I was recently invited to take part in The Garden Gadabout—a thoughtful and beautifully curated Substack series by Pip Steele-Wareham of The Garden at Moorfield. If you’ve read Pip’s writing, you’ll know how deeply she sees and how generously she reflects. So when she asked if I’d contribute a Q&A, I didn’t hesitate.
We spoke about scale and story, soil and sentiment. About letting go of five acres and building a life on just over 500 square metres. About design, daily rhythms, and how a garden can be both deeply personal and quietly shared.
The questions gave me pause in all the right ways. They asked not just what I do, but why—and what it’s all come to mean over time. I’m grateful to share the full Q&A here on the blog, for anyone who missed it in its original home.
Sometimes, through these kinds of conversations, you meet a kindred spirit. That’s how I’ve come to feel about Pip. And it’s an honour to be featured in her series alongside so many thoughtful gardeners and growers.
Read on below for the full Q&A. It’s a super deep dive that’s for sure!
Q&A with Natasha Morgan and Pip Steele-Warenham of The Garden at Moorfield
Have you always gardened, and what is your earliest garden memory?
I’ve always gardened, for as long as I can remember. My earliest memories are in the backyard of a dear family friend in inner Melbourne. She had a generous, established garden and let me dig, plant, and explore freely. I remember being small enough that I had to kneel down to get my hands into the soil—but that didn’t matter. I was hooked. I always left with a cutting or a handful of seeds.
That early experience planted something in me: a sense that a garden could be both a sanctuary and a place of possibility. That sense has never left me.
What brought you to making a life spent in gardens and in garden design/landscape architecture?
I was always drawn to design and creativity, and I found my way to architecture first, and then landscape architecture. But it was the living, breathing nature of gardens that pulled me in.
My mother was an immigrant from the former Yugoslavia, and like many women of her generation, she placed immense value on education, stability, and profession. Gardening—and even landscape architecture—were seen more as hobbies than viable careers. I was encouraged to pursue medicine, and for a while, I tried. But after several years of chronic illness in my late teens, and time spent navigating the medical system, I realised with deep clarity that medicine was not my path.
That moment of stepping away left me in an in-between space, unsure of what came next. I turned to career counselling, and architecture emerged as a natural fit—something that aligned with my creative instincts and spatial awareness. But three-quarters of the way through my architecture degree, I found myself increasingly drawn away from the drawing board and into the garden. I spent most of my spare time transforming the backyard of my rental into an abundant, productive space filled with herbs, vegetables, and fruit trees. Each year, I harvested the produce and turned it into preserves and handmade gifts—overflowing Christmas hampers for friends and family. It was joyful, purposeful work. Work that made sense.
The pull toward something more grounded became impossible to ignore. I enrolled in landscape architecture as a double degree, and for the first time, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be. Landscape architecture offered a beautiful intersection between design, ecology, and care. It wasn’t about building over land—it was about working with it.
I spent over a decade lecturing in landscape architecture at RMIT and Melbourne Universities. Alongside that, I worked in high-level practice for 15 years, including managing the design and construction of The Australian Garden (Stage 2) at the Royal Botanic Gardens Cranbourne. That experience taught me that landscapes aren’t just spaces—they’re stories. And when shaped with care and intention, they influence how we live, how we connect, and how we feel.
After having children, something shifted. I was burnt out. I felt a strong pull to step back from large-scale work and begin to live the very things I had been designing and teaching for years. That desire became Oak & Monkey Puzzle—a 5-acre property in Spargo Creek that allowed me to bring together design, growing, teaching, and community in one living, evolving space. It marked the beginning of a slower, more intentional way of life—one grounded in the seasons, shaped by circumstance, and defined by a deep collaboration with the land.
That journey continues today at Little Cottage on a Hill, where I now explore how to distil all of those lessons into a much smaller space—and share them with others through writing, workshops, and teaching.
Does your property or garden have a name?
