May Days at Bramasole

Even the Weeds are Sweet

Up early, because the bird chorus starts a chaotic rehearsal even before the sun clears the top of the hill across the valley. I push open the shutters and the light—effervescent and spangled—seems to rise from the freshly-drenched garden. The beauty, the gobsmacking natural beauty of these Tuscan hills, astounds me. What luck to live in a landscape that reminds me daily that the world is amazing and ever-inspiring. Shown above, the foregrounded small plot, high on the land, is a combination of rosemary, thyme, ground cover roses, and yarrow. A pleasure—improvising unlikely companions.

May is tumultuous. Rain, rain. Annoying big winds swooping across the Alps. Bone-chilling mornings. Then the kindest days settle, a sun so gentle you just want to lie down in the grass and blow a dandelion puff or read aloud a few poems by WS Merwin, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Dylan Thomas. Every time I hear the wayward cuckoo’s silly call, I have to smile, remembering Shakespeare’s poem about how the word “cuckoo” (from whence cometh “cuckold”) strikes fear in husbands’ hearts. And I can see the kitschy clock a childhood friend had in her room. How we loved it!

There is nothing, to me, more satisfying than creating and keeping a garden. It’s a lot of stinging hands and aching knees, and I could not possibly maintain this garden at Bramasole without the expert work of Fabio and Giorgio, and, of course Ed, master of the olive groves. No one likes to weed, unfortunately, and with this rain the weeds are formidable. Many are as pretty as plants I choose, especially the evil weed that chokes the roses overnight. Its fresh green heart-shaped leaves and the rhythmic twining around its victims flowers look pretty and appealing. Out they come in one long rip.

I don’t know of anywhere that roses bloom more profusely than Tuscany, or where the dreaded black spot encroaches as quickly when the bloom is over. How glory-hallelujah they are now; how ugly they become when their leggy stalks clinging to the stone walls. Right now, every room in the house has at least one vase. (“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…”)

Sally Holmes, lemons over roses, the Polish Wall and roses without names

Often, the local nurseries simply label the roses by their color. We’ve found that these must be adapted to the climate because they thrive while the Gloire de Dijon, Chapeau de Napoleon, Paul Neron, etc. that I’ve carefully ordered in the past often have not done as well. Sally Holmes, however, blooms like crazy. We call her “the cheerleader.” On the Polish Wall, I love the Albéric Barbier and Albertine old rose ramblers, even though they bloom once and briefly.

I like for the garden to be both designed and to appear to be natural. I try to incorporate hints of the traditional architectural Tuscan garden while improvising more romantically. We have the great advantage of the beautiful stones walls, one of the most important elements in our garden. I have always loved that collision point of wild nature with the desire to create art.

I’ll continue this—there’s so much to say!

With Fabio, fresh haul to plant before the next rain

Notes

“Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas

“Pied Beauty” by Gerard Manley Hopkins

“Cold Spring Morning” by WS Merwin

A big thank you to everyone who’s following Proceed to the Route. I would like to hand each of you one of these roses! I hope you are enjoying the posts as much as I am. My college’s motto was vita abundantior, the life more abundant. We had navy blazers with the motto sewn on the pocket. All my posts second the emotion. Next week, I’d like to create a post (Bramasole garden ideas that can translate to your own yards and gardens) especially for those who have decided to become paid members. I appreciate your validation.