I spent an hour this week talking with Joel from InStyle Gardens for his podcast, and somewhere in the middle of it I heard myself once again sharing something that is at the core of what I do and believe: that I design through experience, and that the size of a garden has almost nothing to do with whether it's any good.
Read Moreproductive gardens
Oak & Monkey Puzzle - view down lawn spine to forest backdrop
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
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:
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
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 grow. Why I design. Why I return.
People often ask me why I do what I do.
Why I keep growing, designing, making.
Why I’ve built a life so deeply tied to soil, seasons, and place.
Why I return to gardens again and again.
And the truth is, it’s not easy to distil. Because it’s not one thing.
It’s not a single decision I made.
It’s a thread that’s run quietly underneath my life for as long as I can remember.
When I was small, gardens weren’t something I analysed – they were simply where I was. I remember the light landing on a leaf at dusk. The small thrill of seeing a seed push up through the soil for the very first time. The smell of damp earth, of compost, of green. Even then, I was noticing. Observing. Quietly mesmerised by all of it.
And through the hardest parts of my life – and there have been many – I have always returned to gardens. They’ve been my solace. My anchor. My recalibration point. When the world felt sharp-edged, unsteady, or deeply lonely, I found comfort in the small daily acts: weeding, pruning, planting, harvesting. Those simple, repetitive tasks where you lose yourself for a time, but also find yourself again.
Because gardens give back. They don’t rush you. They meet you where you are.
You offer your care, and in their quiet, layered way, they respond. You see it in the soft unfurling of new growth, in the resilience of plants finding their place, in the generosity of a harvest that was never guaranteed, but comes anyway.
But my why goes deeper still.
For years I worked at the highest levels of design. Leading large public projects, teaching at universities, managing complex briefs with enormous stakes. I loved the design. I loved the challenge of it. But there was something missing — something I couldn’t quite name at the time.
What I was craving was immediacy.
The chance to make something, right there with my hands, and see it live and breathe and grow.
To bring beauty into the world that wasn’t mediated by years of planning approvals or project deadlines.
To move at the pace of seasons, not spreadsheets.
To create with my hands, my heart, my intuition.
When I finally stepped away from that high-intensity world, what I was really doing was stepping towards something. Towards a way of living and working that made space for both beauty and abundance. For creativity and care. For design that wasn’t about ego, but about experience.
And that’s what sits at the centre of everything I do now.
Gardens are not just about plants.
Design is not just about space.
It’s about how we live. How we notice. How we move through our days.
It’s about rhythms of tending, of small seasonal tasks, of paying attention.
It’s about feeding ourselves in ways that go far beyond the harvest.
It’s about offering something back—to the land, to our communities, to ourselves.
My why is rooted in this quiet reciprocity. This returning.
The work I do—whether I’m teaching, designing, writing, or simply tending my own garden—comes from that same place.
Because I know, deeply, that this isn’t just about me.
Every person who grows something—whether it’s a single pot of herbs or an entire productive garden—is stepping into that same quiet relationship. Into that same rhythm of giving and receiving. Into a kind of beauty and abundance that is profoundly life-affirming, no matter the scale.
This is why I share my work. Why I teach. Why I write.
Not to offer rules, but to offer companionship.
Not to tell you what to do, but to remind you that this is possible—for you, too.
You don’t need perfect conditions.
You don’t need all the answers before you begin.
You simply need to begin. To observe. To tend. To trust that small acts, over time, become something rich and layered and deeply sustaining.
This is my why.
And if any part of you feels called towards it—towards a life lived seasonally, creatively, and in quiet connection with the world around you—then know that you are already on the path.
We grow. We design. We create. We return.
If you’re drawn to this slower, more thoughtful way of gardening—the quiet rhythms, the seasonal shifts, the beauty and abundance found in simple acts—you might enjoy connecting with me over on Gardenstead. It’s a brand new space built entirely for gardeners and plant lovers, free from ads, algorithms and noise. Just a gentle, beautiful place where people share what they grow, what they’re learning, and how their gardens are evolving—whatever form that takes. It really does feel like home!
You can find me there under:
natasha_morgan_
And you can download the app here: Gardenstead
I’d love to see you there.
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.
Finding Light in Dark Times – Reflect on how gardens can provide solace and healing during challenging moments.
Solitude and Connection Through Gardens – Discover how gardening can nurture both solitude and connection.
Gardens, Growth, and Community: My Story – A deeper look into how gardens shape not just landscapes, but communities and lives.
Rooted in Reflection, Growing with Intention – Explore the intentionality behind creating a garden that serves both purpose and beauty.
Want more like this?
And in doing so, we live well.
If you’re drawn to this way of gardening—where beauty and abundance sit side by side, where design follows the rhythm of the seasons, and where small acts of tending become something sustaining—I share more in my e-books. Inside, you’ll find guidance on planting design, seasonal care, and combinations that bring softness, structure, and quiet beauty into your own garden.
→ Browse the e-books for deeper guidance on thoughtful planting and garden layering.
→ Share this post with friends who share your love of gardens that move and breathe.
→ Subscribe to my newsletter for seasonal insights, 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.
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!
Q&A with Natasha Morgan and Pip Steele-Warenham of The Garden at Moorfield
Have you always gardened, and what is your earliest garden memory?
