What Winter Shows You

On the coldest mornings I take the same short walk around my garden before the day begins, and the lawn is the first thing I see. A crust of frost across the open grass, holding the low light, keeping the shape of every blade until the sun finds it. The garden at Little Cottage on a Hill is only five hundred and fifteen square metres, and on a morning like that it gives itself up to me completely. The grass reads as a kind of ground. The bare espalier along the fence becomes a drawn line. The trees are tone and mass and the spaces between them. Everything has been stripped of its colour, and in that stripping I can see, with almost embarrassing clarity, what holds the garden and what does not yet anchor it strongly enough.

Years ago, before my daughter was born, I spent Tuesday nights learning to paint in a studio in Clifton Hill — a converted stairmaker's factory that smelled of linseed oil and cigarettes and whiskey, where an esteemed old painter named Des set me the same task again and again. The underpainting. Before any colour, the old painters laid down a monochrome ground: the whole composition resolved first in greys, in light and dark, so they could see whether it held before a single true colour was allowed near the canvas. I did not understand, then, that I was being taught how to look at a garden. I understand it now, every July.

This is the thing I most want to say about winter, and I want to say it plainly, because it runs against the grain of how we are taught to feel about the season. Winter is not the garden at its emptiest. It is the garden at its most honest. You would be amazed how much a winter garden can teach you, if you let it. It takes away the froth of summer — the colour the eye runs to first, the abundance that papers over a weak structure — and leaves the bones exposed. It asks the one question every gardener tends to avoid and every designer should be asking: does this hold on its own terms, beneath everything I have laid on top of it?

I came to that question the long way round. I have been a gardener since I was a child, loving the plants themselves — their beauty, the small triumph of coaxing something difficult into growth — long before I knew anything about design. Design came later, through study and then through fifteen years of practice, learning to read space before planting: mass and void, the way one volume sits against the next. What took me far longer to see is that winter performs that reading for you, for free, once a year. When I was finishing my book, The Productive Garden Companion, and battling with the cover direction as most authors do, I’m told, artist and friend Andrew O'Brien stripped its cover to black and white, to test it — because colour is the most seductive thing in any image, and only with the colour gone is the eye forced onto whether the composition is genuinely well made or merely attractive. That is precisely what winter does to a garden.

I am in good company here. Piet Oudolf, whose plantings have done more than anyone's to rehabilitate the idea of a garden in winter, chooses a plant as much for how it dies as for how it blooms — the echinacea for the cone it leaves behind, the miscanthus for the plume that frost turns to a small sculpture. Dan Pearson writes about the moment in autumn when you finally take your hands off the reins and simply look. Arne Maynard says that only in winter, stripped of its summer froth, can the true layout of his garden be seen for what it is. None of them is mourning a gap. They are describing a season of revelation that the rest of the gardening world has somehow agreed to call empty.

It helps that I garden where I do. There is a particular gift in this volcanic country of the Victorian Central Highlands, and it only becomes fully visible in the cold. Deep fog and real frost most mornings, settling in the low places and silvering everything they touch. A low, raking light that comes in almost horizontally and finds the texture in everything it crosses. From my garden I can see the old trees on Wombat Hill standing against a pale sky, reading almost like a wall beyond the fence. Five minutes away at Musk, where it snows some winters, Andrew has spent years making Stonewalls — twenty-five acres of garden and bushland shaped through a painter's eye.

He comes to structure from the opposite direction to me, through paint, and he reads the gaps in a garden as the load-bearing parts: the space between two bare branches, the void between one plant and the next, the thing that gives a composition its tension. The black barn buildings he has set across the land do the same work as Des's monochrome ground. They hold the colour the way an underpainting holds the bloom.

I have tested this at both ends of the scale. At Oak & Monkey Puzzle, my old five acres at Spargo Creek, the gesture that organised the whole garden was a long sweep of open lawn — a spine — and it was every winter, when the planting drew back, that I could see whether it still held the place together. The emptiest part was the most important part. The frost-crusted lawn at Little Cottage on a Hill now teaches me the same lesson in miniature, small enough to take in at a single glance.

People think of winter as the end of the gardening year. Since leaving city life and learning to live with the land, I have never been able to feel it that way. For me it is the prelude — the season of greatest promise, the months I spend dreaming and planning before anything is asked to grow. I sit with a cup of tea and I look: where the frost settles, where the structure isn't yet holding. You lay the monochrome ground first, in the cold, and everything bright comes afterwards, and comes better, because of it. This is the thinking that runs underneath my book, The Productive Garden Companion — that you plan by observation rather than by dates, and that the quiet seasons are where the foundations are laid. It is also what Andrew and I are opening both our gardens for, on a single and rare Sunday in July: a day to put your hand on a cold wall and your eye to a stripped border, and feel the argument for yourself.

The sun reaches the lawn eventually. The frost lifts in the first hour, and by then the garden is already reorganising itself in my head — the greys turning into a map of what they will hold once the colour comes back over the top.

Winter Structure Masterclass — with Andrew O'Brien of Stonewalls and Natasha Morgan.

• Sunday 12 July

• 10.30am–3pm

• Little Cottage on a Hill, Daylesford & Stonewalls, Musk

• Limited to 25 places

Pre-order The Productive Garden Companion today.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my e-books on Wicking Bed Gardens,  Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping and Compost for Beautiful Productive Gardens offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

I share seasonal tips, behind the scenes at Little Cottage on a Hill, and new resources through my newsletter. Subscribe to receive my entire plant list from the garden as a personal thank you.

You can also pre-order my book The Productive Garden Companion, the book I have wanted to find my entire life. A complete guide to growing for abundance and beauty in any space. The Productive Garden Companion is a practical, reassuring and visually rich modern gardening book that meets gardeners wherever they are, from windowsill pots to generous acreage.

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You may want to check out my related content below:

Looking Back - A Rare Glimpse Inside Oak and Monkey Puzzle

My top 5 plants - from Oak & Monkey Puzzle

Lessons in Abundance - Life at Little Cottage on a Hill

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

Feijoas: the fruiting hedge that gives back

Feijoas: the fruiting hedge that gives back

I smell them before I see them. I'll be walking the front of the garden on some errand that has nothing to do with fruit, and there it is — that perfume coming up off the gravel. Pineapple, guava, something floral underneath, a sherbet edge to it. I stop. I look down. And there, half-tucked under the foliage or sitting in the stones where they've fallen, are the feijoas. Plain green. Easy to miss entirely if your nose hadn't already told you they were there.

I still find it astonishing that a fruit so unremarkable to look at gives itself away by scent alone.

When I wrote about this hedge last year, the plants were barely a metre high and had only just begun to fruit. It was thrilling, and it was mostly promise. I'd put them in for fruit, yes, but also for structure, and for the privacy of a living screen that would, in time, soften the neighbouring rooftops that sit between me and the hills.

A year on, the rooftops are still there. Slightly less of them. The hedge hasn't reached its height — I didn't expect it to in a single year — and it hasn't yet done the screening job I planted it to do. But it has thickened and settled, and it has begun to behave like a part of the garden with something to do, rather than a row of new plants hoping to make it. And this year it has fruited properly.

That's where the satisfaction actually sits for me. Not in the finished picture — gardens rarely hand us that on our own timetable — but in the evidence that the thing is working. The roots have taken. The plants have read the place. A decision I made a couple of seasons ago has started to give something back.

Why a hedge, and why feijoas

At Little Cottage on a Hill, every plant has to earn its keep. That doesn't mean it has to be edible. It means it has to contribute. A plant might hold structure through winter, feed the bees, soften a fence, throw a little shade, carry scent, frame a view, or simply pull me out the back door in the morning. The ones I value most do several of those things at once.

Feijoas are exactly that kind of plant.

Pineapple guava, to use the other name — an evergreen shrub or small tree with thick, silver-green leaves, edible flowers, and that fragrant autumn fruit. You can grow a single specimen happily enough. For my block, a hedge made far more sense. I wanted a boundary that worked: something to hold the edge, screen the roofline over time, and still feed me. In a small garden I come back to this logic constantly. A hedge can also fruit. A windbreak can feed you. The plant that gives you privacy can also become part of what's happening in the kitchen.

They aren't flashy. They ask very little. For most of the year they sit in the background holding their shape, and then in spring the flowers come — fleshy, sweet-petalled — and at the cold end of autumn, when much of the productive garden is winding down, the fruit begins to drop.

A fruit for the edge of winter

The timing is a large part of why I love them.

In a cool-climate garden, by the time feijoas ripen the berries are long gone, the stone fruit finished, the apples and pears winding down. The garden is moving into its quieter rhythm. And then the feijoas start to fall. They stretch the productive season out at exactly the point it can begin to feel as though the garden is closing in for the year. There's still fruit to gather. Still scent in the kitchen. Still something to scoop straight from the skin, or stew, or put away for later.

That last generous offering, right before the deeper work of winter begins, matters more than it might sound.

Feijoa blossoms.

A year on

This year the hedge has really started to give.

Not the way an old, established feijoa gives, where the fruit carpets the ground and you stand there wondering how you'll ever use it all. Mine is young. But against last year the shift is unmistakable — more fruit, more often, and more of those moments of bending down as I pass and coming up with a handful.

It still stops me. I think that's the part I love most about growing food at home — the way it punctuates a day. You're on your way to do something else, you glance down, and the garden has interrupted you. Gently. Asking you to notice.

The feijoas aren't doing everything I planted them for. The neighbours are still in view. The screen isn't there yet. But the fruit is the reminder that a garden doesn't have to be finished before it starts to give. We plant for a future we can't quite see, and we're fed along the way.

How to grow feijoas well

Feijoas get called easygoing, and they mostly are. Easygoing isn't the same as ignore-them-entirely, though. Like any fruiting plant, they reward thoughtful establishment, a bit of watching, and some seasonal care.

Plant more than one. Some varieties are self-fertile; many crop better with a partner for cross-pollination. In a home garden, more than one variety is the safer bet if it's fruit you're after rather than foliage. I planted mine as a row, which gives me the hedge and improves pollination at once. One plant can be useful. A repeated line of them becomes structure.

Give them light. Feijoas will tolerate some part shade, but they want sun, and for fruit I'd give them all the light the site allows. They want drainage too. They're tough, but they don't want wet feet. In heavier ground I plant them slightly proud of the surface and work in compost; on dry or exposed sites, mulch well and keep the water up while they establish. At Little Cottage the hedge sits where it can be both useful and seen — I don't like hiding the productive parts of a garden away.

Plant at the right time. For much of Australia, March to May is the window. Autumn planting lets the roots settle before the spring push, while there's still some warmth in the soil. In genuinely cold or frost-prone pockets I'd be more careful — young plants may want protection through their first winter, or you might wait for the soil to warm again in spring. Read your own site before anything else.

Water while they settle in. Established, they're resilient. Young, they still need you — deep watering through dry spells, especially as the fruit forms. I don't drown them and I don't forget them, and in a hedge that's worth saying twice, because closely planted shrubs end up competing with one another. A good mulch layer does an enormous amount of the work.

Prune with restraint. The temptation with a hedge is to shear it into a wall, but hard pruning costs you flowers and fruit, so I keep a light hand. I want density without stiffness — thickening and screening, but with light and movement still coming through. After fruiting I take out anything dead, crossing or awkward, and lightly shape where it's needed. In a cold area I'd hold off until the worst frosts have passed.

Let the fruit fall. This is one of the loveliest things about them. You don't tug, you don't guess. When they're ripe, they drop — that's the cue. I collect off the ground daily once they start. A ripe one has the strong perfume and a slight give: not squashy, just yielding. They bruise easily and they don't keep, so this isn't fruit to leave sitting in a bowl for a week.

Taste the flowers — gently. The petals are edible, sweet and soft, with that sherbet quality that's hard to resist while you're still waiting on the fruit. But no flowers, no fruit. So I taste a few and leave the rest to the bees. That's the constant negotiation in a productive garden: take what's offered, but not in a way that stops the next offering.

Making the most of the harvest

I still love them fresh — halved, scooped with a teaspoon, standing in the kitchen or out in the garden.

But roasting them changed how I think about the fruit entirely. The first time I had roasted feijoa was in a galette from Two Fold Bakehouse here in Daylesford, paired with apple and folded into sourdough pastry. Something shifted. The sharp, perfumed thing I knew turned soft and deep and almost spiced. I've been far more interested in cooking them ever since.

