The Garden that cannot exist and the math that grows it anyway.

On M.C. Escher, the Fibonacci sequence, and the garden that is always more than one thing at once.

There is a gate in one of my client’s garden in Putney, half-hidden by a Portuguese laurel that has been growing there far longer than anyone remembers. Through it, at the right angle in October light, you can see two gardens at once. It lasts about three seconds. Then you move, and only one remains.

I have been thinking about this while stuck in a sudden downpour between jobs on my inner London round.

The view from the wrong position

If you are familiar with Escher’s work, he spent his career in the places where what we know and what we see refuse to agree. His staircases ascend forever. His hands draw each other into existence. His birds become fish, become sky, become earth — without ever arriving at a final form. He was not, in any traditional sense, a nature artist. He was a man who had noticed that reality is not a fixed thing we observe from a neutral position. It is something we construct, continuously, from wherever we happen to be standing.

"We adore chaos because we love to produce order." — M.C. Escher.

A garden is an Escher drawing you walk into. From the house, it is a composition — designed, contained, a view. Step through the door, and it begins to rearrange itself. The path that seemed straight turns out to be slightly curved. The Acer tree that anchored the whole picture from the kitchen window is, from beneath, an entirely different tree: a different structure, a different relationship to the sky, a different quality of shade. Both are true. They coexist without contradiction, like his monks on the impossible staircase — ascending and descending simultaneously, neither wrong, neither the whole picture.

This is not an illusion. This is what a garden actually is.

What grows in spirals

Pick up a pine cone. Look at the base of it — the scales spiral outward in two directions at once, one set curving clockwise, one anticlockwise. Count them. The two numbers will almost certainly be consecutive terms in the Fibonacci sequence: 8 and 13, or 13 and 21. The same is true of a sunflower's seeds, a pineapple's eyes, the arrangement of leaves on a rose stem. Not by design. By efficiency — the most economical way a growing thing has found to pack itself toward light without blocking itself.

The Fibonacci sequence — 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21 — is the arithmetic of growth itself. Nature didn't plan it. Nature discovered it, the way water discovers the path of least resistance, over and over, across every growing thing on Earth.

This is why planting in groups of three, five, eight works — not because someone invented a rule, but because the eye has been recognising this proportion since long before there were gardens. It feels balanced without feeling symmetrical. It feels intentional without feeling imposed. It leaves room for what a garden actually needs to be, which is not a composition but a living argument — one that keeps revising itself, season by season, in directions nobody entirely planned.

Charles Jencks understood this well enough to build thirty acres around it in Dumfriesshire: a garden shaped by the mathematics of black holes and fractals, turf and steel making the argument that the geometry we discover is the same geometry nature was already using. It is the strangest serious place in British landscape design (which I’m planning to visit by the way), and the point of it is simple: a garden is where multiple realities are permitted to coexist without resolving.

What this means in my small Islington world

Most of the gardens I work with are not thirty acres. They are thirty square metres, with a shared fence, a drainage problem and a neighbour's tree that changes everything about the light during the summer months.

I think about this often — what it means to create a garden knowing it will become something you didn't fully design. That the plants will make decisions. That something will self-seed in a position you'd never have chosen, and in year three it will be the thing that holds the whole middle distance together, and you maybe will stand there in October, slightly baffled, and take no credit for it.

Is that the whole point?

I'm genuinely not sure. But I know that the gardens I find myself returning to — the ones that stay with me — are never the ones that looked exactly as planned. They are the ones that, at the right angle, in the right light, for about three seconds, seemed to be two things at once.

And I know that is not a problem to be solved.

The AI drew the garden. Now what?

On the strange new world where clients arrive with a vision already rendered — and what it means to be the person who makes it real, alive, and true to the ground beneath it.

She slid her phone across the kitchen table without saying anything. On the screen was her back garden — or rather, a version of it that no longer looked like her back garden. The tired lawn had become a gravel terrace. The fence that let in no light was gone, replaced by pleached hornbeams in full leaf. There were grasses — feathery, luminous, catching a late-afternoon sun that London produces perhaps four times a year. It was beautiful. It had taken, she told me, about forty seconds to generate.

She looked at me the way people look at a builder when they hand over an architect's drawing. This is what I want. How soon can you start?

I have been thinking about that moment — and the dozen like it I've had this year — for a long time. And I've found, unexpectedly, that a few concepts have helped me understand what is actually happening in that kitchen, and where I stand inside it.

Einstein's theory of relativity dismantled one of the most intuitive assumptions in human thought: that there exists, somewhere, a fixed and neutral point of observation from which reality can be correctly measured. There is no such point. What you perceive — time, distance, even the order in which events occur — depends entirely on where you are standing and how you are moving.