Yes, my current garden is called Little Cottage on a Hill. It’s just 515 square metres, but it’s a living prototype for everything I teach and share.
Before that, I spent nearly a decade at Oak & Monkey Puzzle—a 5-acre gold rush-era property in Spargo Creek. It was once the old post office, general store, and pub. That garden was my design laboratory, community hub, and sanctuary—and very much my foray into country living.
How would you describe your personal garden, and how long have you been creating it?
I began creating this garden in 2022, after we left Oak & Monkey Puzzle. It was a conscious decision—a deliberate downsizing. I wanted to see if I could distill everything I had learned on five acres into just over 500 square metres. What emerged is Little Cottage on a Hill—a small garden with big ambitions.
This garden is the next chapter in a life lived in close relationship with land and season. It’s small but mighty. A productive, seasonal, ever-evolving space that works hard to nourish my family and inspire others. The verge is planted; the driveway, a courtyard. The fences aren’t just boundaries—they’re frameworks for borrowed views and moments of respite. Here, beauty and utility are never mutually exclusive.
Even the smallest gesture—a path, a fence, a planting pocket—serves a purpose. It’s a space shaped by years of design thinking, scaled down but no less intentional. In many ways, this garden is a working prototype—one I share through my writing, workshops, and courses. It’s proof that you don’t need endless space to live abundantly. With careful planning, observation, and a relationship with the seasons, even the smallest plot can feed a life.
But Little Cottage on a Hill is more than just a garden. It’s a philosophy. It came to life in the wake of a personal reckoning during the pandemic. At the time, we were still living at Oak & Monkey Puzzle, and I’d spent nearly a decade transforming that place into a design laboratory and community hub. But when the world shut down, everything I had built suddenly felt hollow. The vibrant exchange that gave the property its energy was gone. And though I continued to share it through social media, it no longer felt meaningful in the same way.
And yet—something profound happened in that pause. When supermarket shelves were empty and uncertainty hung in the air, I realised that if I had access to soil, sky, water, and seed, I had everything I truly needed. That moment changed me. It made me reflect deeply on what matters, and how much is enough.
Letting go of Oak & Monkey Puzzle wasn’t easy. It had been my canvas, my gathering place, my refuge. But in stripping things back, I found something I hadn’t expected—clarity, calm, and a new kind of creativity. That shift in consciousness led me here, to a smaller space, a slower pace, and a deeper alignment with the life I wanted to live.
This garden carries the essence of everything that came before, but it’s also something entirely new. It’s grounded in simplicity, resilience, and beauty. It’s proof that a meaningful, abundant life doesn’t depend on scale.
My children have grown up alongside my gardens—first running barefoot through wide paddocks, now helping harvest from raised beds just steps from the kitchen. This space reflects not just who I am now, but who we are, together.
It’s the smallest garden I’ve ever had—but it’s where I feel the richest. It’s where I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
Do you garden alone, or with the help of others?
For the most part, I garden alone. There’s a rhythm to it that I find deeply grounding—a kind of quiet companionship between myself and the plants, the soil, the shifting light. Those solo hours are when I observe, recalibrate, and plan—not just for the garden, but for life. It’s a moving meditation that keeps me tethered to the seasons and to myself.
That said, I’m no longer doing everything alone. After years—decades, really, of using my body so fully in both design and physical labour, I’ve begun to feel the quiet accumulation of effort. So now, every fortnight, Sage comes to lend a hand. They help with the larger jobs—edging, mulching, workshop prep, and the kinds of physical tasks that once came easily but now ask more of me.
But what began as a practical arrangement has grown into something more meaningful. I’m now mentoring Sage as they build the skills and confidence to start their own design consultancy, building on their already incredible gardening abilities. It’s a quiet, beautiful exchange: skills passed on, ideas explored, and the beginnings of a new chapter for someone else.