They stew beautifully, spooned over porridge or yoghurt or cake. They go into crumbles with apple. They make good jam, especially with ginger or fig or lemon. And they take well to preserving — bottled, fermented, folded into syrups and shrubs, where that floral perfume can be carried well past the short window it's actually here.

Because that's the thing with feijoas. The season is generous and brief. Once they begin to fall you have to keep up. Some get eaten where I stand, some go over the fence to neighbours, some sit scenting the kitchen for a day. But when the fruit really arrives, preserving stops being a romantic idea and becomes a practical rhythm — a way of carrying a short season forward into the cold months. A glut in May becoming syrup in July. That's the right kind of abundance, to my mind.

Would I do it again

Without hesitation. I'd probably plant more.

Every feijoa I find on the gravel reminds me why they went in: for the fruit, but also for the shape the garden is still growing into, for the privacy I'm waiting on, for the way a small block can hold so much more than seems possible when every plant is asked to pull its weight. One day I hope the hedge meets the horizon and the rooftops vanish behind the silver-green. For now, I'll take the fruit.

And if you're thinking about your own front garden, a boundary, or a verge, the feijoa is a good example of one plant doing several jobs at once — screening, flowering, fruiting, feeding pollinators, softening a street edge, and stretching the season into the start of winter.

Not every verge will suit one, mind. Council guidelines, sightlines, services, the path, car doors, the mature height of the plant — all of it matters. But where there's room and your local rules allow, productive screening is a clever and generous way to make a public edge work harder.

That's exactly the kind of thinking I get into in my newest free ebook, Nature Strip Gardens: Fundamentals for Beautiful, Compliant Verges — a practical guide to reading your site, working with your council's guidelines, building better verge soil, choosing plants with care, and making a strip of ground that's beautiful, safe, useful and generous to the street.

Download it, share it, and start with the ground you already have.

Thanks so much for following along.

Natasha xx

Pre-order The Productive Garden Companion today.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my e-books on Wicking Bed Gardens,  Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping and Compost for Beautiful Productive Gardens offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops

I share seasonal tips, behind the scenes at Little Cottage on a Hill, and new resources through my newsletter. Subscribe to receive my entire plant list from the garden as a personal thank you.

You can also pre-order my book The Productive Garden Companion, the book I have wanted to find my entire life. A complete guide to growing for abundance and beauty in any space. The Productive Garden Companion is a practical, reassuring and visually rich modern gardening book that meets gardeners wherever they are, from windowsill pots to generous acreage.

---

You may want to check out my related content below:

June Garden Tasks - For Australian Climates

Landscape Lingo - The ‘Chelsea Chop’ and Ways to Have Plants Look Their Best

No Dig Gardening - Less Work, Healthier Soil

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

Why I started with the verge

Why I started with the verge

On moving from five acres to 515 square metres, and learning that the most exposed strip of ground was the place to begin.

The removal truck had gone by lunchtime. I stood at the front of Little Cottage on a Hill — 515 square metres, after five acres — and the first piece of ground I wanted my hands in was the one I had the least real claim to. The verge. That strip of tired grass between the fence and the road, the part of a garden you'd assume you'd get to last, once everything behind the fence was sorted.

I didn't get to it last. I started there.

For nearly a decade, Oak & Monkey Puzzle in Spargo Creek had been my proof of everything — five acres where I could test an idea at full size and live it in its fullness too. Leaving it for a small town block in Daylesford felt, for a while, like an exercise in origami, folding something enormous into a tiny drawer. The question that kept me up wasn't whether I could garden here. It was whether the life I'd built out there on acreage — the seasonal rhythm, the room to be generous, the sense that a place could hold more than its own boundary — could survive the shrinking. Thrive in fact.

The western verge garden before.

The northern verge garden before.

The verge is where I found my answer. That might surprise you, because the verge is the often thought of as the hardest ground on a property. It's public land, really, not even half mine. It's the most visible part of the whole garden and the most bound by rules. In Hepburn Shire, where I am, the planting guidelines are firm: no raised beds, no solid edging, sightlines kept open at the crossing, clearances left around services and the path that might one day run through. On paper that reads like a list of things you can't do. I saw it as an opportunity.

I've spent a working life reading briefs like that. Years on public landscapes far larger than a front strip taught me that the constraint is usually what gives a design its grit. So I stopped reading the guidelines as a fence around what was possible and started reading them as the brief. The offsets, the height limits, the open ground left for a future path: those became the structure I designed within.

What came out of it was more considered than anything I'd made at Oak & Monkey Puzzle, and perhaps truer to the place. Beds cut with a clean spade edge instead of timber. Planting kept low and open near the corner so a driver and a child can see each other. A deliberate gap of bare ground where a path may one day go — negative space, left on purpose, doing as much work as anything planted. The strip softened the long northern fence without becoming a wall. It taught me that I hadn't lost the five acres. I'd distilled them.

That is the real thing the verge gave me, and it's why I keep returning to it. A garden doesn't matter because of its size. It matters because of whether it gives more than it takes. A 515-square-metre block can do that. So can a single bed. So, it turns out, can a strip of council grass.

The western verge garden at Little Cottage on a hill in full bloom.

There's a line I come back to: grow one thing, and share it. One herb, one flower, one crop you have in small abundance. If each of us did that and let the overflow go over the fence, we'd build a kind of resilience into our streets that none of us could manage alone. The verge is the most honest place to practise it, because it's the part of your garden the street can see. When it's tended, people notice. When something's growing there you're happy to give away, they stop and ask. Daylesford has taught me that community rarely arrives through the front door — it comes through side doors and in-between spaces. A note left on a doorstep that says for you. Strawberry runners that Lizzie at the café pressed on me one season, still fruiting. Generosity, I've found, is the currency that has never once left me feeling broke.

All of which brings me to this little ebook, and to Donna Livermore.

Nature Strip Gardens ebook came out of the first local verge workshop Donna and I ran together — an afternoon of people standing on Little Cottage on a Hill’s western and northern verge gardens, sharing what our council actually allows and considering what they might want for their own patch and how to bring it to fruition. It's a concise, practical fundamentals guide: how to read your site, how to apply the rules as a brief wherever you live, how to build tired verge soil over time, what to plant where people walk and where car doors open. Enough to get you started on a metre or two, then return to as the season turns.

We're giving this ebook away for free, and I want to be plain about why.

The work that pays — my book, my workshops, my partnerships and collaborations — is what makes the giving possible. When someone buys The Productive Garden Companion or books into a workshop, some of what they pay goes straight back out: into the free ebook, the verge working bees, and an ecosystem of resources that are available at no price, just like this blog! That's the model I'm building for myself, deliberately — a practice where the paid work holds up the generous work, so I get to live by what I value deeply — sharing skills, empowering action, creating a world where we can give more than we take one small patch of soil at a time.

Details in the western verge garden.

We're hosting all of it on Gardenstead, in the Hepburn Shire Growers Network group — a local group inside the platform where I work as Global Community Manager. It's our living noticeboard: planting experiments, swaps, the odd question someone worried was too basic to ask. Wherever you live, the ebook will send you back to your own council's rules and your own street. But if you're nearby, that's where the conversation keeps going after you've read the last page.

So — the strip out the front. The bit most thought I'd do last. It's the first thing visitors see now, and the first thing I check on my five-minute morning walk, snipping anything flopping over the path, noticing what the bees have found. I still don't have the five acres. I've stopped wanting them back. There's a path I've left room for that hasn't been built, and may never be, and I find I like the garden better for the space I've kept open in it.

Download Nature Strip Gardens: Fundamentals for Beautiful, Compliant Verges — free. 

Start with one small section. Grow one thing. Share it.

Front cover of Nature Strip Gardens - Fundamentals for Beautiful Compliant Verges.

The northern verge garden.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my e-books on Wicking Bed Gardens, Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping and Compost for Beautiful Productive Gardens offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops

I share seasonal tips, behind the scenes at Little Cottage on a Hill, and new resources through my newsletter. Subscribe to receive my entire plant list from the garden as a personal thank you.

You can also pre-order my book The Productive Garden Companion, the book I have wanted to find my entire life. A complete guide to growing for abundance and beauty in any space. The Productive Garden Companion is a practical, reassuring and visually rich modern gardening book that meets gardeners wherever they are, from windowsill pots to generous acreage.

---

You may want to check out my related content below:

June Garden Tasks - For Australian Climates

Growing Pumpkins Up - Maximising Small Spaces for a Thriving Productive Garden

Green Manure - Green Manure - The Soil-Building Secret Most Gardeners Overlook

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

A Field Series — my new column for BILLY Magazine

A Field Series

My new column for BILLY Magazine

Across the road from my Daylesford verge garden, the wintersweet (Chimonanthus praecox) is just beginning at Wombat Hill Botanic Gardens. My daughter and I walked up there last week to look for it. You smell it before you see it — the flowers almost nothing, waxy and translucent against the bare branches, but the scent stops you mid-step. And then you stand there a while.

I walked back to our little cottage, knowing this was the week to share the news.

A Field Series — my new column for BILLY Magazine

A Field Series by Natasha Morgan is my new quarterly column for BILLY Magazine. The first piece, The Wintering, lands in BILLY Issue 03 — Air — this winter, right now in fact. I am BILLY's first columnist, and I could not be more delighted.

The masthead is locked. The format is locked. Four issues a year — one for each season — and each piece runs to that season's BILLY theme. The Wintering sits inside Issue 03's Air. The Quickening follows in Issue 04, Flora — spring. A returning artefact, rendered four times a year, in print and in voice.

How this came about

I came to BILLY the way many of you will — as a reader. I picked up Issue 01 in a café and brought it home, the way you bring home a thing you don't want to throw away. It does what good print should do. It stays.

So I wrote to Phoebe Hartley, BILLY's editor, to tell her I loved what she was making.

What followed was generous. Phoebe came to Little Cottage on a Hill and spent a couple of hours with me — and from that visit she wrote Grow One Thing, the BILLY story about the work I'm doing here. (Some of you have already read it.) Earlier this year I was invited to join the Issue 02 Earth launch panel at the Victoria Hotel in Woodend. BILLY is more than a magazine; it is a series of activations and gatherings, and that night was one of them. Vibrant, engaging and utterly cup-filling.

I had been thinking about a column-as-series for a while. But we definitely landed on this beautiful collaborative and value-sharing opportunity together. Alongside her warmth and generosity, Phoebe has given me extraordinary freedom to shape the column — the kind of freedom an editor can only offer when her own vision for the magazine is solid enough to hold the work. Phoebe's is.

A winters day at Wombat Hill.

What I want this column to be

An anchor. A returning piece of writing that is deeply of this region — rooted in the terroir of a cool temperate climate, Daylesford, the Macedon Ranges and beyond — and that takes readers back to their environment, to observation, to curiosity, to small and doable practices for the season. A column that earns its place on a BILLY reader's coffee table for the same reason BILLY does. Because it stays.

The Wintering — BILLY Issue 03

The inaugural piece sits in BILLY Issue 03, AIR, out now. It opens with the seed heads bejewelled at first light on the verge here at Little Cottage on a Hill. It turns on a year that begins with sap, not January, and on observation as the gardener's greatest teacher. The sidebar carries a handful of things to do now in a cool-climate winter garden — what to prune, what to plant bare-root, what frost is for.

You'll find BILLY at any of the seventy-plus stockists Phoebe has across the region — from Sunbury to Castlemaine. The full list is at billypress.com/stockists.

A note on BILLY

If you have a business in this region and you're looking for a values-led print publication to support through advertising, BILLY is one I'd highly recommend. I have no vested interest in saying this beyond a wish to see independent regional media in our community thrive. Phoebe is building something for the long arc. Backing BILLY is backing the storytelling of this place.

Then The Quickening

After The Wintering comes The Quickening — my piece for BILLY Issue 04, Flora. Spring. Sap rising. More on that when we get there.

For now: walk up the road to your nearest stockist. Take BILLY home. Read.

The wintersweet is doing its work whether we notice it or not. But noticing is the practice. Also the joy.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my e-books on Wicking Bed Gardens, Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping and Compost for Beautiful Productive Gardens offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops

I share seasonal tips, behind the scenes at Little Cottage on a Hill, and new resources through my newsletter. Subscribe to receive my entire plant list from the garden as a personal thank you.

You can also pre-order my book The Productive Garden Companion, the book I have wanted to find my entire life. A complete guide to growing for abundance and beauty in any space. The Productive Garden Companion is a practical, reassuring and visually rich modern gardening book that meets gardeners wherever they are, from windowsill pots to generous acreage.