I’ve always gardened, for as long as I can remember. My earliest memories are in the backyard of a dear family friend in inner Melbourne. She had a generous, established garden and let me dig, plant, and explore freely. I remember being small enough that I had to kneel down to get my hands into the soil—but that didn’t matter. I was hooked. I always left with a cutting or a handful of seeds.
That early experience planted something in me: a sense that a garden could be both a sanctuary and a place of possibility. That sense has never left me.
What brought you to making a life spent in gardens and in garden design/landscape architecture?
I was always drawn to design and creativity, and I found my way to architecture first, and then landscape architecture. But it was the living, breathing nature of gardens that pulled me in.
My mother was an immigrant from the former Yugoslavia, and like many women of her generation, she placed immense value on education, stability, and profession. Gardening—and even landscape architecture—were seen more as hobbies than viable careers. I was encouraged to pursue medicine, and for a while, I tried. But after several years of chronic illness in my late teens, and time spent navigating the medical system, I realised with deep clarity that medicine was not my path.
That moment of stepping away left me in an in-between space, unsure of what came next. I turned to career counselling, and architecture emerged as a natural fit—something that aligned with my creative instincts and spatial awareness. But three-quarters of the way through my architecture degree, I found myself increasingly drawn away from the drawing board and into the garden. I spent most of my spare time transforming the backyard of my rental into an abundant, productive space filled with herbs, vegetables, and fruit trees. Each year, I harvested the produce and turned it into preserves and handmade gifts—overflowing Christmas hampers for friends and family. It was joyful, purposeful work. Work that made sense.
The pull toward something more grounded became impossible to ignore. I enrolled in landscape architecture as a double degree, and for the first time, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be. Landscape architecture offered a beautiful intersection between design, ecology, and care. It wasn’t about building over land—it was about working with it.
I spent over a decade lecturing in landscape architecture at RMIT and Melbourne Universities. Alongside that, I worked in high-level practice for 15 years, including managing the design and construction of The Australian Garden (Stage 2) at the Royal Botanic Gardens Cranbourne. That experience taught me that landscapes aren’t just spaces—they’re stories. And when shaped with care and intention, they influence how we live, how we connect, and how we feel.
After having children, something shifted. I was burnt out. I felt a strong pull to step back from large-scale work and begin to live the very things I had been designing and teaching for years. That desire became Oak & Monkey Puzzle—a 5-acre property in Spargo Creek that allowed me to bring together design, growing, teaching, and community in one living, evolving space. It marked the beginning of a slower, more intentional way of life—one grounded in the seasons, shaped by circumstance, and defined by a deep collaboration with the land.
That journey continues today at Little Cottage on a Hill, where I now explore how to distil all of those lessons into a much smaller space—and share them with others through writing, workshops, and teaching.
Does your property or garden have a name?
Yes, my current garden is called Little Cottage on a Hill. It’s just 515 square metres, but it’s a living prototype for everything I teach and share.
Before that, I spent nearly a decade at Oak & Monkey Puzzle—a 5-acre gold rush-era property in Spargo Creek. It was once the old post office, general store, and pub. That garden was my design laboratory, community hub, and sanctuary—and very much my foray into country living.
How would you describe your personal garden, and how long have you been creating it?
I began creating this garden in 2022, after we left Oak & Monkey Puzzle. It was a conscious decision—a deliberate downsizing. I wanted to see if I could distill everything I had learned on five acres into just over 500 square metres. What emerged is Little Cottage on a Hill—a small garden with big ambitions.
This garden is the next chapter in a life lived in close relationship with land and season. It’s small but mighty. A productive, seasonal, ever-evolving space that works hard to nourish my family and inspire others. The verge is planted; the driveway, a courtyard. The fences aren’t just boundaries—they’re frameworks for borrowed views and moments of respite. Here, beauty and utility are never mutually exclusive.
Even the smallest gesture—a path, a fence, a planting pocket—serves a purpose. It’s a space shaped by years of design thinking, scaled down but no less intentional. In many ways, this garden is a working prototype—one I share through my writing, workshops, and courses. It’s proof that you don’t need endless space to live abundantly. With careful planning, observation, and a relationship with the seasons, even the smallest plot can feed a life.
But Little Cottage on a Hill is more than just a garden. It’s a philosophy. It came to life in the wake of a personal reckoning during the pandemic. At the time, we were still living at Oak & Monkey Puzzle, and I’d spent nearly a decade transforming that place into a design laboratory and community hub. But when the world shut down, everything I had built suddenly felt hollow. The vibrant exchange that gave the property its energy was gone. And though I continued to share it through social media, it no longer felt meaningful in the same way.
And yet—something profound happened in that pause. When supermarket shelves were empty and uncertainty hung in the air, I realised that if I had access to soil, sky, water, and seed, I had everything I truly needed. That moment changed me. It made me reflect deeply on what matters, and how much is enough.
Letting go of Oak & Monkey Puzzle wasn’t easy. It had been my canvas, my gathering place, my refuge. But in stripping things back, I found something I hadn’t expected—clarity, calm, and a new kind of creativity. That shift in consciousness led me here, to a smaller space, a slower pace, and a deeper alignment with the life I wanted to live.
This garden carries the essence of everything that came before, but it’s also something entirely new. It’s grounded in simplicity, resilience, and beauty. It’s proof that a meaningful, abundant life doesn’t depend on scale.