My children, now teenagers, will from time to time lend a hand, especially if there’s something to harvest. They’ve grown up in my gardens, from the sweeping terraces of Oak & Monkey Puzzle to the layered abundance of Little Cottage on a Hill. While they might not always leap at the chance to weed or plant, I know the garden has shaped them—gently, and profoundly.
The garden is a personal space, yes—but it’s also a communal one. There’s the wider circle: the people who visit during workshops, the conversations shared during garden walks, the questions asked and stories exchanged.
So while I often garden alone, I never feel alone in it. There’s connection in every task—in the soil, in the community, in the hands that help and the stories that grow alongside the plants.
What inspired you to plant the garden you have and how has it evolved from your initial ideas?
This garden began as an experiment. A question, really: How much beauty, abundance, and resilience can be created on a small footprint? After years of designing and tending five acres at Oak & Monkey Puzzle, I wanted to explore how those same principles—thoughtful spatial design, seasonal rhythms, productive planting—could be distilled into just over 500 square metres. What emerged was Little Cottage on a Hill.
It started with the intention of being a teaching garden. A way to show what’s possible when you work creatively with constraints. The verge is fully planted, the driveway doubles as a courtyard, vertical space is used for espaliers and climbers, and fences are positioned to frame views while offering privacy. It’s a garden full of small-space design strategies—but it’s also nuanced and layered. Practical and poetic. It had to work hard, but it also had to feel good.
Over time, it’s become less about showcasing and more about stewarding. Less of a model garden, and more of a living, evolving space that reflects both who I am and the life I want to lead. It changes constantly—responding to the climate, to the needs of my family, to ideas I’m exploring in my teaching or writing. I trial things all the time.
One of the best examples is the wicking beds—now one of my favourite ways to grow. They’re waterwise, eliminate the need for bending, and have proven outrageously productive. Since 9 January, I’ve harvested over 150kg of produce from just six 1x1m beds. It’s hard to overstate the impact that kind of abundance has in a small garden.
There’s also a quiet tension in the garden that I’ve come to appreciate. It’s both public and private. Parts of it are intentionally shared through workshops, photography, storytelling. And yet much of it remains just for us. It holds the dailiness of life: the moments before breakfast spent watering, the after-school harvests, the quiet pauses I take while walking the paths with a cup of tea in hand.
The original question still lingers, but it’s deepened over time: What do I want this space to offer? What can it hold? What does it ask of me in return? In that sense, this garden isn’t a finished project—it’s an ongoing conversation. And the longer I tend it, the more I understand that its purpose isn’t to be perfect, but to be alive.
What is your favourite way to spend time in your garden?
Early mornings and last light in the evenings are the times I value most. Before the day begins or as it winds down, I take a quiet walk through the garden—usually with a cup of tea in hand. I’m not there to do anything in particular. It’s more about observing. What’s thriving, what’s struggling, what might need doing in the days ahead.
It’s in these moments that I feel most grounded. The pace is slow, the garden is still, and I can take it all in without distraction. Sometimes I notice small things—a new leaf, a pest issue, a planting that’s doing better than expected. Other times it’s just the act of being in the space that brings clarity.
These quiet check-ins help me stay connected to the garden and to myself. They’re small but significant. They anchor the day—and often shape what comes next.
What has been the biggest adjustment to downsizing your garden?
Not being able to grow everything I once did—that was the biggest shift. At Oak & Monkey Puzzle, I had the space to experiment widely. There was room for everything: orchard zones, rambling perennials, indulgent trials. Downsizing meant letting go. Not just practically, but emotionally.
But with that came something unexpected: clarity. When space is tight, every decision matters. Every plant has to earn its place—whether for food, structure, habitat, or simply the joy it brings. Every corner must be considered, and that level of intentionality has brought a new kind of creativity.
Plants rarely get second chances here. If they’re finicky or not suited to the microclimate, they’re replaced. That’s not to say the garden is pared back to the point of compromise—it’s still full of character and incredibly special things. But I’m more pragmatic now. I no longer have the time or space to nurse plants along.