---

You may want to check out my related content below:

June Garden Tasks - For Australian Climates

Growing Soil: Growing Soil: The Foundation to Vibrant Gardens and Nutrient-Dense Plants

Growing Philosophies: Permaculture for Beginners

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

Grow One Thing

Grow one thing.

The verge runs the length of the front fence, 235 square metres of volcanic soil between the road and the gate. It is late May, and the season has been strange — cold the whole way through to Christmas, then hot, then cold again, now mild enough that three pumpkins are still hanging on a vertical frame and the espaliered quinces along the fence lines are giving me one or two to pick each morning.

A paper bag of apples sat on the doorstep when I came out earlier. No note. This happens — not often, but often enough — and I never know who leaves them. I take them inside and put it on the kitchen bench, where it sits beside last week’s lemons that came from the neighbour who has more than she knows what to do with and who long ago told me, with the particular firmness of a woman who has produced too many lemons for too many years, do not grow lemons. I never have. She knows tomatoes and cucumbers and zucchinis will come back across the fence in summer, and we leave it there. It is not an arrangement. It is the small recurring fact of two people who grow different things and have agreed, without ever putting it into words, to keep doing so.

It was a few months ago, at Cliffy’s in Daylesford, that Donna Livermore and I sat down for an impromptu cuppa on a morning when the world was the kind of loud that lives in the shoulders before it lives in the news cycle. I do not have anything to add to those larger conversations that has not been said better elsewhere. But I do have a garden.

What Donna and I found ourselves saying to each other that morning — slowly, between sentences about other things — was that we were both looking at our patches of dirt this season and quietly wondering whether to put an extra thing in. We already had enough for ourselves. We were thinking about the world we were reading about, and the people we knew in it.

From that conversation came the small decision that we would run a workshop together on planting the naturestrip. People drove from across the shire to come. We didn’t know what we were starting. We still don’t, not really anyway. But we have a deep desire, plenty of ideas and are guided by our beautifully aligned values.

There was a year, a few years ago now, when the gates of Oak & Monkey Puzzle closed and the workshops stopped and there were no people to walk through the garden I had built. I had an existential crisis I think most people had in some form that year, which was to wonder what it had all been for. And then, somewhere inside the crisis, came something I could not have predicted. I noticed that the four things I needed in order to be all right were already there. Soil. Sky. Fresh air. Water.

The garden had been giving me these the whole time. I came to think of them as a currency. As long as I had access to those four, I would not go hungry and I would not lose the thing inside me that needs beauty and that needs the natural world. It is a kind of strange currency to count, but I have counted it many times since, in years that have not been easier, and the counting has held.

This is the part of growing that does not get said enough. A seed contains everything it needs to grow a plant. An egg contains everything it needs to grow a bird. Nothing has to be added. The conditions have to be right — soil, water, warmth, light, time — but the thing itself is already complete. You hold a tomato seed in the palm of your hand and you are holding a whole future plant, already written. There is no point in my life when I have not found this profoundly incredible. The word for what you feel when you have grown something yourself is agency. It is the feeling, in your hands, that you have made a thing happen that would not otherwise have happened. There are not many things in modern adult life that produce this feeling on demand. Growing food is one of them.

---

What I keep coming back to, after several years of writing about it in The Productive Garden Companion, is a question that is also a suggestion: what if every household, in whatever space they have, grew one edible thing this season. One. A pot of basil on a kitchen windowsill. A tomato in a polystyrene box on a balcony. A zucchini in a patch of borrowed dirt. A bean trained up a downpipe. One thing, grown from seed where possible, tended for a season, and eaten at the end. That is the whole proposition. There is no campaign attached to it. There is no pledge to take. Just the one thing, grown.

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There are children alive now who have never tried a fresh pear. They have eaten pear, but always from a can. I find this almost impossible to sit with when I think about it for any length of time. Something has happened in our food systems that has put a small soft fruit, easily grown across most temperate climates, out of arm’s reach for an entire generation. The pear is not the point. The pear is one example.

What I have changed my mind about — and this is the most important shift since I first wrote this idea down — is the shape of the ask. There is no obligation to swap. There is no obligation to share. There is no obligation to scale. If a person grows one thing this season and eats it themselves and feels the small specific feeling of having grown the food on the plate, that is enough.

The ripple happens anyway. A paper cup with a seed in it, repeated a hundred times in a hundred different windowsills, is a hundred more conversions of seed to plant than there was before. There are no failures in growing. If the seedling dries out, you have learned what your seedling looks like before it dies of thirst. Every dead plant is a piece of information the next plant will benefit from. The only way to fail at growing is not to start.

That, in the end, is what I am asking. Just the start. One thing, in whatever space you have. The seed that you put into the soil will do almost all of the work. You need to notice it once a day. You need to give it water before it wilts. You need to be there when something happens, and you need to be there when something does not happen, because both teach you the same thing about being a person who tends.

The paper bag of garlic is still on the kitchen bench. I do not know who left it. I will probably never know. The leeks are flowering and the parsley is a carpet. The seed is doing what the seed has always done, which is everything it needs.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my e-books on Wicking Bed Gardens, Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping and Compost for Beautiful Productive Gardens offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops

I share seasonal tips, behind the scenes at Little Cottage on a Hill, and new resources through my newsletter. Subscribe to receive my entire plant list from the garden as a personal thank you.

You can also pre-order my book The Productive Garden Companion, the book I have wanted to find my entire life. A complete guide to growing for abundance and beauty in any space. The Productive Garden Companion is a practical, reassuring and visually rich modern gardening book that meets gardeners wherever they are, from windowsill pots to generous acreage.

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You may want to check out my related content below:

When the World Feels Uncertain - Grow One Thing

Why I Grow. Why I Design. Why I Return. - Finding comfort in small daily acts.

Romanesco - fractal beauty from the brassica bed

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

The Productive Garden Companion is available for pre-order

The Productive Garden Companion is now available to pre-order

This is the book I’ve wanted to find my entire life.

I have been waiting to write these words for over a year.

My book — The Productive Garden Companion — is now available to pre-order. And even sitting here writing that sentence, it feels completely surreal.

This is the book I have wanted to find my entire life. The one I kept reaching for and couldn’t find. So I wrote it.

I have poured everything into these pages. Every season of observation. Every lesson learned in soil. Every conversation with a gardener who taught me something I didn’t know I needed. Every moment of doubt, and every moment of complete conviction that this book needed to exist. I have left nothing in the tank.

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What is The Productive Garden Companion?

It is not a book that simply tells you what to plant and when. It is something far more than that.

It brings together a lifetime of gardening, two decades of landscape architecture and design thinking, twenty years of teaching, and the lived lessons of two very different gardens — Oak & Monkey Puzzle and Little Cottage on a Hill. It holds my beliefs about beauty, abundance, seasonality, resilience, and generosity. And it holds my deepest conviction that a garden — any garden, at any scale — can play a profound role in helping us live more grounded, capable, and meaningful lives.

For me, a productive garden has never been just about output. It has always been about creating spaces that give more than they take. Spaces that are unapologetically beautiful as well as abundant. Spaces to be lived in, not just tended. Spaces that hold us through the hardest seasons and reward us with the most extraordinary ones.

That is what every page of this book is devoted to.

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Who is this book for?

It was written for you. Exactly as you are. Exactly where you are.

Whether you are beginning with a single pot on a windowsill or working with acres. Whether you have gardened for decades or have never put a seed in soil. Whether you arrive at these pages with confidence, or simply ready to begin.

These pages are my way of walking beside you.

I wrote the dedication to this book before I wrote anything else. It has guided every single page since:

To you.

To you, beginning from exactly where you are: with a single pot on a sill, a small patch already full or only an idea you haven’t quite named yet.

To you, arriving with whatever you carry: experience or uncertainty, weariness or wonder, a lifetime in gardens or none at all.

These pages are my way of walking beside you, offering what I have learned and loved, in the hope that they keep you in good company as you grow your own way.

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What is inside?

448 pages of everything I know, distilled as generously as I know how.

It features 24 extraordinary contributors from Australia and around the world — designers, growers, thinkers — whose voices you can sit with directly through QR-linked video conversations, as though you are simply in the room with us. You will hear from people whose work has shaped how I see gardens, growing, and the world.

Alongside their voices, you will find downloadable guides, templates and resources designed to extend the book far beyond its printed pages.

This book is not just something you read. It is something you live with — and return to, season after season. As much at home on a bedside table as on a potting shed bench.

It is, in every sense, a companion.

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Why now?

Because I believe there has never been a more important time for a book like this.

So many of us are quietly looking for a way back to something that feels real, grounded, and within reach. Something we can tend with our own hands and feel the difference of. A garden gives you that. Not just food and beauty, but rhythm. Solace. Community. A reason to pay attention to the world around you.

That is what this book is for.

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How to pre-order

You can pre-order The Productive Garden Companion now via the link below.

Simply click the link below and it will automatically direct you to the pre-order options available in your country — no searching, no navigating, just straight to where you need to be.

On sale:

Australia: 15 September 2026

UK: 17 September 2026

USA: 22 September 2026

Thank you for being here for this moment. For following along, for your patience, your encouragement, and your trust over this past year. It means more than I can say.

I cannot wait for this book to find its way into your hands.

Natasha xx

Join a workshop

If you love plants that work hard and give more than one thing back, my Medicinal Garden workshop is a natural next step. We’ll explore some of the most useful and beautiful plants to grow, and how they can enrich both your garden and your daily life.

Explore current workshops in the shop.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my e books on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

Stay connected

Follow along on Instagram, Facebook, Gardenstead, LinkedIn, Pinterest and YouTube, visit the website and subscribe to the Newsletter for seasonal updates.

Stay tuned, for more exciting book news coming soon.

Thanks so much for following along.

Natasha xx

You may want to check out my related content below:
My top 5 plants from Oak & Monkey Puzzle – plants that I keep coming back to.

April garden tasks for Australian climates & adding interest for winter – The first week of the month of mileston

Redefining Productive - What it means in my Garden

The Medicinal Garden Workshop with Caroline Parker & Natasha Morgan — Step into the magic of nature

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

My top 5 plants from Oak & Monkey Puzzle

My top 5 plants from Oak & Monkey Puzzle

Some plants stay with you.

Not just because they performed well, although these ones certainly did, but because they came to represent something much bigger. A season. A milestone. A long held dream finally made real.

Oak & Monkey Puzzle was where so many of my plant dreams came true. It was the first place I could truly grow the things I had longed for. The plants I wanted to cut in armfuls. The plants that marked the seasons so clearly. The ones that offered beauty, fragrance, structure, and that particular kind of generosity that makes a garden feel deeply lived in.

For nine years on five acres in Spargo Creek, I built that garden slowly, season by season, precinct by precinct. It held me through some of the hardest years of my life, but it also gave me so much. It gave me a place to test my ideas. It gave me proof that beauty and productivity can sit side by side. It gave me a garden full of plants that worked hard, and a few that were simply too magnificent not to grow.

This month, as part of my April month of milestones, I’ve created a free eBook for newsletter subscribers featuring the full Oak & Monkey Puzzle plant list, organised garden by garden across the property. It is a list built over nearly a decade of living, growing, observing, and refining on five acres.

In this article, I begin with my top five plants I return to again and again when I think about Oak & Monkey Puzzle.

They are not the only plants I loved there, not by a long shot, but they are five that hold something of the spirit of that garden for me.

Subscribe to the newsletter to download your free copy of the entire eBook

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Hydrangea paniculata

If there is one plant I have become known for, it is probably this one.

The Hydrangea paniculata I grew at Oak & Monkey Puzzle never came with a cultivar name. It was simply sold to me as Hydrangea paniculata, and over time it became one of the plants I most relied upon. Hardy, generous, and deeply beautiful across an extraordinarily long season, it carried the kind of quiet strength I value so much in a garden.

In spring and summer, it was all freshness and lift. Then came that beautiful soft shift into blush tones, before the flowers deepened into the rusted, parchment like autumn phase I love so much. Even after that, the spent flower heads held beautifully through winter, catching frost and low light in a way that made them feel just as valuable as when they were in full bloom.

That is what I mean when I talk about high performance plants. They do not only offer one fleeting moment. They hold their place and give back over time. This is something I talk about in my upcoming book - stay tuned for a huge announcement!