My children have grown up alongside my gardens—first running barefoot through wide paddocks, now helping harvest from raised beds just steps from the kitchen. This space reflects not just who I am now, but who we are, together.
It’s the smallest garden I’ve ever had—but it’s where I feel the richest. It’s where I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
Do you garden alone, or with the help of others?
For the most part, I garden alone. There’s a rhythm to it that I find deeply grounding—a kind of quiet companionship between myself and the plants, the soil, the shifting light. Those solo hours are when I observe, recalibrate, and plan—not just for the garden, but for life. It’s a moving meditation that keeps me tethered to the seasons and to myself.
That said, I’m no longer doing everything alone. After years—decades, really, of using my body so fully in both design and physical labour, I’ve begun to feel the quiet accumulation of effort. So now, every fortnight, Sage comes to lend a hand. They help with the larger jobs—edging, mulching, workshop prep, and the kinds of physical tasks that once came easily but now ask more of me.
But what began as a practical arrangement has grown into something more meaningful. I’m now mentoring Sage as they build the skills and confidence to start their own design consultancy, building on their already incredible gardening abilities. It’s a quiet, beautiful exchange: skills passed on, ideas explored, and the beginnings of a new chapter for someone else.
My children, now teenagers, will from time to time lend a hand, especially if there’s something to harvest. They’ve grown up in my gardens, from the sweeping terraces of Oak & Monkey Puzzle to the layered abundance of Little Cottage on a Hill. While they might not always leap at the chance to weed or plant, I know the garden has shaped them—gently, and profoundly.
The garden is a personal space, yes—but it’s also a communal one. There’s the wider circle: the people who visit during workshops, the conversations shared during garden walks, the questions asked and stories exchanged.
So while I often garden alone, I never feel alone in it. There’s connection in every task—in the soil, in the community, in the hands that help and the stories that grow alongside the plants.
What inspired you to plant the garden you have and how has it evolved from your initial ideas?
This garden began as an experiment. A question, really: How much beauty, abundance, and resilience can be created on a small footprint? After years of designing and tending five acres at Oak & Monkey Puzzle, I wanted to explore how those same principles—thoughtful spatial design, seasonal rhythms, productive planting—could be distilled into just over 500 square metres. What emerged was Little Cottage on a Hill.
It started with the intention of being a teaching garden. A way to show what’s possible when you work creatively with constraints. The verge is fully planted, the driveway doubles as a courtyard, vertical space is used for espaliers and climbers, and fences are positioned to frame views while offering privacy. It’s a garden full of small-space design strategies—but it’s also nuanced and layered. Practical and poetic. It had to work hard, but it also had to feel good.
Over time, it’s become less about showcasing and more about stewarding. Less of a model garden, and more of a living, evolving space that reflects both who I am and the life I want to lead. It changes constantly—responding to the climate, to the needs of my family, to ideas I’m exploring in my teaching or writing. I trial things all the time.
One of the best examples is the wicking beds—now one of my favourite ways to grow. They’re waterwise, eliminate the need for bending, and have proven outrageously productive. Since 9 January, I’ve harvested over 150kg of produce from just six 1x1m beds. It’s hard to overstate the impact that kind of abundance has in a small garden.
There’s also a quiet tension in the garden that I’ve come to appreciate. It’s both public and private. Parts of it are intentionally shared through workshops, photography, storytelling. And yet much of it remains just for us. It holds the dailiness of life: the moments before breakfast spent watering, the after-school harvests, the quiet pauses I take while walking the paths with a cup of tea in hand.
The original question still lingers, but it’s deepened over time: What do I want this space to offer? What can it hold? What does it ask of me in return? In that sense, this garden isn’t a finished project—it’s an ongoing conversation. And the longer I tend it, the more I understand that its purpose isn’t to be perfect, but to be alive.
What is your favourite way to spend time in your garden?
Early mornings and last light in the evenings are the times I value most. Before the day begins or as it winds down, I take a quiet walk through the garden—usually with a cup of tea in hand. I’m not there to do anything in particular. It’s more about observing. What’s thriving, what’s struggling, what might need doing in the days ahead.
It’s in these moments that I feel most grounded. The pace is slow, the garden is still, and I can take it all in without distraction. Sometimes I notice small things—a new leaf, a pest issue, a planting that’s doing better than expected. Other times it’s just the act of being in the space that brings clarity.
These quiet check-ins help me stay connected to the garden and to myself. They’re small but significant. They anchor the day—and often shape what comes next.
What has been the biggest adjustment to downsizing your garden?
Not being able to grow everything I once did—that was the biggest shift. At Oak & Monkey Puzzle, I had the space to experiment widely. There was room for everything: orchard zones, rambling perennials, indulgent trials. Downsizing meant letting go. Not just practically, but emotionally.
But with that came something unexpected: clarity. When space is tight, every decision matters. Every plant has to earn its place—whether for food, structure, habitat, or simply the joy it brings. Every corner must be considered, and that level of intentionality has brought a new kind of creativity.
Plants rarely get second chances here. If they’re finicky or not suited to the microclimate, they’re replaced. That’s not to say the garden is pared back to the point of compromise—it’s still full of character and incredibly special things. But I’m more pragmatic now. I no longer have the time or space to nurse plants along.
The focus is sharper. The palette is tighter. And yet, within those constraints, the garden still surprises me. Self-sown seedlings, natural shifts, moments of seasonal serendipity—those things still find their way in. I may guide it, but I’m never fully in control—and I wouldn’t want to be.
