucky enough to see it in its native habitat, which I will no doubt write about someday. 

Some of the plants were not yet blooming in the rock garden, but I found this little unlabeled clump on the south side of a large rock, where it was most likely a bit ahead of its relatives by virtue of a slightly warmer microclimate.

I was hoping for some sun, as the fine hairs on the plant make for some stunning photos. But it was just about to bucket down rain, despite starting my short walk under sunny skies.

Regardless, I was pleased that the lit-from-within effect was still present without sun, as seen on this clump of Pulsatilla halleri subsp. rhodopaea (though it's labeled with its synonym, Anemone rhodopaea). I find Pulsatilla absolutely magical, and will return in a few days--hopefully when the sun is out--to photograph them as their blooms continue to open and the spring garden returns to life. 

Snowdrops and stories: A winter visit to Dawyck Botanic Garden

Yesterday dawned reasonably mild and almost sunny, so the decision was made to drive down to Dawyck Botanic Garden, a Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh property in the Scottish Borders known for its snowdrop display. The clouds had once again closed thickly overhead by the time we arrived, and it was spitting rain, but we had a warm welcome from the reception staff and were encouraged to join one of the volunteer-led tours as something of a insider quality assurance scheme. 

The tour guide went over much of what was covered during a class trip last year, but for someone with no experience of the garden it would definitely be educational. So often it's easy to look at gardens superficially as just a collection of plants and trees in an aesthetically appealing arrangement. However, gardens are always full of stories, whether they are as globally influenced and influencing as a botanic garden or the personal histories of a private home patch. Because plants can't speak, and designed interpretation can only explain so much, garden tours are the only way to learn these stories that bring gardens even more to life. 

From the Dawyck tour guide I learned of the rumors that C. Linnaeus, father of the binomial naming system used today, may have planted the European larch (Larix decidua) near the Dynamo Pond. The story is contested, as Linnaeus is thought to have not traveled further north than Oxford. However, examination of mycorrhizal fungi from the roots of the tree found it to be unique within Britain and originating in Linnaeus' home country of Sweden. That's a botanical mystery--just one of thousands that make horticulture so endlessly fascinating. 

The American skunk-cabbage (Lysichiton americanus) has been removed from the banks of the creek winding through the garden. Last year we learned that the garden staff were carefully monitoring this planting, which was dispersing its seed into the watercourse and becoming invasive downstream. In the ensuing year this plant's status as an invasive non-native of serious concern meant it had to go. Our tour guide expressed remorse at losing part of the collection, but I applaud Dawyck for modeling environmentally responsible behavior, which I believe is one of the major obligations of botanic gardens today. Throughout history, plant collectors and horticulturists have sometimes done more damage than good, and with our increased knowledge and sensitivity to the effects of our actions on the living world, now is the time to reverse that trend and begin protecting our environments through more considered husbandry.

I also learned a few new words, including "indumentum," a kind of catch-all term to describe plant surface coverings of any kind, such as hairs or scales. This bit of botanical vocabulary was passed on whilst examining a fuzzy Rhododendron leaf. In addition to its snowdrops, Dawyck is known for its collection of Rhododendron species, the earliest of which were just on the brink of bloom. 

But back to the snowdrops (Galanthus nivalus), the real reason for the trip. This was my first visit to a "snowdrop wood," and it did not disappoint. Snowdrops grew throughout the entire garden, but were mostly concentrated along the burn, where they grew so thickly as to actually look, at a distance, like a blanket of snow. 

Snowdrops are sweet and pretty, and if I ever garden a woodland I'll definitely turn a bunch loose to spread at will. I understand their importance as one of the first flowers of the year, bringing hope for the spring just to come. But I'll never be a galanthophile, which is just as well given the seemingly ridiculous prices paid by some collectors for specimens, such as the rare yellow-bloomed varieties. At right, Galanthus nivalis 'Sandersii' Lowick blooming last week in the alpine backup area of RBGE. 

Paying up to $2,500 a bulb for a tiny plant that pushes out a chlorotic-looking bloom just seems silly to me, but people get very passionate about their snowdrops, fueling what could be the tulip bubble of the 21st century. 