This plant mattered enough to me that when I left Oak & Monkey Puzzle, I took cuttings from it and planted them again at Little Cottage on a Hill. To me, that says everything. It’s a plant I would happily propagate from one property to another. I will never let it go!

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Fragrant repeat flowering roses

For me, a rose must earn its place through fragrance as well as beauty.

At Oak & Monkey Puzzle, one of the great joys was finally being able to grow armfuls of roses that were not only beautiful, but richly scented and generous across the season. I did not want roses that gave one quick flush and disappeared. I wanted repeat flowering roses that I could keep cutting, keep bringing inside, and keep living with.

Three of my great loves were ‘Jude the Obscure’, ‘Golden Celebration’ and ‘Just Joey’. They had the softness, fragrance and fullness I longed for, and they brought that old world sense of abundance that is almost impossible to replicate with florist flowers. To cut them fresh from the garden and bring them indoors was one of those bucket list moments that felt every bit as magical as I had imagined.

They were not just ornamental plants. They shaped the atmosphere of the picking garden. They offered fragrance, seasonal continuity, beauty in the vase, and the kind of richness that makes you want to stop whatever you are doing and take notice.

If I am making room for a rose, it must be doing all of that.

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Hellebores

Hellebores are among the plants I rely on most for that crucial turning point in the year when winter begins to loosen its grip.

At Oak & Monkey Puzzle, they brought beauty at exactly the moment it was most needed. When so much else was still resting, hellebores were already there, quietly holding the garden and offering the first sense that the season was beginning to shift.

I grew all sorts, from single black to double black, single whites and many shades in between. What I love most about them is their restraint. They are not loud plants, but they are deeply moving in their timing and presence. They flower when the garden still feels sparse. They ask you to come closer. They reward attention.

They are also wonderfully suited to cool climate gardens, particularly where there is filtered light and a certain softness of setting. At Oak & Monkey Puzzle, they sat beautifully within the more layered and intimate planting combinations, offering that low, luminous kind of beauty that can anchor a whole moment in the garden.

They are, without question, one of the plants I would never want to garden without. Post Office Farm Nursery are your hellebore specialist growers.

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Peonies

Peonies are the exception in this list.

When I talk about plants that work hard or offer more than one thing back, peonies are not necessarily the first to come to mind. They are not long flowering. They are not especially structural for most of the year. And yet, when you can grow them well, you do.

Because they are magnificent.

At Oak & Monkey Puzzle, I discovered just how well peonies respond to a cool climate with real winter chill and frost. The corals, especially ‘Coral Charm’ and ‘Coral Supreme’, became particular herbaceous peony favourites. Their colour is not static. It shifts and softens as the blooms age, moving through tones that feel almost impossible to describe properly unless you have lived with them day by day.

I also loved the contrast between herbaceous peonies and tree peonies. Herbaceous peonies disappear completely and return with fresh energy each year. Tree peonies hold more of a woody presence and bring a different kind of structure. Both are worth growing.

Peonies ask for patience. They are not instant plants. But that is part of their beauty too. They remind us that some things in a garden are worth waiting for.

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Sweet peas

Sweet peas are pure joy.

There is really no other way to say it.

They are one of the plants I most strongly associate with the kind of abundance I wanted to experience at Oak & Monkey Puzzle. Not abundance in the sense of excess, but in the sense of being able to cut huge fragrant bunches, carry them inside, press them into someone’s arms, and fill a room with their scent.

Once you have grown and picked sweet peas yourself, it is very hard to feel the same way about buying them.

Their flowers are delicate, but their generosity is immense. They climb, they flower, they perfume the air, and they give that unmistakable feeling of the season being fully alive. They are one of those plants that engage memory so quickly. A smell, a bunch in a child’s hands, a vase on the table, and the whole time of year comes flooding back.

If you are thinking about sweet peas now, this is the time to plant seed. And if you have never grown them before, I would encourage you to begin. They ask for a little care, but they return it in spades.

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Why these five?

All five of these plants hold something different for me, but they are united by one thing. They helped make Oak & Monkey Puzzle feel like the garden I had always dreamed of.

Hydrangea paniculata gave me longevity and seasonal depth.

The roses gave me fragrance and armfuls.

Hellebores gave me late winter lift.

Peonies gave me beauty for beauty’s sake.

Sweet peas gave me scent, abundance and sheer delight.

Together, they tell a story about the kind of garden I was creating there. A garden where plants were chosen not only because they looked good in one moment, but because they contributed to the life of the place. Because they carried the season. Because they gave me something to cut, notice, remember, or revere.

And because, in one way or another, they helped shape the experience of living there.

Subscribe to the newsletter and download the full Oak & Monkey Puzzle plant list

As part of my April month of milestones, I’ve created a beautiful free eBook for newsletter subscribers featuring the full Oak & Monkey Puzzle plant list, organised garden precinct by garden precinct.

It is a detailed record of the planting across the property, built over nine years of living and gardening on five acres, and I hope it offers both inspiration and practical ideas for your own garden, whatever scale you’re working at.

You can subscribe to the newsletter here.

Join a workshop

If you love plants that work hard and give more than one thing back, my Medicinal Garden workshop is a natural next step. We’ll explore some of the most useful and beautiful plants to grow, and how they can enrich both your garden and your daily life.

Explore current workshops in the shop.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my e books on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

Stay connected

Follow along on Instagram, Facebook, Gardenstead, LinkedIn, Pinterest and YouTube, visit the website and subscribe to the Newsletter for seasonal updates.

And stay tuned. There is a major announcement coming very soon, and I cannot wait to share it with you.

Thanks so much for following along.

Natasha xx

You may want to check out my related content below:
Hydrangea Paniculata: A Year-Round Beauty in the Garden – this is a plant that never fails to bring joy

April garden tasks for Australian climates & adding interest for winter – The first week of the month of milestones.

Autumn Gardening Jobs - A Gentle Approach for a Bountiful Season

The Medicinal Garden Workshop with Caroline Parker & Natasha Morgan — Step into the magic of nature

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

When the world feels uncertain, grow one thing

When the world, feels uncertain, grow one thing.

The other day, after my wicking bed garden workshop, I found myself sitting on the verge beside the tomatoes and zucchini, both of them running late, and just letting myself think.

We had spent the day talking about wicking beds, soil, seasonal timing, water, what to plant now, what to plant next. But underneath all of that, there was another conversation quietly running through the room.

Not just how to grow things, but why.

And I have been wondering whether you are thinking what I am thinking.

Not from a place of panic.

Not from catastrophising.

Just from that quieter, steadier sense that perhaps it is time to come back to some very basic things. To growing something. To using that patch of soil. To learning one skill properly. To becoming, in whatever small way, a little more capable at supporting ourselves and each other.

Because when the world feels uncertain, and right now for many people it does, there is something deeply steadying about knowing how to grow food, preserve it, share it, and use your own hands well.

This is not about fear

I want to be very clear about that.

This is not about prepping (although there is absolutely nothing wrong with that!).

It is not about panic buying seed packets, building a bunker, or imagining that we each need to disappear into our own little fortress of self sufficiency.

It is about practicality.

It is about remembering that useful skills matter.

It is about knowing that if you can grow herbs, lettuce, beans, tomatoes, pumpkins, or a row of garlic, that matters. If you can save seed, preserve quinces, dry beans, make passata, or share extra seedlings with a neighbour, that matters too.

These things do not solve everything. But they do change your relationship to uncertainty. They shift you, even slightly, from passive worry to active participation.

And that matters a great deal.

Why growing food can feel so grounding

There is something about food growing that pulls us back into rhythm.

You notice the weather differently. You pay attention to timing. You begin to understand what your soil can do, how much sun reaches a certain corner, where water sits, what thrives, what struggles, what needs protecting. You become more observant, more capable, more responsive.

Even one small success can change something in a person.

A pot of parsley by the door.
A bed of salad leaves.
A few winter brassicas.
A bucket of potatoes.
A row of peas.
A tomato vine that actually gets to ripen properly.

These are small things, yes. But they are also not small.

They build confidence.
They build skill.
They build memory.
They build a sense that you can participate in your own life more actively.

That is part of why gardening matters so much to me. It is never only about the harvest. It is about what the practice asks of us, and what it gives back.

The question I keep coming back to

What if each of us just grew one thing?

I talk about this in my book, which comes out in September (announcement coming soon!), and I find myself returning to the idea more and more.

Not everyone has room for an orchard.
Not everyone wants chickens.
Not everyone is going to preserve forty jars of tomatoes or redesign their whole backyard.

But one thing is possible for many more people.

One herb.
One bed.
One fruit tree.
One climbing bean on a fence.
One trough of leafy greens.
One skill.
One seasonal crop.

If every household grew one thing well, and if enough of us shared knowledge, seed, excess produce, and encouragement, the effect would be far bigger than the individual crop itself.

That is how resilience works in real communities. It is rarely dramatic. It is cumulative.

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What Victory Gardens can teach us now

Lately I have also been thinking about the old Victory Gardens.

During the First and Second World Wars, governments in countries including the United States and Britain encouraged ordinary people to grow food at home, in backyards, on vacant land, in school grounds, in public plots, and wherever else space could be found. The goal was practical, to supplement food supplies, ease pressure on transport and commercial agriculture, and help households contribute in a meaningful way. The movement also had a strong morale and community dimension. It gave people something useful to do with their uncertainty. 

That is the part I find compelling.

Not the wartime slogan.
Not the patriotism.
Not the idea that we should romanticise hardship.

What interests me is the reminder that ordinary domestic skills have social value. Growing food, preserving it, and sharing it are not fringe activities. They are practical, intelligent responses to unstable times.

And perhaps that is something worth remembering now.

Not as a re enactment.
Just as a useful precedent.

A reminder that growing food has long been one way people contribute, steady themselves, and strengthen the places they live.

What I am noticing in my own garden

I am lucky.

I have a verge garden.
I have wicking beds.
I have years of growing knowledge.
I have a reasonably full larder.
I know how to preserve and plan ahead.

And even so, I am still thinking differently at the moment.

I am thinking about what I want to grow next.
I am thinking about what earns its place.
I am thinking about what stores well, what feeds us well, what is worth repeating, what is genuinely useful.

I am also thinking about timing. About late tomatoes and late zucchini. About what the season has done. About what the next one may ask.

This is what gardening teaches so well. You do not control the season. You respond to it. You observe first, act second.

That is true in the garden, and I think it is true in life as well.

What your comments told me

One of the most moving parts of sharing that reel was the response.

So many of you were already thinking along similar lines.

Some of you are expanding your productive gardens.
Some are planting extra and collecting seed.
Some are building raised beds or converting them to wicking beds.
Some are preserving more, drying beans, refilling pantries, saving what the garden offers.
Some are wanting hens.
Some are revisiting older skills.
Some are simply asking where to start.

That breadth of response mattered to me because it showed that this is not a fringe thought. It is a real one. Quiet, practical, shared by many people, each in their own circumstance.

And importantly, not everyone was starting from the same place.

Some people already grow a lot and want to become more deliberate.
Others are at the very beginning.
Others feel the urge but not yet the confidence.

All of that is valid.

If you are new to this, start smaller than you think

If your head is going here too, but you are worried you do not know enough, start smaller than you think you should.

Do not begin with the fantasy version.

Begin with what fits your life.

Grow what you actually eat.
Grow what is easy in your climate.
Grow something that gives you a quick return.
Grow something that teaches you one useful lesson.

A pot of herbs is not nothing.
A trough of rocket is not nothing.
A few lettuce seedlings are not nothing.
Learning how to sow coriander at the right time is not nothing.
Growing a decent crop of spinach in winter is not nothing.

It is a practice.

And practice works by repetition.

If you already have skills, this may be the moment to use them more fully

If you already know how to grow, preserve, propagate, compost, save seed, or cook from the garden, perhaps this is the moment to lean in a little more.

Not in a frantic way.

Just in a more conscious one.

Maybe that means planting an extra row.
Maybe it means finally getting serious about succession planting.
Maybe it means preserving what you might once have let slide.
Maybe it means teaching your children.
Maybe it means sharing seedlings.
Maybe it means checking in on a neighbour.
Maybe it means using your front yard, your verge, or the sunny side of the fence a bit more deliberately.

Skills gain value when they are used and shared.

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Practicality can be a form of contribution

I keep coming back to that word, contribution.

For me, this is not about control. It is about contribution.