Do you have a favourite season in the garden and if so, why?
Autumn, always. The seedheads, the shifting tones, the softened light. It’s the season of gathering, preserving, and quiet reflection. The pace slows. The structure of the garden comes into focus. There’s a feeling of both abundance and closure that’s deeply satisfying.
But truthfully, I think every season becomes my favourite when I’m in it. They each bring something necessary. I’ve come to look forward to their return, knowing I won’t experience them again for at least another twelve months.
Even winter, which I initially found hard in this cool Central Highlands climate, now feels essential. A time for stillness, rest, and quiet planning. A time for taking stock.
This year, we’ve had an unusually long summer and autumn, and I’m curious to see what the rest of the year brings. The garden is never static. It’s always in conversation with the seasons, the weather, and the year’s unique temperament.
I’ve learned to welcome that movement. It reminds me that nothing stays the same—and that each season is fleeting, and full of its own kind of beauty.
What is one of the most important things you’d say you do in your garden’s maintenance?
Soil health. I believe in growing soil—tending to it, nourishing it, building it over time. It’s the foundation for everything else. Thriving plants, resilience in changing conditions, a rich and vibrant ecosystem… it all starts from the ground up.
I focus on building structure and supporting soil life. That means regular applications of homemade compost, organic matter, and mulch—things like pea straw, leaf litter, and seasonal trimmings. I rarely dig. I use no-dig or low-intervention methods that preserve the integrity of the soil and protect the microbial and fungal networks that support plant health.
This has been one of the areas I’ve learned the most about in recent years—thanks in no small part to the work of people like Matthew Evans and his book Soil, and Charles Dowding’s no-dig approach. Their insights reshaped how I think about soil as a living system, not a neutral medium.
Good soil is dynamic. And when you look after it, it looks after everything else. For me, that’s the most important part of garden maintenance, because when the soil is healthy, the rest tends to follow.
If you had to choose 3 plants to recommend to a new gardener, what would they be and why?
How do you stick to three? So here are five that I come back to again and again—both personally and in teaching others:
Hydrangea paniculata – A hardier hydrangea and a plant that earns its place in any garden. It offers months of interest: fresh summer blooms, autumn colour, and dried flower heads that carry its structure through winter. It’s generous, dependable, and incredibly rewarding for gardeners at any level.
Grasses—particularly Miscanthus and Calamagrostis – I often describe grasses as the framework of the garden. They offer movement, structure, softness, and seasonality. Calamagrostis ‘Karl Foerster’ and Miscanthus cultivars bring verticality and grace. They catch the light beautifully, especially in the cooler months, and offer year-round interest with very little fuss.
Garlic – It’s one of the most rewarding crops I grow. It doesn’t ask for much once it’s in the ground, but it does require patience and timing. It suits small spaces, works well in no-dig beds, and fits perfectly into my seasonal rhythms—planted in one season, harvested in another. When it’s pulled, dried, and stored, it keeps feeding us, friends and family for months to come.
Roses – I tend to grow old-fashioned, fragrant, repeat-flowering roses with big, expressive blooms. They thrive in tough conditions—and are still offering armfuls to bring indoors even after this long dry summer and autumn. I have a big vase next to my bed at the moment, and falling asleep to their scent is something I’ll never take for granted.
Echinacea – A plant I first grew at Oak & Monkey Puzzle, and one I’ve come to appreciate even more over time. I love it in all its stages: the upright blooms, the faded autumn tones, and the sculptural seedheads that persist through winter. It bridges ornamental, ecological, and medicinal value—beautiful to look at, vital for pollinators, and right at home in my collection of medicinal plants. It also has an inherent wildness that balances more structured plantings.
Each of these plants brings something different—structure, resilience, fragrance, generosity, or seasonality.
What plant has been high maintenance, but you feel is worth the effort?
These days, I’m pretty selective about what I bring into the garden. Space is limited, and I tend not to grow anything that asks too much of me. But some things still tempt me, especially when I visit the Friends of Wombat Hill Botanic Gardens Nursery.
The team of volunteers has such deep plant knowledge. I’m often encouraged to try something rare or unusual—and sometimes, despite my better judgement, I do. The enthusiasm is contagious, and the plants are often ones you won’t find elsewhere.
One plant I still have a soft spot for is the peony. Their flowering is fleeting—maybe three weeks if you’re lucky—but it’s utterly captivating. They ask for specific conditions: cool winters, alkaline soil, time to settle. They can be fussy. But when they bloom, they’re unforgettable.
In a small space, high-maintenance plants have to justify themselves. And every now and then, a peony does exactly that.
What plant do you dream of growing in your garden, that you’ve not yet acquired, or have struggled to grow?
Tree peonies. I’d love to grow them well again.
At Oak & Monkey Puzzle, I had a number of established plants—many of them gifted and transplanted from a much-loved older garden. Their flowering was always fleeting, but utterly exquisite.
Since moving, I’ve tried again. One didn’t make it. The other is still growing—ever so slowly, two years in, but holding on.
They’re definitely an exercise in patience. As the saying goes:
The first year they sleep, the second year they creep, the third year they leap.
I’m still waiting for the leap.
Do you have a favourite tree in the garden, and why?
In this garden, it’s the weeping birches (Betula pendula).