The focus is sharper. The palette is tighter. And yet, within those constraints, the garden still surprises me. Self-sown seedlings, natural shifts, moments of seasonal serendipity—those things still find their way in. I may guide it, but I’m never fully in control—and I wouldn’t want to be.
Do you have a favourite season in the garden and if so, why?
Autumn, always. The seedheads, the shifting tones, the softened light. It’s the season of gathering, preserving, and quiet reflection. The pace slows. The structure of the garden comes into focus. There’s a feeling of both abundance and closure that’s deeply satisfying.
But truthfully, I think every season becomes my favourite when I’m in it. They each bring something necessary. I’ve come to look forward to their return, knowing I won’t experience them again for at least another twelve months.
Even winter, which I initially found hard in this cool Central Highlands climate, now feels essential. A time for stillness, rest, and quiet planning. A time for taking stock.
This year, we’ve had an unusually long summer and autumn, and I’m curious to see what the rest of the year brings. The garden is never static. It’s always in conversation with the seasons, the weather, and the year’s unique temperament.
I’ve learned to welcome that movement. It reminds me that nothing stays the same—and that each season is fleeting, and full of its own kind of beauty.
What is one of the most important things you’d say you do in your garden’s maintenance?
Soil health. I believe in growing soil—tending to it, nourishing it, building it over time. It’s the foundation for everything else. Thriving plants, resilience in changing conditions, a rich and vibrant ecosystem… it all starts from the ground up.
I focus on building structure and supporting soil life. That means regular applications of homemade compost, organic matter, and mulch—things like pea straw, leaf litter, and seasonal trimmings. I rarely dig. I use no-dig or low-intervention methods that preserve the integrity of the soil and protect the microbial and fungal networks that support plant health.
This has been one of the areas I’ve learned the most about in recent years—thanks in no small part to the work of people like Matthew Evans and his book Soil, and Charles Dowding’s no-dig approach. Their insights reshaped how I think about soil as a living system, not a neutral medium.
Good soil is dynamic. And when you look after it, it looks after everything else. For me, that’s the most important part of garden maintenance, because when the soil is healthy, the rest tends to follow.
If you had to choose 3 plants to recommend to a new gardener, what would they be and why?
How do you stick to three? So here are five that I come back to again and again—both personally and in teaching others:
Hydrangea paniculata – A hardier hydrangea and a plant that earns its place in any garden. It offers months of interest: fresh summer blooms, autumn colour, and dried flower heads that carry its structure through winter. It’s generous, dependable, and incredibly rewarding for gardeners at any level.
Grasses—particularly Miscanthus and Calamagrostis – I often describe grasses as the framework of the garden. They offer movement, structure, softness, and seasonality. Calamagrostis ‘Karl Foerster’ and Miscanthus cultivars bring verticality and grace. They catch the light beautifully, especially in the cooler months, and offer year-round interest with very little fuss.
Garlic – It’s one of the most rewarding crops I grow. It doesn’t ask for much once it’s in the ground, but it does require patience and timing. It suits small spaces, works well in no-dig beds, and fits perfectly into my seasonal rhythms—planted in one season, harvested in another. When it’s pulled, dried, and stored, it keeps feeding us, friends and family for months to come.
Roses – I tend to grow old-fashioned, fragrant, repeat-flowering roses with big, expressive blooms. They thrive in tough conditions—and are still offering armfuls to bring indoors even after this long dry summer and autumn. I have a big vase next to my bed at the moment, and falling asleep to their scent is something I’ll never take for granted.
Echinacea – A plant I first grew at Oak & Monkey Puzzle, and one I’ve come to appreciate even more over time. I love it in all its stages: the upright blooms, the faded autumn tones, and the sculptural seedheads that persist through winter. It bridges ornamental, ecological, and medicinal value—beautiful to look at, vital for pollinators, and right at home in my collection of medicinal plants. It also has an inherent wildness that balances more structured plantings.