Growing something is a contribution.
Saving seed is a contribution.
Learning to preserve food is a contribution.
Giving away excess produce is a contribution.
Showing someone how to start is a contribution.
Using your garden, however small, with care and intention, is a contribution.

In uncertain times, practical acts can help settle the nervous system because they return us to what is concrete. Soil. Water. Seed. Season. Repetition. Usefulness. Care.

That is not escapism.

That is participation.

So where is your head at?

That is really the question behind all of this.

Are you thinking about growing more right now?

Are you wondering where to start?

Are you worried you do not know enough?

Or do you already have skills and want to use them more fully, more thoughtfully, more generously?

Because if this is where your mind is going too, then maybe this is a conversation worth having.

And maybe, in one way or another, I can help.

---

Join a workshop

Explore current workshops in the shop.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my e books on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

A new date the for the Wicking Bed Garden workshop has also just been added for Sunday 17th May. Places are limited, so please get in quick if you have been wondering how you can grow more with less. You can book via the shop section of the website or here https://www.natashamorgan.com.au/shop/wicking-bed-garden-workshop-with-natasha-morgan

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my ebooks on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

I share seasonal tips, behind the scenes at Little Cottage on a Hill, and new resources through my newsletter. Subscribe to receive my entire plant list from the garden as a personal thank you.

---

You may want to check out my related content below:

Cultivating beauty in a war zone – Alla Olkhovska’s garden of resistance - gardening as a form of survival. Of resistance. Of legacy.

Why I Grow. Why I Design. Why I Return. - Finding comfort in small daily acts.

Caring for Ornamental Grasses – When (and Whether) to Cut Back - As we head toward winter here in the southern hemisphere, it’s the time of year when I’m often asked: Should I be cutting back my grasses now?

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

Beauty, Tending, Belonging: Why I Keep Growing Things

Growing things is how I remember who I am.

It is the quiet, steadfast practice that has held my hand through every season of my life, from childhood curiosity to the work I do now in my garden and on the page. When I grow something, even just one small plant, the world narrows to a scale I can hold and, at the same time, somehow expands; I feel both anchored and open, both soothed and alive.

The childlike wonder of beginnings

Every time I tuck a seed into soil or take a cutting from a plant I love, I feel that small, familiar flutter of wonder. Will it take? Will it sulk? What will it become in this particular patch of earth, with this particular light, wind and weather? I still find myself checking far too early for signs of life, scanning the surface for the faintest lift of soil, the first sliver of green that says, I am here.

That moment never gets old. A seed pushing through, a bud swelling, a tendril finding something to hold – these are such modest events, but they land in me like miracles. They remind me of being a child pottering in gardens where no one needed me to impress them, where the whole point was to notice, to touch, to be in conversation with whatever was growing. Growing things returns me to that state, again and again – curious, attuned, unguarded.

Contentment in tending

People sometimes imagine that the satisfaction of gardening lies in the finished picture – the overflowing beds, the baskets of produce, the vases of flowers on the table. For me, the deepest contentment lives in the tending itself. Watering a single pot at the back door. Brushing past lemon verbena and carrying its scent with me into the house. Tying in a wandering stem so it can find the light more easily.

There is a profound relief in doing one small, useful thing for something living – especially on the days when life feels unruly, loud or beyond my control. I don’t need to fix the world; I can deadhead a rose, top up a wicking bed, check the moisture under the mulch with my fingers. Each of these gestures is tiny, almost invisible from a distance, but together they knit a rhythm that steadies me. The garden gives back in beauty and harvest, yes, but it also gives back in pace – in a tempo my nervous system can actually live inside.

Curiosity, exploration and discovery

Growing things has always been my favourite way to ask questions. What happens if I plant garlic between the flowers? If I leave the seedheads standing through winter? If I turn off the irrigation and see who copes? Gardens, by nature, are experiments written in soil and time. I rarely follow the textbook to the letter, yet still, the garden grows – and that gives me courage to keep trying, adjusting, learning on the job.

Curiosity shows up in small daily explorations: a lap of the wicking beds in bitter weather, checking which plants are holding their nerve; a wander along the verge to see what self-seeded while I was busy elsewhere; a notebook scribble about which flower kept the bees busy longest. The garden keeps offering discoveries – a leaf my child holds up like a jewel, a volunteer plant in exactly the right place, a combination of scent and light that makes me stop mid-task and simply breathe. In a noisy world, growing things is how I keep my capacity for surprise alive.

Beauty as a way of staying

There’s a misconception that beauty in the garden is indulgent, something to earn only after the “real work” is done. In my world, beauty is the real work – not in a decorative sense, but as a reason to keep showing up. The shape of morning light through grasses, the hum of bees in borage, the brush of lavender against a path – these are not extras, they are invitations.

When beauty is woven into the everyday, care stops feeling like a chore and becomes almost instinctive. I don’t step outside because I should; I step outside because some part of me longs to see how the fennel is catching the sun today, or whether the sweet peas have finally decided to open. Beauty turns maintenance into ritual, ritual into rhythm, and rhythm into a way of moving through a year that feels intentional and kind.

Growing one thing, and then more

So much of my work rests on a simple, almost disarmingly small idea: grow one thing. Not an entire garden overhaul, not a reinvention of your life, just one honest plant that fits inside the days you already have. A pot of parsley by the gate with a note that says, “Take some.” A single tomato on a sunny sill. A flower whose scent makes your shoulders drop each time you brush past.

For me, the profound power and contentment of growing things lives precisely there – in the way one plant can change how you see light, weather, time and yourself. You start noticing where the frost settles, where the wind sneaks through, which days you have energy to tend and which days a brief look and a deep breath are enough. From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. From the inside, it’s a quiet revolution: a decision to participate, to pay attention, to belong to the living world rather than stand apart from it.

That is where my childlike joy sits now – not in grand gestures, but in these repeatable, seasonal acts of care. A seed. A cutting. A single bed re-mulched before the rain. Each one is a small promise: I will grow one thing. And from that, for me at least, contentment keeps quietly, generously, growing.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my ebooks on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

I share seasonal tips, behind the scenes at Little Cottage on a Hill, and new resources through my newsletter. Subscribe to receive my entire plant list from the garden as a personal thank you.

You may want to check out my related content below:

The Medicinal Garden Workshop with Caroline Parker & Natasha Morgan - a journey through the healing power of plants bringing them into your everyday life from your own garden that nurtures the body, mind, and soul.

Why I Grow. Why I Design. Why I Return. - Finding comfort in small daily acts.

Rooted in Reflection, Growing with Intention – Explore the intentionality behind creating a garden that serves both purpose and beauty.

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

Romanesco: fractal beauty from the brassica bed

I harvested the first Romanesco heads this week and had to stop and stare.

Those luminous chartreuse spirals feel like a little lesson in pattern and patience. I grow Romanesco because it is delicious, beautiful, and surprisingly resilient in a cool temperate garden like Daylesford.

What is romanesco

Romanesco is a brassica that sits between cauliflower and broccoli. It cooks like cauliflower, with a flavour that is slightly sweeter and nuttier. The texture is tender but holds shape beautifully, which makes it perfect for roasting and for dishes where you want structure on the plate.

Why I plant it

I like plants that serve more than one role. Romanesco offers food, sculptural presence, and a steady supply of leaves for the kitchen (and chooks!). The heads become seasonal markers in the bed, and when they finally appear it feels like the garden offering a small celebration.

How I grow romanesco in a cool temperate garden

Timing

• Sow in late summer to early autumn for spring harvests. In cooler pockets, start seed in trays under cover, then transplant once seedlings are sturdy.

• You can also sow in late winter for late spring to early summer heads if your season allows. Stagger a few sowings to spread the harvest.

Site and soil

• Full sun and rich, living soil are non-negotiable. I prep beds with compost and a light sprinkle of a balanced, organic fertiliser, then mulch after transplanting.

• Brassicas like consistent moisture. My wicking beds hold an even soil profile which helps prevent stress and buttoning. Water at the base rather than overhead to discourage disease.

Spacing

• Give each plant room to develop a full head. I use 45 centimetres between plants and about 45 centimetres between rows. Good airflow is essential.

Protection and care

• Cabbage white butterflies adore brassicas. I keep insect exclusion netting over young plants. If you are not netting, check daily and remove any green caterpillars by hand.

• Feed little and often. I alternate seaweed and compost teas through the season and keep mulch topped up to regulate soil temperature.

• Romanesco appreciates cool nights for head formation. If a sudden warm spell arrives, keep water consistent and shade the bed lightly in the afternoon if needed.

Rotation and companions

• Rotate brassicas yearly to protect soil health and reduce disease.

• Companion plant with dill, calendula, and sweet alyssum to support beneficial insects and soften the edge of the bed. I’ve planted this lots with spinach, lettuce and radicchio for a diverse and thriving polyculture 

Harvest and storage

• Pick when the head is tight, uniform, and firm. Use a sharp knife and keep a few leaves attached to protect the florets.

• Store in the crisper wrapped loosely. Eat within a few days for best flavour.

Small-space tip
Romanesco is a statement plant. If you only have room for one, give it pride of place at the end of a bed or in a large wicking container and underplant with herbs or salad greens.

Kitchen notes and serving suggestions

Roasted romanesco with yoghurt tahini and pomegranate molasses

Break into florets. Toss with extra virgin olive oil, sea salt, and cracked pepper. Add a Middle Eastern spice profile such as cumin, coriander, or za’atar. Roast hot until caramelised at the edges. Finish with a yoghurt and tahini drizzle, a thread of pomegranate molasses, fresh herbs, and toasted nuts.

More ways to serve

• Toss warm florets with anchovy, lemon zest, chilli, and breadcrumbs.

• Steam until just tender, then dress with olive oil, lemon, and parsley for a simple side.

• Cut into small florets for a quick tray bake with chickpeas and red onion.

• Use the leaves as you would kale. Slice and sauté with garlic and a squeeze of lemon.

Cook’s tip

Do not overcook. Romanesco is at its best when the spirals stay intact and there is still a little bite.

Sustainability notes

I like to use the whole plant. The leaves are excellent, the core can be thinly sliced for stir-fries, and any trim goes to the chocks, compost or worm farm. If a plant wants to flower and you do not need seed, let it. The bees will thank you.

Troubleshooting at a glance

• Tiny or loose heads: heat or stress. Keep water steady, mulch well, and plant for the cool end of your season.

• Caterpillars: net early, hand-pick, and encourage beneficial insects with companion flowers.

• Yellowing leaves: a sign of nutrient drawdown. Side-dress with compost and water in.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my ebooks on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

I share seasonal tips, behind the scenes at Little Cottage on a Hill, and new resources through my newsletter. Subscribe to receive my entire plant list from the garden as a personal thank you.

You may want to check out my related content below:

Rooted in Reflection, Growing with Intention – Explore the intentionality behind creating a garden that serves both purpose and beauty.

The Power of Noticing: How a Garden Wander Led Me to Morels – Explore the quiet magic of noticing the small wonders that grow in your garden.

If You Could Learn Anything From Me This Year, What Would It Be? – Discover what I’ve been reflecting on the workshops I’ve shared over the years—and dreaming into what might come next.

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

The Medicinal Garden Workshop with Caroline Parker & Natasha Morgan

Step into the magic of nature

With Caroline Parker of The Cottage Herbalist and Natasha Morgan at the idyllic Little Cottage On A Hill. Together, they will guide you on a journey through the healing power of plants bringing them into your everyday life from your own garden that nurtures the body, mind, and soul. Whether you’re new to medicinal plants and their uses, a seasoned gardener or just starting, this workshop will provide valuable insights and hands-on experience to help you cultivate the use of healing plants in your gardens and everyday life. 

Date: Sunday 2 November 2025

Time: 10 am - 1 pm

Location: Natasha’s Studio & Garden, Little Cottage On A Hill, Daylesford, VIC

Buy your ticket via the shop.

From edible treats to therapeutic remedies, unearth the healing potential of plants, both wild and cultivated. Come for a day of healing botanical goodness, learning to make healing treats for the body, mind and soul.  Delve into the medicinal benefits of botanicals by creating your own hand-made delights and celebrate the release of  Caroline’s book, ‘The Medicinal Garden’.

Enjoy a day of sumptuous experiences in a gorgeous space with lovely people. Natasha and Caroline will share discussions on how to bring plants and their incredible healing properties into your everyday life in the simplest yet most precious ways.