The mass effect of a snowdrop wood is impressive, and I imagine it would be even more so with a little bit of sun. But until I garden on such a scale I'll enjoy my snowdrops close-up, in simple clay pots, where I can appreciate their perfectly delicate form. And I'll get my Galanthus fix from places like Dawyck, where snowdrops and stories abound. 

2016: A good year

2016 was, world events aside, a very good year. My biggest achievement was surviving my second year of the horticulture with plantsmanship course at the Botanics, and gaining my HND as well as my Diploma in Plantsmanship, with distinction. I memorized innumerable Latin plant names, drew dozens of floral diagrams, wrote a very long paper on the history of horticultural journalism, and completed myriad other assignments that flew fast and heavy.

I also traveled a lot in 2016, with international adventures to new countries as well as two trips back to the U.S. I happily got to see much more of Britain, including famous gardens the length of the country: Levens Hall, Chatsworth, Sissinghurst, Great Dixter, Newby Hall, Drummond Castle, Cambo, Shepherd House, Scampston Hall, Glasgow and St. Andrews Botanical Gardens, and more. And of course I fell deeper in love with Scotland, checking off the Isle of Skye from my life-long must-visit list.

It's been a great year, and I'm looking forward to many big adventures in 2017. Happy New Year!

Winter at the Botanics

After that second cup of tea I put on my wool long underwear and shearling hat and walked through the chilly streets of Edinburgh and down the Leith River to the Botanics. Because of its lower elevation and closer proximity to the sea, there wasn't as much frost in the garden as at home. Nevertheless, I walked around looking for photos, my only company the wood pigeons and a handful of visitors who had braved the cold.

It was nice to spend time in the garden in a visually creative way. I am there every week--sometimes multiple days per week--but for more than two years the focus of that time has been horticultural and taxonomic training, not art. Photographing in the frosty garden yesterday reminded me of one of the main reasons I want to work with plants--they are just so beautiful. 

Even on a day when weather conditions and the half-light of Scottish winter kept most people inside, fallen leaves and frozen foliage held my attention for several hours. I walked home in the four o'clock dark as snow squalls advanced from the east, grateful I'd seen the garden this day.

I keep thinking about an amazing BBC documentary I watched last week, called Forest, Field & Sky: Art Out of Nature, about artists who use nature as their medium. It featured David Nash, Charles Jencks, Julie Brook, my favorite Andy Goldsworthy, among others, and lots of artworks created in Scotland. It was one of the best and most inspiring films I've seen, so check it out if you can (it's also on YouTube though the quality doesn't do justice to the art). I revisited one of the Goldsworthy pieces at the Botanics yesterday, enjoying the surrounding warm-colored leafy gradient combined with the cool slate, and how the fallen leaves added an extra element--a stripe of orange--of which Goldsworthy would no doubt approve. 

Slate, Hole, Wall by Andy Goldsworthy (1990)

Hoar frost!

I've always wanted to see a hoar frost, seduced by the amazing photos I've seen of plants made otherworldly by what looks like a light dusting of powdered sugar. I got my chance this morning, when I opened the wooden shutters to find every detail of my front garden picked out in white. 

It's very cold out, but I bet the gardens at school look amazing. Might bundle up and take a donder down there...once I have that second cup of tea... 

Glasgow Botanic Gardens carnivorous collection

While we're on the subject of carnivorous plants, I'd like to share some photos of the stunning carnivorous collection at the Glasgow Botanic Gardens. In August I'd gone through on the train for a fun day filled with museums and good food. I was delighted by the Hunterian Collection, at what will in June be my second collegiate alma mater, the University of Glasgow. I was also surprisingly moved by the nearby Charles Renee Mackintosh House.

Just a few minutes before it closed, my companion and I ducked out of a rain shower into the Glasgow Botanics glasshouse.

The entire glasshouse structure is incredibly beautiful, but I was stunned by this carnivorous display. It felt more like a fine art exhibit than a plant collection. The dark and stormy weather outside made a soft light in which the plants just glowed. It was one of the most beautiful horticultural displays I've ever seen, and a highlight of the many beautiful gardens I've visited this year.

There were Sarracenia (pitcher plants) of all species and colors, as well as Drosera (sundews) and Pinguicula (butterworts), all boggily bedded amongst ferns and mosses. 