We were very lucky to inherit six with the property, and I absolutely love them. One in particular anchors the circular seating space in the front verge garden. Its form is soft and sculptural, its canopy dapples the light beautifully, and it brings a sense of maturity and grace to what is otherwise a relatively young and evolving garden.
One of the first things I did when we arrived was lift and shape its canopy through formative pruning. It had looked a little wild and heavy, slightly scrappy—but with a bit of attention, it’s become something of real beauty.
I’ve always been drawn to birches. They remind me of European gardens and the cool-climate landscapes I feel most at home in. I planted a forest of birches at Oak & Monkey Puzzle, so having them here feels like a quiet thread that’s carried from one chapter of my life to the next.
Do you have any sentimental plantings in the garden?
One planting that holds deep meaning for me is a clump of Lily of the Valley (Convallaria majalis), gifted to me by my children’s grandmother, Joscelyn.
It’s the same flower she brought to the hospital when my son Oliver was born—a delicately small and beautifully scented bunch. Ever since then, Lily of the Valley has been tied to his birthday in my mind. It flowers in spring, often right around that time.
Joscelyn passed away late last year, and having that planting in the garden now feels especially meaningful. It’s a connection not just to her, but to a moment in time, to my children’s family story, and to the kind of quiet legacy that gardens so often carry.
What has been the most inspiring book/books, podcasts or programs, for inspiring your own garden?
It’s hard to pinpoint a single favourite for this garden specifically. So much filters through as I design and imagine a space into being. Ideas, references, memories—they all seem to bubble up in layers.
These days, I work more intuitively. But a lifetime of learning continues to inform how I approach gardening, teaching, and design. Some influences are foundational, others ongoing.
Matthew Evans’ ‘Soil’ – This book changed the way I think about the ground beneath my feet. Evans brings soil to life as a living system—not just a growing medium, but the foundation of resilience, productivity, and environmental repair. It reaffirmed my belief that everything starts from the ground up.
Charles Dowding’s No-Dig Gardening – His approach to soil care through minimal disturbance aligns closely with how I garden. No-dig methods support soil biology, reduce weeding, and simplify seasonal rhythms. It’s a system that makes sense—and works.
James Corner’s work on landscape architecture – His writing on mapping and representation had a foundational impact on me during my studies and my years lecturing. He helped shift how I see and interpret space, not just as something to be measured, but as something to be read, inhabited, and worked with over time. I often share this in garden workshops, particularly when we talk about understanding a place before making design decisions. Design analysis isn’t just about recording—it’s about uncovering the invisible relationships that shape a site.
The Avante Gardeners Podcast – A brilliant and grounded podcast that brings together thoughtful conversation, practical advice, and a sense of community. It reflects the kind of real-world gardening dialogue I value.
The Futuresteading Podcast by Jade Miles – Jade’s work around seasonal living, food growing, and values-based choices echoes much of what I practice and teach. Her interviews often offer the kind of clarity and encouragement that reaffirm this way of life.
Monty Don – I’ve followed Monty’s work since my late teens. His honesty, depth of knowledge, and clear love for gardens has always resonated. But what’s influenced me most is his global lens. Through series like Around the World in 80 Gardens, he shows how gardens reflect culture, identity, and place. That changed how I saw gardening—not just as an activity or profession, but as a deeply human, expressive act tied to where we live and who we are.
Are there gardens or gardeners, other garden designers that inspire you?
So many—it’s hard to land on just a few.
Piet Oudolf – I admire his commitment to designing gardens that evolve across the seasons. He treats every stage of a plant’s life cycle as worthy of attention—bloom, seedhead, and decay alike. His use of form and repetition creates structure, but it’s the way he works with nature, the seasons, and cycles—rather than against them—that resonates most with me.
Fiona Brockhoff – A long-standing influence. Her gardens respond honestly to site, climate, and architecture. She uses local materials and native plants with confidence and clarity. Her work always feels grounded, distinctly Australian, without being nostalgic.
Tim Pilgrim – Tim’s planting style is naturalistic, layered, and expressive. There’s a softness and rhythm in his gardens that allows the landscape to speak for itself. He has a deep understanding of seasonality and restraint, and the balance he strikes between structure and ease is no small feat.
Alasdair Cameron (Cameron Gardens) – His gardens are generous and refined, always responding to the broader environment. He blends horticultural skill with a sensitivity to place, crafting spaces that are both practical and emotive. I particularly admire the way his plantings evolve with time—there’s movement and maturity in how they grow.
Stefano Marinaz – Stefano’s work with small gardens is especially compelling. His designs are layered, immersive, and clearly intended to be lived in, not just admired. Even in urban sites, he finds ways to invite in biodiversity and embed sustainability in subtle but meaningful ways. His South Kensington courtyards are a masterclass in compact generosity.
Lily Langham – A dear friend, local, and someone whose work I return to often. Her gardens are immersive, full of texture, detail, and a layered wildness that feels both curated and intuitive. She has an extraordinary eye for plants—rare and interesting selections that sit comfortably alongside the familiar. Her commitment to biodiversity is quiet but powerful. These are gardens you inhabit slowly. Beyond the planting, she’s also someone who thinks deeply about how gardens are lived in, not just how they look. I spend a lot of time in her garden, and it never ceases to teach and inspire.