About the Workshop:

Join Caroline Parker (aka @thecottageherbalist), and Natasha Morgan for a unique hands-on workshop in the idyllic setting of Little Cottage On A Hill, Daylesford. Dive deep into the world of botanical healing as Caroline shares her expertise in creating natural, healing remedies.

Caroline is a degree-qualified herbalist, author, farmer, forager and facilitator.  She is obsessed with cups of tea, getting her hands dirty, growing beautiful herbs and flowers, and foraging for wild weeds and herbs. Caroline’s small home-based studio, in the cool and misty Wombat Forest, is where you'll find her blending up award-winning teas and tisanes. 

What You’ll Learn and Create:

• An immunity-boosting botanical syrup

• A magical medicinal balm for gardeners and so much more!

• A weedy pesto/salsa from foraged botanicals that will transform any meal

Participants will receive beautiful botanicals to use on the day, as well as recipes to follow and take home, ensuring you can continue creating medicinal magic long after the workshop. Be welcomed in Natasha’s idyllic garden world to pick from and enjoy during a guided tour. Of course, there will also be pots of Caroline’s award-winning hand-blended tea and a sumptuous long table morning tea of freshly baked botanically infused healing treats (sweet and savoury), beautiful company and conversation!

Tickets are extremely limited, so grab some friends, your camera or phone to take pics, and come to Daylesford for the day—just do it quickly! You don’t want to miss out.

Note: Caroline will have her latest book ‘The Medicinal Garden’ available for purchase and signing on the day.

Continue your gardening journey with me

See what other workshops I offer, you’ll find everything from guidance of design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my ebooks on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

You may want to check out my related content below:

Workshops are back. Gathering again for Spring – Discover the rest of the years workshops — from Garden Design, Productive Gardens, Wicking Beds and Medicinal Gardens.

Rooted in Reflection, Growing with Intention – Explore the intentionality behind creating a garden that serves both purpose and beauty.

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

September garden tasks for Australian climates

September brings the first real lift in the garden. Soil is waking up, buds are moving, and it is time to set a steady spring rhythm.

Images by Amber Gardener

Find your climate

Across Australia, the month’s advice is grouped by climate — temperate, cool and alpine, subtropical, tropical and arid. Each region has its own priorities for what to sow now, and whether to direct sow, sow in trays, or transplant.

Shared tasks for all climates

These are the recurring September jobs I keep as a checklist at the potting bench:

• Mulch garden beds while the soil is moist and gradually warming.

• Last chance to plant bare rooted deciduous trees, shrubs and vines before real heat arrives. Container grown plants can go in through spring.

• Plant evergreen shrubs and trees including citrus. This is also a good window to relocate established evergreens.

• Feed fruit trees if you didn’t in late winter. Clean away spent growth on perennial herbaceous plants.

• Propagate by cuttings or layering. Divide established perennials such as chives.

• Tie in berry canes before the spring surge. Plant passionfruit where suitable.

• Harden off August seedlings for 7 to 10 days before planting out.

Seeds and seedlings by climate

Here are quick, climate-specific highlights for sowing and planting in September.

Temperate

Begin warm season crops under cover, and direct sow cool tolerant staples.
Try: tomatoes, basil, climbing or bush beans, cucumber, zucchini, pumpkin, sweet corn, plus greens like lettuce, rocket and silverbeet. Start frost tender plants in trays if frost risk remains.

Cool and alpine

Frosts and even late snow are still possible in higher areas. Favour trays and protected spots for warmth.
Try: beetroot, broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower, lettuce, peas, silverbeet, spring onions and radish. Start warmth lovers such as tomatoes, basil, squash and sweet corn in trays, then transplant once conditions settle.

Subtropical

Conditions are mild to warm with some storm activity along the coast. A wide range is possible.
Try: beans, cucumber, eggplant, capsicum, pumpkin, sweet corn, okra, rockmelon, watermelon, herbs such as basil, dill and coriander, plus sweet potato and taro in suitable sites.

Tropical

Dry season heat builds with rising humidity. Choose crops that relish warmth.
Try: cowpeas, okra, sweet corn, sweet potato, taro, basil and zucchini.

Arid

Days are warming quickly. Work with heat adapted species and keep waterwise practices front of mind.
Try: tomato, eggplant, capsicum, zucchini, pumpkin, rockmelon, watermelon, okra, sweet corn, and herbs such as basil and oregano.

How I work with September

I organise spring sowing in small, frequent batches rather than one big push. It spreads the harvest, reduces risk and keeps the workload more even. If you are in a frost-prone pocket, keep warmth lovers in trays a little longer and plant out once nights are reliably mild.

Quick checklist

• Mulch beds and top up paths.

• Plant or relocate evergreens, and complete any bare root planting.

• Feed fruit trees and tidy perennials.

• Start spring sowing by climate, using trays for warmth lovers where frost is possible.

• Tie berry canes, start passionfruit in suitable areas, and keep pond care light but regular.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my ebooks on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

You may want to check out my related content below:

Workshops are back. Gathering again for Spring – Discover the rest of the years workshops — from Garden Design, Productive Gardens, Wicking Beds and Medicinal Gardens.

Rooted in Reflection, Growing with Intention – Explore the intentionality behind creating a garden that serves both purpose and beauty.

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

Join Gardenstead for a world first Spring meet up at Stonewalls in Musk

Save the date: Sunday 9 November 2025, 11am

I have been waiting to share this.

We are hosting the first ever Gardenstead spring meet up anywhere in the world. It will be held at Stonewalls in Musk, a place that brings art, landscape and hospitality together in a way that feels both considered and generous.

This gathering is for Gardenstead members only. If you are not yet part of the community, you can join Gardenstead today and come along. I would love to welcome you to our very first global Gardenstead event. 

👉Download the Gardenstead app here

What is Gardenstead

Gardenstead is a new social platform for gardeners. It is a digital home where growers of every level connect, learn and share practical knowledge. It brings together conversations, seasonal tips and community features so that gardeners can grow together, online and in real life.

My role and how I arrived here

I have joined the Gardenstead team as Community Manager. After many years teaching, designing and building community through workshops and events, the chance to help shape a platform designed for gardeners felt natural. My focus is to make sure the experience is generous, practical and real. This meet up is our first invitation to bring that online energy into the physical world.

About Stonewalls in Musk

Stonewalls sits on 25 acres of gardens and mature forest just outside Daylesford. It is the principal studio and gallery of acclaimed Australian artist Andrew O’Brien. The property includes a gallery, a working studio, with boutique accommodation on site. Stonewalls is ordinarily open by appointment only, which makes this gathering a rare opportunity to experience the gardens together.

Andrew is known for luminous colour, large scale works and a practice that draws deeply from the Australian landscape. In fact they even grace the walls of the Danish Royal Family. He and his wife, Georgie Corke, have shaped Stonewalls as a place where art and landscape meet in daily life. We are so grateful to Andrew and Georgie for opening their property to us.

Why this meet up matters

Gardenstead was built to connect people who grow. This gathering is a simple way to stand in the same place, walk a garden together and share what we are learning as the season turns. It is about generosity, sharing seeds and stories, and the quiet momentum that comes when a community meets in person.

Members only save your place

🗓 When: Sunday 9 November 2025, 11am

Numbers are limited and strictly for Gardenstead members only.
Tickets are $10 AUD to cover catering. 

👉 Save your place here
👉 Download the Gardenstead app to join the community

Once you have booked you will receive full location details and a simple run sheet. Please bring a warm layer, and any seeds or plants you would like to swap.

I cannot wait to welcome you.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of community gathering, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my ebooks on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

You may want to check out my related content below:

The Power of Noticing: How a Garden Wander Led Me to Morels – Explore the quiet magic of noticing the small wonders that grow in your garden.

Rooted in Reflection, Growing with Intention – Explore the intentionality behind creating a garden that serves both purpose and beauty.

Workshops are back. Gathering again for Spring – Discover the rest of the years workshops — from Garden Design, Productive Gardens, Wicking Beds and Medicinal Gardens.

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

Workshops are back. Gathering again for Spring.

The garden is waking.

The light stretches. You can feel that small lift in the morning air. After a winter of steady writing and cups of tea at the kitchen table, it feels right to open the gate and welcome you in again. Workshops are back for spring.

I pressed pause in autumn to give the book the focus it needed. It has become a very large work, shaped into three parts. The first two are already with the editor and I am close to finishing the last. It is the biggest undertaking I have made since working on The Australian Garden. Long days, early starts, a rhythm that asked a lot. The garden outside the window kept me honest through all of it. Returning to workshops brings me back into a room with you. Conversation. Companionship. Practice.

What we will explore together

Four workshops, one intention. To help you create a garden that is generous, beautiful and productive at any scale. You step into my working garden, into the way I test ideas in real time. The wins, the missteps, and the simple considerations that make a space sing.

Garden Design with Natasha Morgan

A clear framework for seeing and shaping your garden. We look at site analysis, axis and circulation, microclimates, rhythm and layering, and how to create structure that can carry productivity and beauty. We use tracing paper and fat texta markers, quick sketching, and the confidence that comes from testing ideas on paper before taking them into the garden. The first date has already filled, which is a lovely sign of the season ahead. There’s a few paces left for the second date.

The Productive Garden with Natasha Morgan

Growing abundance at any scale. We focus on the foundations of creating a truly productive garden, spatial thinking for small and larger gardens, vertical growing, soil and worm systems, espaliers, along with the simple seasonal tasks that keep things moving. Discover the inspiration behind my productive gardens, the tools and techniques to make places of beauty and abundance, grounded in sustainable and innovative practises. This is where beauty meets purpose through food, flowers, medicinals and ornamentals.

The Wicking Bed Garden with Natasha Morgan

Water wise design with real world application. I share my approach to building and maintaining wicking beds, including how I use an IBC cube at Little Cottage on a Hill, and how worms and worm tunnels are integrated to keep soil life thriving. I also show how a no dig approach can be held inside a wicking system so the bed keeps improving year after year.

The Medicinal Garden with Caroline Parker & Natasha Morgan

A gentle and inspiring, hands on morning in the garden. Caroline Parker of The Cottage Herbalist joins me at Little Cottage on a Hill to share the healing potential of plants and how to bring them into daily life with ease. Together we learn, observe, gather and make.

We will create three simple preparations to repeat at home with confidence. An immunity boosting botanical syrup. A soothing balm for gardeners. A bright weedy pesto or salsa from foraged botanicals. We will wander the beds to pick and smell, talk about harvesting and handling, then pause at the long table for morning tea. You leave with recipes, a clear method and a sense of how to fold plant medicine into everyday rhythm. It is productivity held with care. Plants that nourish, remedies you can make, and a daily rhythm that is gentle and useful.

How I teach and what you can expect

We begin with context so the garden in front of you makes sense. At Little Cottage on a Hill we walk and notice and talk through how things operate in real time. In Garden Design and The Productive Garden I also draw on my years at Oak and Monkey Puzzle to show how principles translate across scale.

Each workshop has its own rhythm, and the backbone is the same. Clarity, practice, and time together in the garden. Garden Design leans into design thinking and drawing. The Productive Garden keeps design present but light, focussing on soil, systems, structures and seasonal work. The Wicking Bed Garden stays close to practice. I share my tailored method, show how I have adapted it to my needs, and how it sits within the wider design of the garden.

People often tell me they leave feeling welcomed, inspired and confident to begin. Small groups make this generous, rich and rewarding. There is time for questions. We break for tea and cake. We learn together. The energy comes from the room as much as from the garden, and everyone goes home with more than they arrived with.

Spring is the right moment

Spring brings surge and promise. Buds swell. Soil warms. Compost hums. Seeds leap. It is a generous time to set direction. A plan on paper becomes a clear morning in the garden. A bed that is cut back and fed responds. A wicking bed that is topped up and tended holds steady through the first warm spell. The work is simple and rhythmic, and the garden answers back.

A personal note

Thank you for your patience while I have been deep in the book. It has asked a lot and it has given a lot in return. I am looking forward to being with you again. The quiet focus that lands when a group leans over a drawing. The moment in the garden when a simple change makes the whole space feel right.

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Join a workshop

Explore current workshops in the shop.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my ebooks on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

You may want to check out my related content below:

The Power of Noticing: How a Garden Wander Led Me to Morels – Explore the quiet magic of noticing the small wonders that grow in your garden.

Rooted in Reflection, Growing with Intention – Explore the intentionality behind creating a garden that serves both purpose and beauty.