An AI-generated garden render is, in Einstein's terms, an observation from a single fixed point in spacetime. One angle. One light condition. One idealised season. It is a photograph of a garden that does not yet exist — and that, once built, will never look quite like that image again.

The render cannot show you what happens when those pleached hornbeams, planted in London clay with a west-facing aspect, take three years longer to knit than the algorithm assumed. It cannot show you the Knautia that self-seeds into the gravel in year two, in a colour combination nobody planned, and turns out to be the best thing in the garden. It cannot show you the quality of the light in November, when everything the render depended on for its beauty — the full leaf, the long evening sun — is gone, and what remains is either structure or disappointment.

A garden is a four-dimensional object. It exists in space, yes — but also through time. And no algorithm yet built can render time. What my clients are holding on their phones is not a garden. It is a single frame extracted from a film that will run for decades, presented as though it were the whole story.

Lottie Delamain's recent book makes a quieter argument, but perhaps the most important one. A garden's deepest value, she writes, lies not in how it looks but in what it actively does — for the people inside it, for the ecology surrounding it, for the city it is part of.

"Gardens are the vanguard of positive change — modern-day crucibles for ideas and innovation that provide solutions to some of our most persistent problems." — Lottie Delamain, Gardens That Can Save the World

London's domestic gardens, taken together, cover more green space than all the city's public parks combined. Every decision made in one of them is, in aggregate, an environmental act. The AI render optimises for the visual. It cannot optimise for the mycorrhizal network forming silently in the soil through year two. It cannot optimise for the marsh fritillary finding the Succisa pratensis you planted in the back corner.

And it cannot optimise for this: the child who kneels beside a plant in this garden, learns its name, and carries that name — and the memory of that moment — for the rest of their life.

That image, I think, deserves a moment to sit. Because it is the thing that no render, however photorealistic, however instantly generated, can ever promise. A garden that teaches someone something. A garden that is remembered not for how it looked in a photograph, but for what it felt like to be inside it, once, on an ordinary afternoon in an ordinary summer, when something small and alive caught their attention and held it.

So where do I fit?

The AI does something I cannot do: it gives a client a clear, immediate, emotionally engaging image of possibility. The renders my clients arrive with tell me a great deal about what they value — the quality of light they're drawn to, the register of planting that feels right, the relationship between open space and structure they've been reaching for without knowing how to name it. They are, in the best sense, an efficient brief.

But a brief is not a garden. The distance between the image on the screen and the living system in the ground is exactly the space I occupy. It is the space of garden knowledge — what that specific soil will support, what this aspect means across twelve months, which plants will perform here and which will look like the render for one season before quietly declining. It is the space of time: the understanding that the garden worth having is not the one that looks right on day one, but the one that surprises you in year seven.

My conclusion? A garden is a set of relationships. And relationships cannot be generated. They can only be cultivated — with knowledge, with patience, with honest attention to a specific piece of ground.

The AI drew the garden. I'll build you the one that lives.

Summertime and 5 unusual plant picks nobody is talking about.

Walk through any well-kept garden this June, and you'll see the same confident cast: the roses doing their reliable thing, the lavender humming with bees, the echinaceas holding the fort from July onwards. These are good plants, honest plants — and there is no argument here against any of them. But gardens built entirely on the familiar have a ceiling. They are beautiful in a way that stops surprising you, and a garden that stops surprising you has, in a quiet sense, stopped being a garden at all.

The conversation in serious planting circles right now is about texture, restraint, sensory intelligence, sound and movement. The way a stem catches low evening light. With that in mind, here are five summer plants that are doing exactly that work :

01.Knautia macedonica Macedonian scabious

Deep crimson pincushion flowers, held on wiry branching stems, from June right through to September. It self-seeds with a casual generosity that makes a border feel lived-in rather than planted-to-a-plan, which is, right now, exactly the aesthetic the best garden designers are chasing. Pollinators treat it as essential infrastructure. Slugs, remarkably, leave it entirely alone. Why it works: it gives you the richness of a dark-flowered rose at a fraction of the maintenance cost, and it moves beautifully in the wind.

02. Melica altissima 'Atropurpurea' Purple Siberian melic grass

At Chelsea this year, it was Stipa tenuissima that drew the crowds for its feathery, light-catching movement. But step one pace sideways from the obvious, and you find Melica altissima — arching, architectural, its drooping flower spikes flushed burgundy in a way that photographs almost impossibly well in evening light. It tolerates partial shade with ease, which makes it genuinely useful in the kinds of north-facing town gardens where most grasses give up. Why it works: it offers everything Stipa does, but with depth of colour and a shade tolerance that opens up entirely different planting possibilities.