Taylor Cullity Lethlean (T.C.L.) – Having worked with T.C.L. for a decade before my tree change, their approach remains one of the most formative influences on how I see and shape space. Their work places people at the centre of the landscape experience—integrating movement, memory, and narrative. Their commitment to placemaking, strong design principles, and poetic interpretation of site continues to inform my work. Projects like The Australian Garden at Cranbourne, which I had the privilege of contributing to, embody this layered, place-specific design philosophy.
What do you want to feel or others to feel when they visit your garden?
I want people to feel something shift. Even just slightly. A softening. A grounding. A reminder that there’s richness in the everyday, in the seasonal, in working with what you’ve got.
I hope they leave with a sense of possibility, not in a romantic or faraway sense, but the kind that lives right under your feet. That a garden, however small, can hold beauty, abundance, practicality, and meaning all at once. That you don’t need acres. You just need intention.
This garden is full of solutions—real, practical ones—for making a small space work hard. It’s thoughtful, layered, and honest about what’s possible when you apply design thinking to a limited footprint.
But it’s more than that. It’s a kind of living case study. A scaled-down, built-by-hand expression of everything I explored at Oak & Monkey Puzzle. It’s a testing ground. A prototype. A place to try, refine, observe, and try again.
It’s never been about perfection. It’s about being present. Being alive to the seasons. And understanding that gardens, like us, are always evolving.
And while the space is mine, I’ve always wanted it to feel shareable. When people walk through the gate, I want them to feel welcome. I want them to see the underlying structure, the systems, the generosity in the planting—but also the gentle reminder: you can do this too. On your own terms, in your own way. It doesn’t have to be magazine-perfect to be meaningful.
If people leave feeling calmer, more curious, more confident, or more connected to something they’d forgotten, then the garden has done its work.
What do you think makes a successful garden?
A successful garden for me is one that gives back. That supports life—human, plant, and animal. That feeds, shelters, and offers something in return to the place it belongs to.
It doesn’t need to be perfect. In fact, perfection is rarely the goal. A successful garden evolves with its gardener. It responds to climate, soil, capacity, and care. It adapts. It endures.
There’s a deep satisfaction in walking through a garden that’s both beautiful and useful. Where structure and softness sit side by side. Where there’s room for mess, for self-seeding, for seasonal change.
To me, success lives in the garden’s small, consistent contributions—feeding a household, supporting pollinators, holding space for rest and reflection.
If it nourishes, restores, and invites you to return again and again, it’s doing more than enough.
What impact has the garden, and being in the world of gardens, had on you?
Gardens have always been part of my life. So it’s hard to say whether they’ve changed me, or whether I’ve simply grown into who I already was, through them.
I don’t see myself as separate from the garden. I feel intrinsically bound to plants and soil. The garden isn’t something I step into and out of—it’s where my thinking happens, where my values play out, and where my way of life takes shape.
It’s also where I find my contentment. My validation doesn’t come from external approval—it comes from presence. From noticing the way light catches the seedheads of Miscanthus in the last hour of the day. From seeing sweet peas push through the soil with the quiet promise of fragrance to come.
It’s in those small, almost invisible moments that I feel most sure of this path, not just the one I’ve chosen, but the one I’ve been called to.
There’s magic in the simplicity of it all. The alchemy of placing a seed or a cutting in the soil and watching it take on shape, form, and life of its own. That quiet unfolding reminds me, every day, what matters. And what’s worth tending to.
What would you say is your most memorable or proud moment as a gardener/garden designer?
This one’s definitely a no-brainer—but it’s not just one moment.
The first would have to be seeing Oak & Monkey Puzzle come to life. It began as a derelict old homestead and tree stumps, and blackberries, and over time it became something far greater than I imagined—a home, a productive garden, and a place that brought people together. It became a hub for workshops, long-table events, and shared learning. What makes me most proud isn’t just what I created physically, but how it allowed others to feel nourished, inspired,and connected.
The second is what I’ve created here at Little Cottage on a Hill. Taking everything I learned on five acres and distilling it into just over 500 square metres was both a challenge and an exciting invitation. I wanted to prove that you don’t need scale to live well. This garden is as much about how I live as it is about what I grow. It’s a place where beauty and utility sit side by side—and being able to share that through writing, teaching, and everyday experience has been one of the most meaningful parts of my life.
And if I look ahead, I hope my next proudest moment will come with the release of my book in September 2026. It’s a big project—one that brings together decades of learning as a landscape architect, lifelong gardener, teacher, and mother. My hope is that it finds a place in every gardener’s library, no matter their level of experience.
A book that’s returned to—useful, generous, inspiring, and practical. Something equally at home on the potting bench or the bedside table. Something that not only inspires and shows what’s possible, but also how to begin. A book that helps people create gardens that are not only beautiful and abundant, but that truly support the way they want to live.
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.
→ 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Feijoas: A Hedge That Earns Its Keep
I can’t tell you how thrilled I was when I saw the first feijoas on the ground this week. Just a few, nestled into the gravel under my hedge. But that’s how you know—they fall when they’re ready. No guesswork. No squeezing or poking. Just a gentle drop and the most incredible scent wafting up when you lean in close.
This hedge of mine was planted about a year and a half ago—still only around a metre high—but it’s already started producing. Here, everything in the garden has to work hard, even the hedges. So when one starts gifting much-anticipated fruit like this, it literally stops me in my tracks.