If You Could Learn Anything From Me This Year, What Would It Be? – Discover what I’ve been reflecting on the workshops I’ve shared over the years—and dreaming into what might come next.

Stay connected

Follow along on Instagram, Facebook, Gardenstead, LinkedIn, Pinterest and YouTube, visit the website, and subscribe to the newsletter for seasonal updates.

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

Cultivating beauty in a war zone – Alla Olkhovska’s garden of resistance

As I write my book,

I find myself returning again and again to the idea that a garden is never just a place. It’s a record of choices, of memory, of survival. This book has become much more than a collection of methods or stories — it’s become a tapestry of lived experiences. Stories that carry grief, resourcefulness, joy, and an enduring belief in what it means to keep growing.

One of the most powerful threads in that tapestry belongs to Alla Olkhovska.

For me, this is not abstract. I come from a family shaped by displacement — my grandmother fled former Yugoslavia on foot with two young children, crossing the Alps and spending years in displaced persons camps before finally making it to Australia. They were refugees who found safety, eventually. But for Alla, who lives in Kharkiv, Ukraine, there is no such option. She cannot leave. She gardens with drones overhead and cracked walls around her. And still, she plants. She photographs. She saves seeds. She grows.

Alla’s story is one of the many I’ve been honoured to weave into my book — and it’s one I believe the world needs to read. Here’s a glimpse into a world and a story that I’ll share more of, in time. 

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Some stories stay with you. They shift something in the way you see the world.
My conversation with Ukrainian gardener, photographer, and seed-saver Alla Olkhovska was one of those.

We spoke across time zones — me in Daylesford, she in Kharkiv — with rain falling in both our worlds. Her voice was calm, articulate, warm. Her words were generous and precise. And her story? It stopped me in my tracks.

Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Alla is a gardener in the middle of a war zone. She has remained in Kharkiv with her husband, who was gravely ill when the war began, and her elderly grandmother, who refused to leave her home. Their days are filled with air-raid sirens, power cuts, and the constant hum of uncertainty. And yet… amid all of this, Alla gardens.

She doesn’t just tend her space — she cultivates it. She collects rare seeds, raises clematis and species peonies, harvests by hand, and sends tiny envelopes of hope all over the world. She’s built a loyal seed customer base, a Patreon community, and an archive of incredible plant photography — all from a modest plot of land passed down through four generations.

Her garden has become a form of survival. Of resistance. Of legacy.

“I never thought I would live through the same kind of war my great-grandparents endured,” Alla told me. “And now I understand what they felt. How gardening helped them to survive.”

A family garden in wartime

The garden Alla tends was built by her great-grandfather after the Second World War — complete with apple trees, old wooden gates, and peonies that she’s since divided and brought back to life. It has always helped her family endure hard times — famine, economic collapse, political upheaval.

Now, under shelling and blackouts, it continues to nourish them.

There are no paved paths, no grand gestures. Just vines growing over branches, clematis climbing through pines, and layers of seasonal planting composed like music. It’s deeply personal. Deeply considered. Deeply hers.

When we spoke, Alla described her seed-saving as “labour-intensive, yes — but full of joy.” She works with bare hands, even in freezing weather, because she wants to feel the seeds. Her farewell bouquet each autumn — made before the first frost — is a ritual she’s held onto since 2017. It’s her way of thanking the garden, and the season, before winter silences it all.

Beauty is not a luxury

Early in our conversation, Alla hesitated when speaking about the camera lens her supporters helped fund. “It’s not a necessity,” she said. “It’s not food, or medicine.”

But the truth is — it is a necessity.

As I write in my upcoming book, beauty is not a luxury. It’s what connects us to meaning. And in Alla’s case, it’s what connects her to the rest of the world.

Her photos — taken in bursts between garden tasks and blackouts — are exquisite. Quiet. Detailed. Honest. She photographs plants not to impress, but to witness. And in doing so, she’s created a following that spans continents.

“Every seed I send out,” she said, “is a way to support my family — but also a way to share hope. To connect. To remind people that something beautiful can still grow in a broken place.”

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How to support Alla’s work

Every seed order, e-book sale, Patreon subscription, or photo shared is part of a much bigger story. If you’d like to support Alla — not just in spirit, but in practice — here are a few ways to do that:

🔗 Follow Alla on Instagram
🔗 Support Alla through Patreon
🔗 Watch the documentary on Alla ‘Gardening In A War Zone’ 

Her seed packets have reached gardens in Japan, Qatar, Australia, Canada, and beyond. It’s a global web of connection — one gardener at a time.

In her words

“When I go into the garden and there are no alert signals… I forget the war for a while. The birds are singing. The flowers are blooming. You start feeling good, despite everything.”

If this story resonates with you, you’ll find more in my upcoming book, where Alla’s full interview — along with a QR code to our recorded conversation — will be included. It’s one of the great honours of this book to share her story.

With love,
Natasha x

“We plant seeds not only to grow — but to remember what we’re capable of creating.” Natasha Morgan

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If you’d like to experience life here and this incredible space first-hand, I’d love to welcome you to one of my upcoming workshops. Come and walk the garden, learn something new, and connect with others creating lives rich in beauty, practicality and purpose.

Explore my workshops:

~  The Productive Garden with Natasha Morgan – Learn how to grow abundantly, no matter your space.

~ Garden Design with Natasha Morgan – Craft a garden that balances structure, beauty, and functionality.

~ The Wicking Bed Garden with Natasha Morgan – Build a self-watering, water-wise garden for effortless growing.

You may want to check out my related content below:

~ Why I grow. Why I design. Why I return — An answer to the question of “why” I do what I do.

~ Looking Back: A Rare Glimpse Inside Oak & Monkey Puzzle — A glimpse into my reflections and the beginnings of my book.

Thanks so much for following along.

Natasha xx,

For glimpses into workshops, daily life, and my thoughts from Little Cottage on a Hill, you can find me on Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, and YouTube. And if you’d like a more personal update, subscribe to my Newsletter for a monthly note on what’s growing, what’s inspiring me, and what’s next.

Click the links below to stay connected—I’d love to have you along for the journey.

Caring for Ornamental Grasses – When (and Whether) to Cut Back

As we head toward winter here in the southern hemisphere, it’s the time of year when I’m often asked: Should I be cutting back my grasses now?

My answer, more often than not, is not yet.

For many of us, ornamental grasses are still holding strong—bleached, upright, architectural. They continue to offer form, movement, and quiet seasonal interest right through the cooler months. Cutting them back too early removes not just their visual contribution, but also the habitats they offer to insects and birds.

So if you’re unsure what to do right now in late May, my suggestion is this: observe closely, and wait if you can. Let the garden keep offering what it still has to give.

Below, I’ve shared what I do in my own garden at this time of year—including when (and whether) to cut back each type of grass, how to divide them, and how to support them through the seasons.

Why I return to grasses, again and again

I return to grasses time and time again. They’re a favourite go-to in my garden design toolkit—they offer structure and softness, but also bring a kind of seasonal rhythm that anchors the garden and that just keeps on giving.

They catch the light, respond to the breeze, and shift with the seasons—moving from verdant to architectural, continuing to anchor the space even through winter.

That’s why I leave mine standing for as long as I can.

Here at Little Cottage on a Hill, the 27-metre long northern planting—filled with Miscanthus, Calamagrostis, Panicum, Molinia and others—does so much of the heavy lifting during the cooler months. It softens the boundary, offers a sense of enclosure, and holds a rhythm at the garden’s edge.

But eventually, they do need cutting back. And each one has its own rhythm.

When to cut back – species by species

Miscanthus (e.g. ‘Eileen Quinn’, ‘Kleine Fontaine’, ‘Yakushima Dwarf’)
Leave standing through winter. Cut back in late winter to early spring, just before new shoots emerge. Trim to around 10–20cm (4–8").

Calamagrostis ‘Karl Foerster’
Often pushes fresh growth early. Cut back in late winter, just before the green blades return. Trim to around 10–15cm (4–6").

Panicum (e.g. ‘Blue Steel’, ‘Iron Maiden’)
Hold their form well into winter. Cut back in late winter or early spring, down to 10–15cm (4–6").

Andropogon scoparius ‘Blaze’
Cut back just before new growth appears in late winter.

Molinia arundinacea
Cut back in late winter. These often flatten with heavy rain or frost, but their form is still beautiful when caught in low light or mist.

And once they’re cut? Don’t be too quick to compost what’s left behind.

Spent grasses make beautiful materials for vases, loose seasonal arrangements, or even twisted into wreaths. Their fine structure, bleached tones, and natural curves bring a quiet, sculptural quality indoors. I often gather armfuls of Miscanthus or Calamagrostis to use around the house—nothing too styled, just simply arranged in a jug or laid across a shelf.

Why not cut grasses back in autumn?

It’s a question I’m asked often—and I understand why. For years, autumn clean-up was the default. But I’ve found that grasses give so much more when left in place:

• They provide visual structure and softness when everything else is pared back

• They shelter overwintering insects and offer food for birds

• They create contrast against bare branches, frosts, and low winter light

• They add sound to the garden—seedheads rattling softly in the breeze

Unless the plant has collapsed or rotted at the base, I always choose to leave it be.

Can they be divided? What about in winter?

If a grass is thinning in the centre or starting to dominate a space, division is a simple way to rejuvenate it or create new plantings.

But winter isn’t the ideal time to divide. Most ornamental grasses are dormant through the colder months, and disturbing them too early can lead to stress, rot, or poor re-establishment.

Instead, wait until early spring—just as new growth begins to show. That’s when the crown is active, and divisions settle in more easily. I usually look for the first signs of green shoots before lifting and splitting a clump.

Use a sharp spade to divide the clump cleanly, replant or pot up the divisions, and water them in well. With the full growing season ahead, they’ll re-establish quickly.

Do they need feeding or mulching?

Most ornamental grasses are fairly low maintenance. I do mulch lightly with compost or aged mulch in early spring after cutting back—not to push excessive growth, but to support soil health and give the plants a good start for the season.

Are all grasses safe to leave through winter?

In wetter climates or heavy soils, some grasses can be prone to rotting at the crown if left standing too long. If a grass has flopped or shows signs of decay, it’s perfectly fine to cut it back a little earlier. As always: observe the plant, and respond accordingly.

Can I grow ornamental grasses in pots or small spaces?

Absolutely. Grasses can thrive in containers and smaller gardens—especially those with upright, clump-forming habits. Some of my favourites include:

• Calamagrostis ‘Karl Foerster’ – strong vertical structure that holds its shape beautifully

• Panicum ‘Blue Steel’ – upright with soft, airy flowering plumes through late summer

• Miscanthus ‘Eileen Quinn’ – compact and elegant, ideal for pots or tight borders

The key is choosing varieties that are more restrained in size, and matching their mature height to the scale and depth of the container. A tall grass in a shallow pot will never thrive—so I always make sure the root zone has room to stretch, and the proportions are balanced.

A favourite pairing: grasses, Echinops and Echinacea pallida

One of the things I’ve observed this past year is how well Echinops works structurally in combination with grasses—particularly Calamagrostis. Where I’d planted Echinops ritro just in front of a drift of Calamagrostis ‘Karl Foerster’, the tall, rigid stems of the Echinops acted almost like a scaffold—quietly holding the grasses upright and preventing them from flopping in the wind.

It’s a small detail, but it’s shifted how I think about layering structure in the 27-metre north-facing verge bed. This winter, I’m propagating more Echinops from saved seed so I can carry that rhythm further through the planting. Grasses and Echinops have become one of my favourite combinations—offering contrast, resilience, and structure that carries through the seasons.

I love the way Echinops brings both edge and softness: thistle-like, globe-shaped flowers in mid-summer, followed by intricate seedheads that hold their form through winter. Their upright stems catch the light and hold their line long after flowering is finished—adding texture and subtle architecture to the garden in its quieter months.

Similarly, I’ve long admired the way Echinacea pallida moves with some of the finer, shorter grasses. There’s something so quietly graceful in the pairing—the fine, reflexed petals of the pallida drooping elegantly around a cone of dusky seed, mirrored by the movement of surrounding grasses. Miscanthus ‘Eileen Quinn’ works especially well here—tightly clumped, upright, and modest in scale without losing presence.

