GOLDEN AGE OF GREAT DIXTER
Spring flowers herald the start of a new season in this iconic garden
In spring, the verdant meadow below Great Dixter’s long border is awash with yellow. Some of the historic varieties of narcissi here were planted so long ago that no one can remember their names and, as its steward and head gardener Fergus Garrett explains, the trees under which they flourish were chosen to not be too “gardenesque” in this semi-natural setting. The crab apples and wild and ornamental pears are allowed to lean, and their limbs to drape, creating a relaxed, informal feel.
As in every other part of this very particular and altogether magical garden, there is a careful management strategy in place, however naturalistic the result may appear. Fergus explains how the grass here won’t be cut until the middle or end of August, as soon as the last “important thing” – usually the common spotted orchid – has ripened its seed. “The seeds spill onto the ground and germinate in autumn. So in order to help them establish, we cut again in November so that when the short Crocus vernus and the even smaller Crocus chrysanthus and
C. biflorus hybrids come up in spring, they will be visible,” Fergus says. “They stand a much better chance of survival if they see a bit of light.”
Over in the stock beds, edged with a great splash of orange-cupped ‘Jetfire’ narcissi and vibrant chartreuse-flowered euphorbia, the story is much the same. The overblown cottage gardening for which Great Dixter is famous is critically appraised by Fergus and his team, as well as his students, on a daily basis. “It looks chaotic but actually a lot of it is planned,” he says, with characteristic good humour.
Stock plants are raised here for the on-site nursery, and each “mother plant” (from which cuttings are taken, to grow on to sell) must be allowed enough space to thrive. Areas are delineated with canes, laid out on the soil, so that when the perennials are cut down in late winter, or lifted to be divided, it is still possible to see where everything sits: “We could make life simple for ourselves and plant our stock beds in straight rows, but instead we integrate them into the informal garden and allow self-sowers to thrive in the spaces between the stock.” This has the advantage of bringing a succession of interest and colour in these areas of phlox and aster stock, running through from snowdrops, hellebores and daffodils to alliums, tulips, lilies and verbascums. Thalictrum ‘Elin’ and pampas grass Cortaderia richardii both look good here over a long season.
Below these, in the stone walls, spill purple aubrieta, rusty-back ferns (Asplenium ceterach) and primroses. Stalwarts such as these are part of the traditional fabric of this venerable garden and it is vital that they are not squeezed out. “These are common plants but they create a
wonderful effect,” Fergus says. “It’s not all about the rare and unusual. It might sound like gobbledygook but actually it’s true that you need to allow yourself to feel the atmosphere of a garden, let the sense of place speak to you and feed your own creativity.”
Crucially, Fergus doesn’t allow his own ideas to be overshadowed by what his iconoclastic former employer Christopher Lloyd might have done. Christopher gardened here all his life (he would have been 100 this year) and Fergus worked alongside him for 14 years until Christopher’s death in 2006: “I had the greatest love and respect for Christo and have been hugely influenced by him but it doesn’t mean you have to do everything by his rules.”
Experimentation is key to keeping the garden alive and it is the energy that fuels its continuing success. “When Christo died, I thought the last thing we want to do is grow fat on our name,” Fergus says. “Dixter is an important garden but it can’t rest on that – it still has to deserve its place and it must earn a living. It has to move forward, so experimentation continues, education continues and we are doing important work to spread the message about biodiversity. That is crucial.”
Fergus is a collaborative and generous gardener, driven by a passion to share his knowledge, and students (on traineeships and scholarships) are always at his heels here. A case in point is the large collection of pots that flank the front door of the gently leaning timberframed house and that Fergus uses as a teaching tool. In spring, narcissi, muscari, hyacinths and other bulbs jostle for space in these. “We’ll take a benchmark ‘good’ narcissus, such as ‘Tête-àtête’, and grow a bowl of that alongside pots of, say, six other small daffodils. We analyse their height, their colour, their leaves, when they flower – everything. If you are planning to integrate bulbs into your borders, especially daffodils, you need to know they are compatible with their neighbours because their leaves can splay out and kill off emerging phloxes and heleniums, for instance,” he says.
Fergus loves every season in the garden but after the intense hard work of winter (“trenchfoot season”), spring always feels like a fresh start: “It’s about a different feel on your face, a different light level. It’s the momentum of nature building up around you. You can feel life again.”