Here are a few shots captured before a staff horticulturist ushered us out for closing time. I'd love to go back with a proper camera and get lost in these beautiful plants. 

A sticky situation

A friend gave me my first carnivorous plant earlier this year, a Drosera of unknown species (probably capensis). It was an exercise in eco-friendly biocontrol: The intention was for this stunning little bug catcher to help clear up a rash of sciarid flies that were plaguing my houseplants, and by extension, me.  

Like most houseplants in my dark flat, the Drosera got pretty unhappy, fast. It quit producing dew, which is what it uses to lure and trap its prey. Trapped insects are ultimately digested using enzymes on the leaf surfaces. With no dew, the plant wasn't able to eat.

So I did what I do with all my failing-to-thrive houseplants: I exiled the Drosera to purgatory--also known as outside. I didn't expect it to survive the transition to much cooler temperatures and blowing Scottish gales, but within a week the increased light had induced a flush of fresh new leaves. Soon the Drosera was regularly dewing again, and trapping flies. Here is one unlucky guy who posed for a final portrait as his feet were being digested. 

I'm not sure what I will do with this plant when temperatures get below freezing. I'm afraid it will be terribly unhappy inside again, so I may just leave it out to see what happens. Certain Drosera spp. are native to Scotland, so maybe this beautiful little plant could survive the winter outside? If anyone has overwintered their Drosera outside, in a similar climate, let me know!

Oh, and I finally got rid of the sciarid flies by taking the houseplant they'd colonized outside, removing all the soil (where the flies live and reproduce), washing the plant's roots clean, and repotting it into fresh, clean soil. 

The Rust Garden for Edinburgh Printmakers

A month ago today I was delighted to come upon a brand-new, fascinating Edinburgh garden in an area I frequent on my way to walk the Union Canal path. For as long as I've lived here this raised bed has been a wild urban space, choked with Buddleja and Sambucus, collecting trash that blew through the alley and decorated only with graffiti. Then one day I walked by and noticed that the ground had been cleared, the shrubs hacked to down to stumps. Shortly after I rounded the corner to this riot of color and form. 

In the last two years I have seen some of the world's most famous gardens: Hidcote, Sissinghurst, Chanticleer, Rousham, Longwood, Great Dixter, Chatsworth...the list goes on and on. But this mystery garden delighted me in ways that some of those heavy-hitters failed to do. 

The carnival colors and crazy mix of tropical-looking plant forms looked so refreshingly novel and un-British to me. I loved the more-is-more effect of packing so many strongly colored plants so closely together. Adding all these hot colors to the grey and brown building behind it could have ended poorly. Instead, the flower and foliage color harmonized with the paint and very effectively married the garden to its building, turning an eyesore into an asset. It took the work of a skilled colorist and planting designer to pull this off so well. The effect was a defiant fist shaking at the grey and cold Edinburgh weather. Just looking at it brought to mind my native hot-climate summer that I'm so missing, and warmed me up a lot. 

The plant selections weren't the only surprises. This turned out to be an interactive garden, with a little step built to help one up to sit on a small wooden bench. 

At first I thought the circular patio area in front of the bench was filled with pea gravel. But as I sat and looked around, I noticed words and phrases spelled in metal letters throughout the garden.

Turns out the "pea gravel" is actually 25,000 rusted steel letters! It was impossible to see or sit in this garden and not play with the letters, writing messages and signing names. 

Every time I've passed the garden in the last month there have been different phrases written with the letters. I love this interactive, poetic aspect to the garden. 

Pan out a bit and you'll get a sense of why coming across this garden was so surprising. You can barely see the bright lupines tucked in that tiny space in post-industrial urban wasteland.

One of the most intriguing aspects of the Rust Garden is that the interpretation panels that explained it weren't on display when the garden was first installed, and when I came across it. The seemingly magical appearance of such a bright and beautiful garden sprung fully-formed in the midst of a neglected and "waste" space made the garden even more affecting. It was only later that I learned the garden was the work of Toronto-based artists Matt Donovan and Hallie Siegel (which may explain the more North American feel to the planting design). There's more info on their site, including some good pictures of the alley as I'd always seen it. 