Each of these plants brings something different—structure, resilience, fragrance, generosity, or seasonality.
What plant has been high maintenance, but you feel is worth the effort?
These days, I’m pretty selective about what I bring into the garden. Space is limited, and I tend not to grow anything that asks too much of me. But some things still tempt me, especially when I visit the Friends of Wombat Hill Botanic Gardens Nursery.
The team of volunteers has such deep plant knowledge. I’m often encouraged to try something rare or unusual—and sometimes, despite my better judgement, I do. The enthusiasm is contagious, and the plants are often ones you won’t find elsewhere.
One plant I still have a soft spot for is the peony. Their flowering is fleeting—maybe three weeks if you’re lucky—but it’s utterly captivating. They ask for specific conditions: cool winters, alkaline soil, time to settle. They can be fussy. But when they bloom, they’re unforgettable.
In a small space, high-maintenance plants have to justify themselves. And every now and then, a peony does exactly that.
What plant do you dream of growing in your garden, that you’ve not yet acquired, or have struggled to grow?
Tree peonies. I’d love to grow them well again.
At Oak & Monkey Puzzle, I had a number of established plants—many of them gifted and transplanted from a much-loved older garden. Their flowering was always fleeting, but utterly exquisite.
Since moving, I’ve tried again. One didn’t make it. The other is still growing—ever so slowly, two years in, but holding on.
They’re definitely an exercise in patience. As the saying goes:
The first year they sleep, the second year they creep, the third year they leap.
I’m still waiting for the leap.
Do you have a favourite tree in the garden, and why?
In this garden, it’s the weeping birches (Betula pendula).
We were very lucky to inherit six with the property, and I absolutely love them. One in particular anchors the circular seating space in the front verge garden. Its form is soft and sculptural, its canopy dapples the light beautifully, and it brings a sense of maturity and grace to what is otherwise a relatively young and evolving garden.
One of the first things I did when we arrived was lift and shape its canopy through formative pruning. It had looked a little wild and heavy, slightly scrappy—but with a bit of attention, it’s become something of real beauty.
I’ve always been drawn to birches. They remind me of European gardens and the cool-climate landscapes I feel most at home in. I planted a forest of birches at Oak & Monkey Puzzle, so having them here feels like a quiet thread that’s carried from one chapter of my life to the next.
Do you have any sentimental plantings in the garden?
One planting that holds deep meaning for me is a clump of Lily of the Valley (Convallaria majalis), gifted to me by my children’s grandmother, Joscelyn.
It’s the same flower she brought to the hospital when my son Oliver was born—a delicately small and beautifully scented bunch. Ever since then, Lily of the Valley has been tied to his birthday in my mind. It flowers in spring, often right around that time.
Joscelyn passed away late last year, and having that planting in the garden now feels especially meaningful. It’s a connection not just to her, but to a moment in time, to my children’s family story, and to the kind of quiet legacy that gardens so often carry.
What has been the most inspiring book/books, podcasts or programs, for inspiring your own garden?
It’s hard to pinpoint a single favourite for this garden specifically. So much filters through as I design and imagine a space into being. Ideas, references, memories—they all seem to bubble up in layers.
These days, I work more intuitively. But a lifetime of learning continues to inform how I approach gardening, teaching, and design. Some influences are foundational, others ongoing.
Matthew Evans’ ‘Soil’ – This book changed the way I think about the ground beneath my feet. Evans brings soil to life as a living system—not just a growing medium, but the foundation of resilience, productivity, and environmental repair. It reaffirmed my belief that everything starts from the ground up.
Charles Dowding’s No-Dig Gardening – His approach to soil care through minimal disturbance aligns closely with how I garden. No-dig methods support soil biology, reduce weeding, and simplify seasonal rhythms. It’s a system that makes sense—and works.