It’s not just a productive hedge either—it’s one of the many design devices at work in my small garden. Eventually, when it reaches around 2 metres tall, it will do what I planted it to do: screen out the neighbouring rooftops that currently interrupt my line of sight to Daylesford’s rolling hills. That’s the goal. A living screen that brings fruit, privacy, softness, and structure all at once.
Even though I live right in town on a small block, this hedge will eventually create the ‘illusion’ that I’m tucked away in the country. That moment—afternoons on the verandah, cuppa in hand, hills stretching out beyond, and little-to-no sight of neighbouring rooftops—feels just within reach now. It’s these layered, multifunctional elements that I think make a garden sing.
I’ve always loved feijoas, eaten fresh, cut in half with the pulp scooped out with a spoon, but the turning point was a galette from Two Fold Bakehouse. I’ll never forget it. Roasted feijoas, still in their skins, paired with apple and wrapped in Alison’s sourdough pastry. It absolutely blew me away. I hadn’t tasted feijoas like that before—soft, perfumed, almost spiced without anything added. I literally haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
What Makes a Feijoa Worth Growing?
Feijoas are one of those trees that quietly pull their weight. Evergreen, drought-tolerant once established, fire-retardant (which matters out here), and fruiting at the tail-end of the season—just when the apples are finishing and the garden starts to exhale.
I first came across the idea of a ‘fedge’—a feijoa hedge—through the team at Milkwood. It stuck with me. The practicality of it. A windbreak that feeds you. Shelter for a veggie patch or a chicken run. Pollination support if you plant a few different varieties close together. And that slow daily shuffle when the fruit starts dropping—bending down, collecting them one by one. It’s the sort of rhythm I love.
They’re slow to start, but once they do, they don’t muck around. As Milkwood puts it: “When feijoas fruit, they really, really fruit.” You’ll have more than enough for fresh eating, sharing, and preserving.
A Few Tips From the Patch
Planting: If you’ve got room, plant more than one. Some are self-pollinating, but many need a mate to produce well. I have 7 in a row.
Spacing: 1.5 metres apart is ideal for a fedge. I was impatient and planted thema little closer for faster ‘filling-out’.
Flowering: The petals are edible—sweet and sherbet-like. We always try a few at the very start of the season in anticipation of what’s to come, but go easy if you want a proper fruit set - no flowers, means no fruit!
Harvesting: Don’t tug them off the tree. If they’re ready, they’ll fall. That’s your cue.
And if you’re wondering what to do with a glut—don’t peel them. Trust me. And trust Milkwood. Roast or stew them skins-on, jam them with fig and ginger, or try your hand at a fermented soda, syrup or shrub.
For the Love of Feijoas
There’s something about them that feels old-world and underappreciated. I’m always amazed how many people don’t know what they are. Or worse—grow them for hedging and don’t pick the fruit. It’s a quiet sort of abundance. The sort that asks for a bit of observation. A bit of seasonal noticing. Which suits me just fine.
Would I plant a feijoa hedge again? Absolutely. It’s not just about the fruit—it’s the feeling of walking out into the garden, finding something unexpected, and being reminded why you planted it in the first place. And for me, it’s also the promise of those uninterrupted views—when the feijoas finally meet the horizon and I feel like it’s just me and the hills.
And if anyone reading this has a galette-worthy feijoa recipe—or another way to roast them whole—I’d love to hear it.
Local Love: Two Fold Bakehouse
The galette that made me fall in love with roasted feijoas came from Two Fold Bakehouse—a small home bakery here in Daylesford that quietly does extraordinary things.
Two Fold bakes naturally leavened, organic loaves using stoneground flours and works with the seasons, letting what’s growing locally shape what’s baked. But their bread is about far more than bread—it’s about relationships. Farmers in wheat fields, millers milling, bakers folding, and community gathering. Their commitment to regenerative agriculture and a local grain economy is felt in every bite. I feel fortunate that I can call the super humble sourdough baker extraordinaire, Allison, a dear friend.
You can buy their bread via:
Thursday Bread (weekly) – order online for pick-up in Daylesford, Yandoit or Kyneton
Daylesford Sunday Railway Market – every second Sunday
Hepburn Wholefoods Collective – fresh loaves every Thursday from 3pm
Join her mailing list – to find her latest news and wholewheat sourdough baking workshops
I love what she stands for—and I’m endlessly inspired by what Allison creates.
Further Reading
I highly recommend Milkwood’s guide to feijoas—practical, generous, and full of the good kind of seasonal wisdom.
You may want to check out my related content below:
From Fumigation to Flavour: What Happens to Imported Garlic Before It Reaches You – Explore the journey of garlic before it makes it to your kitchen in this insightful blog post.
Fermenting Garlic: A Recipe for Resilience – Learn how fermenting garlic can enhance its flavour and shelf life, while building resilience in your kitchen.
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 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.
May in the Garden: Slowing Down, Tending What Matters
As May unfolds, the Little Cottage On A Hil garden here in Daylesford, Victoria, begins to slow. The light softens. The days shorten. There’s a quietness that settles in if you let yourself notice it.
This is a working month — not the fast, frantic kind of work that spring demands, but the steady, grounding kind. Clearing, planting, moving things to better places. Making the sorts of decisions that shape not just this season, but the ones to come.
It’s the last month of autumn… and it matters.