03. Agastache 'Blue Fortune' Giant hyssop

A heritage variety that has been quietly cultivated since the 1950s, and one that still outperforms most of its newer, more heavily marketed rivals. Upright spikes of soft blue-violet from July through to the first frosts, with anise-scented foliage that rewards brushing past — the kind of incidental sensory moment. Bees treat it as a destination. Why it works: the long season, the scent, the pollinator value, and a blue that reads as genuinely cool in the heat of high summer.

04. Dipsacus fullonum Common teasel

Most gardeners pull it out on sight (I was one of them). This is a mistake that deserves more pushback than it gets. The architectural ambition of a mature teasel — tall, spiny, deeply structural — is almost impossible to replicate with a cultivated plant. In late summer, the narrow band of flowers that travels slowly up each cone is one of the quiet spectacles of the garden year. Leave the seedheads standing, and goldfinches will find them within days. Why it works: it contributes verticality, wildlife value, and a quietly dramatic presence that no nursery-bought alternative quite matches.

05.Succisa pratensis Devil's bit scabious

A native meadow plant almost absent from the modern designed garden, displaced by showier cousins that deliver more spectacle and considerably less ecological honesty. Soft lilac-blue flowers on slender stems from August onwards. It asks almost nothing of you. And its particular quality of late-summer blue — muted, dusty, completely unforced — is the kind of colour that makes everything planted near it look more considered than it actually is. Why it works: late-season colour, zero fuss, and the kind of native credibility that makes a planting scheme feel genuinely rooted in its landscape.

What links these five plants is not rarity. It is a quality of intention — the sense that they were chosen because of what they actually do in a garden, rather than what they look like on a label. The distinction matters, and you can feel it the moment you stand in a border built on that principle versus one assembled from habit.

The design conversation happening at the highest level right now — the one that produced a five-star Chelsea garden this year built on restraint and the Japanese concept of Ma, the idea that what is left out is as important as what is left in — is the same conversation worth having in any garden, at any scale. Not: how do I fill this space? But: what does this space actually need? Start there, and the plant choices tend to get more interesting very quickly.

This summer, look slightly past the front page of the nursery catalogue. The plants worth knowing are usually one shelf further back.

Gardens in motion.

“On learning to read a garden that is always becoming something else — and why that might be the whole point.”

There is a particular kind of morning in March, usually, or the tail end of February, when you step into the garden, and something has shifted overnight. Not dramatically. No headline event. But the quality of the light has changed, or a clump of hellebores has quietly turned its face upward, or the blackbirds have started up an argument that feels distinctly seasonal. You weren't expecting it. You weren't watching. And yet here it is: the garden has moved on without you.

This is what I want to write about. Not gardens as static objects — not beds to be managed and borders to be kept — but gardens as living systems perpetually in motion, always edging toward something, always letting something go. If you've spent any time outside in recent years, really outside and paying attention, you'll know exactly what I mean. Gardens are not finished things. They are, if anything, the opposite: they are arguments against the idea of finished.

The myth of the designed garden

We are sold a particular image of the garden. Symmetry. Restraint. The kind of outdoor space that looks, in photography at least, as though a gardener of almost supernatural dedication has arrived each morning to ensure nothing is ever out of place. These images are beautiful, and I don't say this dismissively — there is genuine artistry in formal garden design. But they can give us a slightly false picture of what a garden actually is, day to day, season to season.

Kendra Wilson, whose writing on sensory gardening has quietly shifted the way many of us think about our outside spaces, makes a point that has stayed with me: that a garden is most alive not when it is precise, but when it offers something to engage with. Texture. Movement. The small surprise. She describes a garden that rewards attention — not the attention of inspection, but the gentler, more open attention of simply being present in a space. That shift in language matters. It moves us from control toward something closer to conversation.

A garden is always becoming. The question worth sitting with is: becoming what — and are we paying close enough attention to notice?

What motion actually means

When horticulturists and garden designers talk about movement, they often mean it literally: the way Stipa tenuissima catches even the faintest breath of wind, or how the long wands of Verbena bonariensis sway in a way that makes a border feel animated rather than planted. This matters enormously, and we'll return to specific plants in future posts. But there is a deeper motion happening beneath the visible one.

A garden moves through time. Not just through seasons — though the rhythm of the gardening year, from the tentative bulb tips of January through to the long amber exhale of October, is one of the most satisfying natural narratives there is — but through years, through decades. The oak you planted for your children will outlive your grandchildren. The self-seeded foxgloves appearing in unexpected corners are the garden's own editorial decisions, not yours. Plants colonise, retreat, evolve partnerships with soil fungi you'll never see. The garden has its own agenda, and good garden design works with that agenda rather than against it.