James Corner’s work on landscape architecture – His writing on mapping and representation had a foundational impact on me during my studies and my years lecturing. He helped shift how I see and interpret space, not just as something to be measured, but as something to be read, inhabited, and worked with over time. I often share this in garden workshops, particularly when we talk about understanding a place before making design decisions. Design analysis isn’t just about recording—it’s about uncovering the invisible relationships that shape a site.
The Avante Gardeners Podcast – A brilliant and grounded podcast that brings together thoughtful conversation, practical advice, and a sense of community. It reflects the kind of real-world gardening dialogue I value.
The Futuresteading Podcast by Jade Miles – Jade’s work around seasonal living, food growing, and values-based choices echoes much of what I practice and teach. Her interviews often offer the kind of clarity and encouragement that reaffirm this way of life.
Monty Don – I’ve followed Monty’s work since my late teens. His honesty, depth of knowledge, and clear love for gardens has always resonated. But what’s influenced me most is his global lens. Through series like Around the World in 80 Gardens, he shows how gardens reflect culture, identity, and place. That changed how I saw gardening—not just as an activity or profession, but as a deeply human, expressive act tied to where we live and who we are.
Are there gardens or gardeners, other garden designers that inspire you?
So many—it’s hard to land on just a few.
Piet Oudolf – I admire his commitment to designing gardens that evolve across the seasons. He treats every stage of a plant’s life cycle as worthy of attention—bloom, seedhead, and decay alike. His use of form and repetition creates structure, but it’s the way he works with nature, the seasons, and cycles—rather than against them—that resonates most with me.
Fiona Brockhoff – A long-standing influence. Her gardens respond honestly to site, climate, and architecture. She uses local materials and native plants with confidence and clarity. Her work always feels grounded, distinctly Australian, without being nostalgic.
Tim Pilgrim – Tim’s planting style is naturalistic, layered, and expressive. There’s a softness and rhythm in his gardens that allows the landscape to speak for itself. He has a deep understanding of seasonality and restraint, and the balance he strikes between structure and ease is no small feat.
Alasdair Cameron (Cameron Gardens) – His gardens are generous and refined, always responding to the broader environment. He blends horticultural skill with a sensitivity to place, crafting spaces that are both practical and emotive. I particularly admire the way his plantings evolve with time—there’s movement and maturity in how they grow.
Stefano Marinaz – Stefano’s work with small gardens is especially compelling. His designs are layered, immersive, and clearly intended to be lived in, not just admired. Even in urban sites, he finds ways to invite in biodiversity and embed sustainability in subtle but meaningful ways. His South Kensington courtyards are a masterclass in compact generosity.
Lily Langham – A dear friend, local, and someone whose work I return to often. Her gardens are immersive, full of texture, detail, and a layered wildness that feels both curated and intuitive. She has an extraordinary eye for plants—rare and interesting selections that sit comfortably alongside the familiar. Her commitment to biodiversity is quiet but powerful. These are gardens you inhabit slowly. Beyond the planting, she’s also someone who thinks deeply about how gardens are lived in, not just how they look. I spend a lot of time in her garden, and it never ceases to teach and inspire.
Taylor Cullity Lethlean (T.C.L.) – Having worked with T.C.L. for a decade before my tree change, their approach remains one of the most formative influences on how I see and shape space. Their work places people at the centre of the landscape experience—integrating movement, memory, and narrative. Their commitment to placemaking, strong design principles, and poetic interpretation of site continues to inform my work. Projects like The Australian Garden at Cranbourne, which I had the privilege of contributing to, embody this layered, place-specific design philosophy.
What do you want to feel or others to feel when they visit your garden?
I want people to feel something shift. Even just slightly. A softening. A grounding. A reminder that there’s richness in the everyday, in the seasonal, in working with what you’ve got.
I hope they leave with a sense of possibility, not in a romantic or faraway sense, but the kind that lives right under your feet. That a garden, however small, can hold beauty, abundance, practicality, and meaning all at once. That you don’t need acres. You just need intention.
This garden is full of solutions—real, practical ones—for making a small space work hard. It’s thoughtful, layered, and honest about what’s possible when you apply design thinking to a limited footprint.
