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The fruits of Christopher Lloyd’s English country garden at Great Dixter
Great Dixter has always been a draw for gardeners, but now Aaron Bertelsen is making the great Lutyens house as exciting for foodies, as Diana Henry discovers. Photographs by Andrew Montgomery
Midday in the kitchen at Great Dixter and the vegetable gardener, Aaron Be rte ls en, uncorks a bot t le of cold white burgundy. I was expecting a cup of tea and a bit of fruit cake. This is, after all, a very English house. Designed by Edwin Lutyens (he combined two houses, one from the 15 than done from the 16 th century and added to them ), Great Dixter, in No rt hi am, East Sussex, was home to one of Britain’s most loved gardeners and writers, Christopher Lloyd. He grew up here and eventually took over the gardens created by his father and Lutyens, and made them his own. ‘This is ex act ly what Chr isto would have done ,’ says Be rte ls en, pouring generous glasses. ‘When Christo was here and there was just the two of us we’d often have champagne at lunch. He believed in living life.’
Lloyd died in 2006 but his old fridge, bought in 1932, still hums quietly in the corner. The big glass-fronted cup--
‘Christo didn’t think of gardening as a job or a hobby. He saw it as part of life, something everyone should do’
boards, the crockery, utensils and shelves of books are all his. But this is not a house and garden set in aspic. Half t he table is covered with labels, st ring, spices, jars of jam (a lot of preserving goes on here), and paperwork.
A constant stream of people– gardeners, office staff, friends–drift in and out. The talk is of practicalities – what chores have been completed this morning, what needs to be cooked for dinner, new recipes. There’s a lot of swearing, teasing and laughter. Lloyd is mentioned so of ten you’d think he was upstairs writing away just as he used to, and his influence seems to be at the front of Be rte ls en’ s mind. An irreverent, funny and energetic New Zealander, Bertelsen knew about Lloyd from pieces in Gardens Illustrated and first visited Great Dixter as a student in 1996. He returned in 2005 intending to stay for three months but never left.
‘Christo taught me so much,’ says Bertelsen. ‘He didn’t think of garden- ing as a job or a hobby. He saw it as part of life, something that everyone should be doing, and he thought ever y thing was connected – gardens, music, literature. He gave me book lists, fiction he thought I should read, and made me star t a diar y. The diaries were one of t he condit ions of my being here. He would say that a diary entry “puts eve- r ything to bed’’. It was a kind of therapy, an end in itself. The horticulture I learnt from the head gardener, Fergus Garrett, but from Christo I learnt about life. He taught me the difference between seeing and looking. “Be interested, always ask questions,” he used to say. And also he advised me not just to have friends my own age. He thought you should have younger friends too. Freshness and curiosity were very important to him.’
Throughout the year, Great Dixter hosts symposium sand the staff( the gardening students live here and have bedrooms upstairs) have to be fed as well, so cooking is almost as important as gardening. That job soon fell to Bertelsen. As he could only make past a bake when he arrived, he had to learn fast. ‘I started to love the vegetable and fruit gardening more than any other. Gardening to eat feels different. I began to enjoy eating greens because I’d grown them. A desire not to waste anything grew naturally. Christo believed in sustainability and we still do today, but not because it’s a rule – if you grow fruit and vegetables you want to ensure every bit is used. Simple and seasonal is a good mantra but a cook needs to be resourceful too.’
Bertelsen’s recipes, with some from the Lloyd family’s kitchen notebooks,
have now been preserved in The Great Dixter Cookbook, published next week. Bertelsen particularly loves beetroot (he uses the leaves and seed tops), adores salad (‘ but not those microleaves, they’ re total nonsense ’) and tomatoes (‘when I meet other vegetable growers in the summer that’ s all we talk about’), and is helpless when faced with ripe seasonal fruit .‘ Fruit is the romantic side of edible gardening – it’s luscious. I can gorge myself on fruit.’
So ups, vegetable tarts, salad sand simple puddings such as compotes and crumbles are the backbone of cooking here. Preserving, which starts in the summer and continues through to the winter, and freezing are important too. There’s a huge larder – it’s the size of a small room and feels colder than it is outside – stuffed to the g unnels with chutneys and pick les, and another large cupboard devoted to jams. On almost every windows ill there are ornamental gourds. The gardens are almost deplete of colour, it being winter, but the bleached branches and patches of tired honesty are beautiful. Inspecting fennel and bitter leaves with Bertelsen’s dachshunds trotting beside us, I wish I was a gardener. ‘I know I live in a very privileged position but everyone can grow something. I like to teach rather than preach – half the stuff that is said about growing your own is bullshit,’ says Ber telsen. ‘ You have to be sensible and realistic about you r space, a nd you have to accept that things go wrong, but gardening makes you feel good. And it’s great to eat what you’ve grown .’ Pumpkin soup–made from GreatDixt er pumpkins – cheese, chutney and homemade bread are the perfect lunch.
As I leave more pumpkins arrive in the kitchen. They’re expecting 50 people for dinner so orange flesh is being chopped with a huge cleaver; there’s more soup to be made. ‘Yes, more soup, more soup!’ cries Bertelsen. ‘I need to think of new flavours to go in this.’
I consider, even though I have a life and children at home, asking if I could stay and work here. Great Dixter is so suffused with good food and so devoid of pretension that I don’t want to leave: I long to roll my sleeves up and cook.
‘You have to accept that things go wrong, but gardening makes you feel good. And it’s great to eat what you’ve grown’