MY mind is a big metal cabinet holding the files of all our garden design projects. In the liminal dreamtime of early morning, when the moon – a bright, moth-dust silver – is gliding stage right as if pulled by an invisible thread, I lift one out. This hour before the left brain kicks in, bringing its litany of practicalities, is my most precious designing time: a moment of creative listening.
This morning’s file is a garden in the Cotswolds, a perched valley and derelict garden needing new life. At
