Springing Ahead

Starting a new garden on a piece of familiar land is like embarking on a journey into a country I thought I knew. For years my daughter and her family lived where I now live, and since my old house was only a short walk away, I visited frequently. So I thought I knew the garden. I thought I knew the land.

Yet each day here now brings a surprise. Will the bulbs I planted last fall bloom or did the squirrels eat them or move them to some other location? And what was growing here already that I was unaware of?

My son-in-law who used to live in the house told me that some blue flowers usually bloomed in this area. Now I know he was right.

It’s hard to express how happy I am feeling, now that the bulbs we planted last fall are beginning to bloom. Daffodils are opening everywhere — along the trail where we planted them over 25 years ago, on the berm by the skating pond where the planting still continues — but in my new garden, daffodils and crocuses are popping up in unexpected places, a single bud here, another there, taken and buried perhaps by some animal who was planning for colder days ahead. 

One lonely crocus, in a lawn of not-yet-green grass.

The crocus I planted on a whim in a line that stretches from the still bare bed across the grass looks better than I expected, and the blooms are lasting longer than usual, opening and closing daily as the temperature changes. (On the day of the total eclipse, they were wide open before the eclipse began, then closed and didn’t re-open until the next day.) 

That’s Jacques in the background, beginning the garden clean-up.

Every day I take photos and make notes of where to plant bulbs in the fall. Where does the snow melt first? Should I plant snowdrops there or layer the bulbs, snowdrops, crocus, daffodils, allium? What do I see from one window or another, and what do I want to see in the years to come? 

I may add daffodils at the base of the birch tree, avoiding the stump of the dying maple we removed last fall.

We are continuing to expose the boulders that surround the house, removing some of the oldest trees as well as some of the youngest, opening the woods to allow a little more sunlight. Last week, Jacques and Ken cut down most of the scrubby brush that grew on the hillside towards the lake. The ground looks bare now, but whatever is there will grow again. And as it does, I’ll have a better sense of what to keep and what to plant in its place. Rhododendrons? A cascade of tumbling spirea?

The curving line on the grass at the base of the hill is the Dragon’s Tail. Soon it will turn from green to different shades of yellow, as the daffodils planted there begin to bloom.

Gardening in a tiny space is a new experience for me. The area around the house is probably the size of a standard North American suburban lot. But in every direction, I have borrowed views: down the hill and across the lake, onto the woods, over the open fields.

I took this photo on May 25, 2014. It’s one of my favourite views from what is now my house, looking out onto the fields with Malus ‘Dolgo’ in full force and a few daffodils still in bloom. I’ll try to photograph it this May to see how or if the view has changed.

I’m still finding my way into the space, trying to understand its potential. And for the first time in many years, I feel like a novice gardener, not entirely sure of where to go. I couldn’t ask for anything better.

NOTE: Do get in touch if you are interested in touring Glen Villa Art Garden or simply taking a look at my new one. We aren’t holding Open Garden Days this year but will open to groups of 15 or more, put together by you, on a date arranged in advance.