But it’s more than that. It’s a kind of living case study. A scaled-down, built-by-hand expression of everything I explored at Oak & Monkey Puzzle. It’s a testing ground. A prototype. A place to try, refine, observe, and try again.
It’s never been about perfection. It’s about being present. Being alive to the seasons. And understanding that gardens, like us, are always evolving.
And while the space is mine, I’ve always wanted it to feel shareable. When people walk through the gate, I want them to feel welcome. I want them to see the underlying structure, the systems, the generosity in the planting—but also the gentle reminder: you can do this too. On your own terms, in your own way. It doesn’t have to be magazine-perfect to be meaningful.
If people leave feeling calmer, more curious, more confident, or more connected to something they’d forgotten, then the garden has done its work.
What do you think makes a successful garden?
A successful garden for me is one that gives back. That supports life—human, plant, and animal. That feeds, shelters, and offers something in return to the place it belongs to.
It doesn’t need to be perfect. In fact, perfection is rarely the goal. A successful garden evolves with its gardener. It responds to climate, soil, capacity, and care. It adapts. It endures.
There’s a deep satisfaction in walking through a garden that’s both beautiful and useful. Where structure and softness sit side by side. Where there’s room for mess, for self-seeding, for seasonal change.
To me, success lives in the garden’s small, consistent contributions—feeding a household, supporting pollinators, holding space for rest and reflection.
If it nourishes, restores, and invites you to return again and again, it’s doing more than enough.
What impact has the garden, and being in the world of gardens, had on you?
Gardens have always been part of my life. So it’s hard to say whether they’ve changed me, or whether I’ve simply grown into who I already was, through them.
I don’t see myself as separate from the garden. I feel intrinsically bound to plants and soil. The garden isn’t something I step into and out of—it’s where my thinking happens, where my values play out, and where my way of life takes shape.
It’s also where I find my contentment. My validation doesn’t come from external approval—it comes from presence. From noticing the way light catches the seedheads of Miscanthus in the last hour of the day. From seeing sweet peas push through the soil with the quiet promise of fragrance to come.
It’s in those small, almost invisible moments that I feel most sure of this path, not just the one I’ve chosen, but the one I’ve been called to.
There’s magic in the simplicity of it all. The alchemy of placing a seed or a cutting in the soil and watching it take on shape, form, and life of its own. That quiet unfolding reminds me, every day, what matters. And what’s worth tending to.
What would you say is your most memorable or proud moment as a gardener/garden designer?
This one’s definitely a no-brainer—but it’s not just one moment.
The first would have to be seeing Oak & Monkey Puzzle come to life. It began as a derelict old homestead and tree stumps, and blackberries, and over time it became something far greater than I imagined—a home, a productive garden, and a place that brought people together. It became a hub for workshops, long-table events, and shared learning. What makes me most proud isn’t just what I created physically, but how it allowed others to feel nourished, inspired,and connected.
The second is what I’ve created here at Little Cottage on a Hill. Taking everything I learned on five acres and distilling it into just over 500 square metres was both a challenge and an exciting invitation. I wanted to prove that you don’t need scale to live well. This garden is as much about how I live as it is about what I grow. It’s a place where beauty and utility sit side by side—and being able to share that through writing, teaching, and everyday experience has been one of the most meaningful parts of my life.
And if I look ahead, I hope my next proudest moment will come with the release of my book in September 2026. It’s a big project—one that brings together decades of learning as a landscape architect, lifelong gardener, teacher, and mother. My hope is that it finds a place in every gardener’s library, no matter their level of experience.
A book that’s returned to—useful, generous, inspiring, and practical. Something equally at home on the potting bench or the bedside table. Something that not only inspires and shows what’s possible, but also how to begin. A book that helps people create gardens that are not only beautiful and abundant, but that truly support the way they want to live.
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Thanks, as always, for being here…
Natasha xx
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