For design-conscious homeowners, this can feel like a tension. You invest significantly in a planting scheme, a layout, a vision — and then nature starts renegotiating. But the most interesting gardens I've spent time in, both professionally and personally, are the ones where the designer understood this from the beginning. Where the initial plan was generous enough to allow for change, layered enough to remain coherent through the mess of growth, and honest enough to acknowledge that a garden in year ten will look nothing like a garden in year one. That evolution is not a failure of the design. It is the design working.

The sensory case for impermanence

There is also something to be said for what impermanence does to our experience of a garden. The Japanese concept of mono no aware (物の哀れ) — often translated as the bittersweet awareness of things passing — is perhaps most famously illustrated by the cherry blossom: treasured precisely because it lasts only a week or two. In the English garden, we have our own version of this. The sweet pea season. The fleeting, unrepeatable scent of a Rosa 'Tuscany Superb' on a warm June evening. The single October afternoon when the Liquidambar is exactly the shade of red you'd been waiting for all autumn.

These moments cannot be manufactured. They can only be set up — by the choices you make, the plants you include, the structure you give the garden — and then allowed to arrive in their own time. This is, I think, what separates the gardens that feel truly alive from those that feel merely well-maintained. The former have been designed with an understanding that sensation is temporal, and that the most moving things in a garden are the ones that require you to be there at the right moment, paying attention.

Wilson's approach to sensory gardening asks us to consider every plant in terms of what it gives to the senses — not just visually, but through scent, through sound, through touch. A clump of ornamental grasses does not just look good; it speaks in the wind. A path of thyme releases its oils underfoot. The garden, understood this way, becomes less a thing to look at and more a thing to be inside. And being inside something that is constantly changing is a very different experience from visiting something static.

How to start seeing it differently

If you take nothing else from this post, take this: try visiting your garden at different times of day for a week. Dawn is different from mid-morning. Late afternoon light does something quite specific to certain plants — particularly those with translucent petals or silvery foliage — that noon light simply doesn't. The garden at dusk, when the whites begin to glow and the scent of certain flowers intensifies, is almost a different space entirely.

This is not a design recommendation. It is an act of observation, the foundation of everything in horticulture worth doing well. Once you start noticing how your garden moves — through the day, through the week, through the year — you start making better decisions about it. You begin to understand which moments you want to amplify, and which views you've been missing because you always approach from the same direction at the same time.

“The garden doesn't need you to be in charge of it. It needs you to be in it — present, curious, and unhurried.”

In the future posts, I'll get into specifics: the plants that move most beautifully, the structural choices that hold a garden together through its changes, the seasonal transitions that reward preparation. But all of that rests on this underlying idea: that a garden is a process, not a product. It is a thing in motion, and our job — as gardeners, as designers, as people who care about gardens — is to learn how to move with it.

Step outside. See what's changed while you weren't looking.

Winter Mode.

Why bulbs need cold: the invisible architecture of growth

Have you ever wondered why bulbs need cold weather?

It’s not the typical question you wake up with, but if you share a mild obsession with gardening, your curiosity eventually runs that deep. We tend to view winter as a season of "nothingness," but the biology of a garden tells a much more provocative story about how we actually grow.

The science of vernalisation: why cold is activation

I recently dove into the botanical research behind this, and what I found surprised me. In the world of horticulture, the cold isn't a pause; it’s a process called vernalisation.

According to botanical science, the cold is an essential activation trigger. Each species has an internal clock, and winter is when the real work begins—cellular reprogramming at a biochemical level we’ll never witness. All that invisible architecture is being built in the dark, in the cold, beneath frozen ground.

We only see the epilogue: the bloom. But the magic—the actual transformation—happened in the unseen months. In "winter mode."

The "Spectacle" trap in business and life.

I think about this more than I should. We’ve trained ourselves to measure growth only by what is visible:

• The promotion at work.

• The KPIs in our businesses.

• The breakthrough moments we can post on social media.

We’ve made spectacle synonymous with progress. But what if the most critical development happens precisely when nothing appears to be happening? When you feel stuck, frozen, or "buried" in conditions that seem designed to break you rather than build you?

Recognising your season.

We all have our seasons. The challenging part isn’t enduring them—it’s recognising which one we’re actually in.

If you are currently in a "winter" phase of your life or career, ask yourself:

1. Am I stalled, or am I deepening?

2. Is this a lack of progress, or is it "cellular reprogramming"?

3. What invisible architecture am I building right now that will support my future bloom?

The difference isn’t always obvious from the inside. When you’re under the frozen ground, it just feels cold.

Learning from the winter gardens.

Maybe we need to see ourselves the way we’d observe a garden in winter. With patience for the intelligence of timing, with trust in processes we can’t track, and with reverence for the invisible work that precedes every bloom.

The stuff we don't see may be the most important part. Like the bulbs.