The Rust Garden was commissioned by Edinburgh Printmakers, which is set to revitalize this neglected Castle Mill Works building, which was the headquarters of the North British Rubber Company, Edinburgh's largest industrial operation, from 1856 to the late 1960s. Their best known product was a green wellie boot, and eventually the company became Hunter Boot Ltd. So those iconically British wellie boots known and worn around the world had their start in this building a stone's throw from my house in Edinburgh. Discovering this history has made me even more sad that ever since Hunter moved their production to China and became more of a fashion instead of a utility brand, their boots have become such poor quality that I sent the last pair I ordered back in disgust and (regretfully) switched loyalties to a French company. 

Wellies aside, the Rust Garden is a huge success and one of my favorite gardens of 2016. It's on display as part of the Edinburgh Festival and runs through August 28, so see it while you can. I am not sure what its fate will be as the planting was very much done for immediate effect, with tender annuals that won't survive the winter. I am also pretty sure the weedy shrub stumps were not totally removed, which means those plants have probably already begun to grow back with a vengeance. I can only hope that after the Festival the Rust Garden will be developed into a more permanent garden that can continue to surprise and delight those of us ducking through this Fountainbridge alley.

A blustery Borders hike, and an art lesson

A couple of weekends ago we drove down to the Scottish Borders in search of a nice woodland hike. We ended up at Yair Hill Forest, tucked right up against the River Tweed. These have been important hunting and fishing lands since the end of the last ice age 12,000 years ago. In the middle ages Yair was a royal hunting ground, reserved for use by Scottish kings. Between 1296 and 1305 these woods provided shelter for William Wallace as he and his army engaged in battles throughout the Borders. 

The purple heath and heather (Calluna vulgaris, Erica cinerea, among others) were in full bloom. Blaeberries (Vaccinium myrtillus--related to the common blueberry) were covered in tiny, tasty black fruit. 

An area of low pressure was moving in off the North Atlantic, prompting all sorts of high wind and gale warnings. Though the valley floor was warm and sunny, by the time we made it to the top of the hill the wind was blowing the trees horizontal and even pushing me off the trail. 

Despite the weather the Southern Upland Way, Scotland's coast-to-coast path, tempted us higher on the moor, led on by the sight of cairns in the distance. 

Summiting the peak we found the Three Brethren Cairn, which marks the ancient boundary of three properties. Each year more than 500 horses and their riders support the Royal Burgh Standard Bearer in a ride to the cairns during the Selkirk Common Riding Festival. This is a tradition that dates back at least 500 years and has its roots when riding around land was the way of preserving ownership and preventing encroachment by neighboring lairds. 

This was my first time seeing an old Scottish cairn, and I immediately understood what one of my favorite artists, Andy Goldsworthy, is referencing with his stone cairns. Though I have always found his cairns beautiful and technically awe-inspiring, and delighted whenever I came across one in my travels, I didn't until this hike really understand how they reflect a sense of place and lifestyle that is so inherently Scottish.  

My favorite Goldsworthy's cairn piece is in De Moines, Iowa, at the De Moines Art Center. My brother and I stumbled upon it in 2008 while in town for our grandmother's memorial. Titled 'Three Cairns," these dry-stone structures were completed in 2002 of Iowa limestone. 

Leave it to Scotland to surprise me with unexpected art appreciation on a random weekend hike. 

After just a few minutes on the blustery hilltop we descended back through the forest, stopping to watch the swallows dive over a field of peacefully grazing sheep. I don't think I'd ever get tired of watching a scene like this. It's always changing as the weather rolls over and the animals mill about. Beautiful. 

More sweet peas

With careful tending, weekly high-potash feeds, and constant de-tendriling, my sweet peas continue to pump out the blooms. I couldn't be more thrilled with my variety selection. My goal, in addition to growing highly scented varieties, was to select six that could be combined in multiple ways to give me different-looking arrangements within a limited palette. 

In the arrangement above you can see 'Charlie's Angel,' the blue/lavender; 'North Shore,' the darker bicolored purple; 'Senator,' the purple and maroon flake; 'Almost Black,' peeking out the right side; the creamy white 'Jilly,' and over on the left just a hint of the pale pink 'Champagne Bubbles.' The bright fuchsia bloom in the center is a student plot mystery plant, but it's a happy and welcome surprise.