Other compact grasses I return to for these kinds of pairings include:

• Panicum ‘Blue Steel’ – fine-textured with gentle autumn tones

• Miscanthus ‘Kleine Fontaine’ – with a lovely upright form

I like to plant in drifts of four or five—a rhythm that brings coherence without feeling too uniform. It’s a tip shared with me by my dear friend Lily Langham, and it’s one I return to often. Whether it’s grasses, Echinacea, or Echinops, that repetition adds a softness and strength to the planting—giving enough body to hold space while still allowing for movement and light.

These combinations bring layered interest, seasonal movement, and a gentle wildness to planting—anchoring the space, yet always shifting with light and breeze.

Where I source my grasses

If you’re looking to introduce more ornamental grasses into your own garden, I’m often asked where I source mine from. These are nurseries I’ve personally used and return to again and again—for their quality, range, and thoughtful curation of plants suited to Australian conditions:

• Antique Perennials – in King Lake, with a beautiful range of grasses and perennials that work beautifully in seasonal planting

• Lambley Nursery and Gardens – in Ascot, known for their dry-climate plant palette and strong garden performance

• The Diggers Club – online and their wonderful three Victoria locations, especially good for accessible, well-labelled plants and beginner-friendly information

If you know of any other specialist nursery you trust, I’d love to hear.

Wherever you source your plants, make sure to check the mature size, form, and growth habit—it makes all the difference when selecting grasses for the right rhythm, scale, and movement in your space. I’ve made mistakes in the past, assuming that Miscanthus ‘Yukashima Dwarf’ was in fact a dwarf, and I can guarantee you it certainly is not! (I’ll be shifting a clump of it this winter away from the front of a bed!!)

Some things I’ve learnt over time

• Leave grasses standing through winter if they’re still holding well

• Cut back in late winter to early spring, just before new growth appears

• Divide in early spring—not winter—when growth begins

• Mulch lightly after cutting back

• Observe your climate and plant condition before acting

• Use spent grass stems for sculptural arrangements or natural wreaths

You may want to check out my related content below:

My Top 3 Grasses For All Seasons Gardens – Discover the best ornamental grasses that bring year-round beauty and structure to your garden.

Curious about ornamental grasses?

If you’re exploring how to bring beauty, softness, and structure into your garden—whether through boundary planting, small courtyard moments, or grasses that catch the light just so—I share more in my e-books. They offer guidance on planting design, seasonal care, and combinations that bring function and beauty together.

→ Browse the e-books for more insight into thoughtful planting and garden layering.
→ Share this post with friends who love grasses as much as you do.
→ Sign up for the newsletter to receive seasonal tips, workshop updates, and more from Little Cottage on a Hill.

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

For glimpses into workshops, daily life, and my thoughts from Little Cottage on a Hill, you can find me on Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, and YouTube. And if you’d like a more personal update, subscribe to my Newsletter for a monthly note on what’s growing, what’s inspiring me, and what’s next.

Click the links below to stay connected—I’d love to have you along for the journey.

Redefining Productive: What it means in my Garden

The word productive is used often in gardening—and just as often misunderstood. In a world that ties productivity to industry, output, or how much we can do or grow in a day, I’ve come to define it quite differently. For me, a productive garden is not about squeezing more in or working harder. It’s about planting that is considered and seasonally responsive. About choosing to cultivate things that nourish life—mine, and the life around me.

Yes, there are the obvious harvests—fruits and vegetables, of course. But for me, a truly productive garden also offers herbs and flowers, medicinal plants and edimentals, aromatics that scent the air and calm the nervous system. It gives me ingredients to cook with, preserve, and share. Plants to distil, to dry, to make into teas, tinctures, or salves. Flowers that feed pollinators and brighten the kitchen table. Even fungi, self-seeded volunteers, or the tiniest harvest of lichen or moss in a shaded pocket—these are all part of it.

One of the things on my bucket list when I created the garden at Oak & Monkey Puzzle was to be able to grow armfuls of fragrant, old-world roses—just huge, beautifully scented blooms you’d never find in a florist. The kind you can only grow yourself. I still remember the first time I filled a fat vase with them. That moment—that experience of abundance, of purpose, of beauty you’ve grown with your own hands—that’s exactly what a productive garden means to me.

Productivity happens here too—in the quiet, layered architecture of a compost bay, where scraps become soil. It’s in the seed-saving, the slow rotation of beds, the gentle work of fungi under the surface. It’s not just about the garden’s offerings—it’s about the systems and relationships that sustain them.

When I speak of a productive garden, I’m speaking about a place that celebrates beauty as much as abundance. A space that gives something back, season after season. One that holds stories, rituals, and rhythms of tending and refining.

It doesn’t need to be big. My current garden is just 515m²—and it’s more productive than my five-acre property ever was. It’s not about scale—it’s about responding to constraint. The smaller space asks more of the design, and it rewards it. Because the constraints are tighter and the thinking has to be sharper, the garden becomes more intentional in response. Every square metre has a purpose, and most plants are multifunctional—chosen for their ability to offer both structure and scent, food and beauty, shade and shelter. It’s a garden that works with me, and for me.

Productivity, to me, is the art of creating something generous. It’s not about striving. It’s not about metrics. It’s not even about output. It’s about living in rhythm with the land—and letting that rhythm shape what the garden becomes.

You may want to check out my related content below:

From Forest Clearing to Town Garden: A Story of Growth – Discover the journey of transforming a space from raw nature to a thriving garden, filled with lessons and inspiration.

Landscape Lingo: The Chelsea Chop and Ways to Have Plants Look Their Best – Learn about the Chelsea Chop technique and other gardening tips to help your plants reach their full potential.

Your Ultimate Gardening Inspiration Resource – Curated by our community for our community, this resource is filled with inspiration and practical tips for your gardening journey.

Creativity, Connection, and Beauty at Babbington Park with Lean Timms– Inspired, grateful, and reminded that making time for creativity and connection isn’t always a luxury—sometimes it’s a necessity.

Want more like this?

If you’re drawn to this way of gardening—where design, purpose, and deep seasonal connection guide what and how we grow—I share more in my upcoming book, due for release in 2026 with Murdoch Books, as well as through my workshops, e-books, and seasonal newsletter.

→ Share this blog with your friends and gardening allies to spread the love and knowledge.

→ Sign up for the newsletter to stay up-to-date on upcoming workshops, garden tips, and exclusive updates from Little Cottage on a Hill.

As always, thanks so much for following along.

Natasha xx

For glimpses into workshops, daily life, and my thoughts from Little Cottage on a Hill, you can find me on Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, and YouTube. And if you’d like a more personal update, subscribe to my Newsletter for a monthly note on what’s growing, what’s inspiring me, and what’s next.

Click the links below to stay connected—I’d love to have you along for the journey.

A garden shaped by life – My full Q&A from The Garden Gadabout with Pip of The Garden at Moorfield5

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! 

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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Want more like this?

If you enjoy this kind of reflection—woven with seasonal insight, practical tips, and personal storytelling—I share a monthly newsletter direct from Little Cottage on a Hill.

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Natasha xx

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The Garden Remembers You

Sandy McKinley of Acre of Roses, has been part of my world for a long time now. She picked me a ute-load of roses from Acre of Roses for the very first floristry workshop I held at Oak and Monkey Puzzle in 2016. I’ll never forget it—my old red ute overflowing with those fragrant, full-petalled blooms, a gesture that said so much without needing to be said at all. That kind of generosity is just who she is.

Since then, we’ve woven in and out of each other’s lives in that easy way old friends do. We check in every few months—small business chats, big-picture questions, laughing at the chaos and complexity of it all. We’ve run workshops together, leaned on each other in the quieter seasons, and shared a belief in what the garden gives us when we’re paying attention.

Sandy’s writing, like her garden, holds a stillness that invites you in. There’s no instruction manual here—just an offering. A reminder that tending the land is also a way of tending yourself. Her words speak to something I think so many of us feel but struggle to name: the way a garden can hold us when the rest of the world asks too much.

I’m honoured to share her piece, The Garden Remembers You, here on the blog. Alongside it, you’ll find a series of photographs taken recently at Acre of Roses by Amber Gardener (@itsnaturalight). Amber and I met just a few weeks ago at Lean Timms’ photography workshop at Babbington Park, so it feels beautifully full-circle to bring her work into this space too.

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​​The Garden Remembers You

By Sandy McKinley

There is a rhythm in the garden that doesn’t follow the clock.

It’s in the way dew clings to rose petals just after dawn, how birdsong echoes through the mist before the world is awake, and how time itself begins to soften when your hands are deep in rich, cool soil. It is in these moments—barefoot, breathing, becoming—that the garden becomes something far greater than a place to grow things. It becomes a sanctuary. A remembering. A way home to ourselves.

Acre of Roses was never simply a business. It was born from the ache of overextension, from years of striving, achieving, overcommitting—until my body, and my spirit, asked me to stop. Not slow down—stop. And in that stillness, I began again. I turned to the earth, and she turned toward me.

The first rituals were small: writing in a journal while surveying the garden in the early morning light. Sipping a warm tea brewed from the Apothecary Garden’s herbs. Lighting a beeswax candle at dusk as the day began to exhale. Gathering rose petals to infuse in a batch of water kefir—soft, floral, and gently effervescent, a tonic for body and soul. These weren’t grand gestures, but grounded, repetitive acts of care that tethered me to the moment, to place, and to myself.

And I wasn’t alone in this return. Rob Roy—my husband and partner in all things rooted and real—was beside me. Where I found healing in scent, soil, and stillness, he found his rhythm in building, restoring, and shaping beauty from the bones of old structures and salvaged materials. His hands laid the pathways through the rose rows, designed to gently store the heat of spring and coax early blooms. Together, we wove something living. Not just a garden, but a place for others to arrive and exhale.

I began to notice how my nervous system recalibrated with the scent of lemon balm, how May Chang lifted the heaviness in my chest, and how simply brushing against the Miscanthus in the wind felt like being sung to.

Gardens teach presence without preaching it. You cannot rush a rose into bloom, nor will a perennial flower on demand. And so we attune ourselves to their tempo. To the slow push of new shoots. To the decay and letting go of autumn. To the hush of winter, which is not death but restoration. Dormancy is survival. The garden knows.

To me, tending a garden is one of the most radical acts of self-restoration. It is sensual, in the truest sense of the word. Through scent, sound, texture, and temperature, we are drawn back into the body. Back into the breath. It offers us the precious invitation to feel without needing to fix.

At Acre of Roses, guests often arrive tightly wound. I see it in their shoulders, their hurried questions, their need to fill the quiet with plans. And then—something shifts. Sometimes it’s in the cedar hot tub under the stars. Sometimes in the quiet rhythm of swinging gently in cane chairs on the veranda, watching the bees and butterflies dance through shafts of light in the late afternoon garden. Often, it’s in the first truly deep breath taken while wandering through the rose farm at dusk. We call it the Trentham Shrug—that moment when the body remembers it can release.

In this way, the garden is both mirror and medicine. It reveals what’s ready to fall away and what might want to grow next. It reminds us that abundance does not mean more—it means enough. Enough light. Enough water. Enough stillness.

So let this book be your companion as you rediscover your own rituals. As you coax tomatoes from warm beds or tend a single lavender on your windowsill. As you press herbs between pages, or simply press pause.

You don’t have to do it all. The garden doesn’t ask for perfection. It asks for presence.

And in return, it offers us what the modern world so often withholds: silence without loneliness, work without rush, and a path back to wholeness.

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A little note before you go

Sandy’s words aren’t just a guest post—they’ll also appear in my upcoming book, which I’m currently writing and will be released by Murdoch Books in September 2026.

I asked Sandy to contribute to the book because what she wrote here—about restoration, rhythm, the quiet rituals that shape a day—reflects so much of what I believe and value.

As I shift into a slower season of writing, I’ll be pausing in-person workshops for winter. But I’ll still be here—sharing garden notes, behind-the-scenes glimpses, small updates from the writing desk, and moments that don’t quite fit anywhere else.

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Enjoyed this blog?

→ Share this blog with your friends and gardening allies to spread the love and knowledge.

→ Sign up for the newsletter to stay up-to-date on upcoming workshops, garden tips, and exclusive updates from Little Cottage on a Hill.

Thanks, as always, for being here…

Natasha xx

For glimpses into workshops, daily life, and my thoughts from Little Cottage on a Hill, you can find me on Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, and YouTube. And if you’d like a more personal update, subscribe to my Newsletter for a monthly note on what’s growing, what’s inspiring me, and what’s next.

Click the links below to stay connected—I’d love to have you along for the journey.