Across Every Australian Climate: The Quiet Work of May
No matter where you garden in Australia — cool mountains, dry inland plains, lush subtropical backyards — the rhythm in May is much the same. It’s a time to:
Plant trees, shrubs, climbers, and perennials while the soil still holds some warmth.
Lift and divide perennials that have outgrown their space, giving tired clumps a new lease on life.
Cut back spent berry canes and tidy deciduous shrubs.
Compost fallen leaves, layering them to feed the soil.
Sow cool-season green manures like broad beans, mustard, or vetch to build soil fertility.
Strengthen the structure of your garden: repair trellises, replace stakes, check tree ties before the winter winds arrive.
It’s not glamorous work. But it’s the work that sets up a garden to thrive quietly through winter and burst back with strength in spring.
May by Australian Climate Zone: Knowing What to Lean Into
Every garden carries its own micro-season, but May still offers some broad guideposts depending where you are.
Cool and Alpine Climates
(Think Canberra, Hobart, and the high country)
Frosts are on their way, and the coldest places may even have had one already.
Sow hardy greens like rocket, spinach, and broad beans.
Start lifting parsnips now — a brush with frost only makes them sweeter.
Divide rhubarb crowns while the soil is still workable.
Temperate Climates
(Think Melbourne, Adelaide, Perth)
Rain is more frequent now, especially in Perth and Adelaide.
It’s a good month to sow peas, snow peas, rocket, mizuna, lettuce, and broad beans.
Plant garlic, shallots, and strawberries if you haven’t already.
Begin winter pruning on fruit trees and ornamentals once the leaves have fallen and the garden’s skeleton is easier to read.
Subtropical Climates
(Think Brisbane, Northern NSW)
May is generous here — mild, sunny, forgiving. (Hopefully, the rains are giving you some sort of reprieve!)
Sow beetroot, carrots, broccoli, fennel, onions, silverbeet, and snow peas.
It’s also the right time to plant garlic, shallots, and strawberry runners.
Keep an eye on citrus for signs of gall wasp — this is the moment to get on top of it.
Tropical Climates
(Think Darwin, Far North Queensland)
May marks the beginning of the dry — warm days, little humidity, few storms.
Ideal for sowing beans, cucumbers, capsicum, chillies, basil, and coriander.
Keep the soil covered and shaded. Mulching becomes essential as the dry season sets in.
Arid Climates
(Think Alice Springs, inland WA and SA)
Crisp mornings, warm sun, and cooling soil.
Garlic, peas, broad beans, spinach, silverbeet, and onions all go in now.
Compost and mulch whatever you can — every scrap of organic matter counts in these landscapes.
What May Teaches Us
May in Australia reminds me that gardens aren’t built on grand gestures. They’re shaped through small, consistent actions. Quiet choices. A bit of lifting and transplanting. A handful of seeds tucked into soft soil. Noticing what needs shifting — and having the patience to do it.
This month, I’ll be spending time clearing out the last of summer’s tangle at Little Cottage on a Hill, moving a few perennials that have outgrown their place, and quietly preparing the beds for winter crops.
It’s not about racing toward an end. It’s about tending what’s here — and trusting that the work of today will unfold, quietly and generously, in its own time.
You may want to check out my related content below:
What to Plant in April: A Regional Autumn Guide for Australian Gardeners– Learn how to make the most of April’s golden gardening moment by sowing for the season ahead, no matter your climate.
Growing Pumpkins Up: Maximising Small Spaces for a Thriving Productive Garden – Learn how to maximise small for a Thriving Productive Garden.
Growing Zucchini: Space-Saving and Pollination Tips for an Abundant Harvest – Learn how to maximise space and boost pollination for a bountiful zucchini crop in your garden.
The Joy of Growing Strawberries: A Journey Through Every Climate – Explore how to successfully grow strawberries in different climates and enjoy a sweet, seasonal harvest.
Watering Deeply: The Key to Thriving, Resilient Plants – Watch my Instagram reel for tips on how deep watering helps your plants grow stronger with deeper roots.
Growing Soil: The Foundation to Vibrant Gardens and Nutrient-Dense Plants – Dive into my blog post where I explore how healthy soil is essential for supporting vibrant, thriving plants.
Want more seasonal garden guidance and behind-the-scenes updates?
→ 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.
Wishing you slow days and small victories in your garden this May.
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.
Gardening Australia – The Response That Took My Breath Away
Well, gosh, I am blown away!
What an incredible response to last weekend’s feature on Gardening Australia. It was such an honour to share my story on the My Garden Path segment—an opportunity to reflect on this journey, the lessons learned, and what defines for me a life well lived.
Since it aired, my inbox has been overflowing with the kindest messages. So many comments, DMs, and emails of support. People have even stopped me in the street to say how much they enjoyed it. (Side note: If you do bump into me and I look a little awkward or laugh nervously, it’s because—maybe surprisingly—I’m actually an introvert! I love these conversations, but I’m not sure I’ll ever acclimatise to the attention.) Please know, though, that it means the world to me when you take the time to say hello, introduce yourself, or share your own story. Knowing that what I do resonates with others—that it sparks something in this crazy world—makes my day. More on that another time…
And then there are another 1000+ of you lovely humans who have found me for the first time since the episode aired! It’s truly wonderful to have you here.
A Space for Sharing, Learning, and Living Well
My hope for this space—whether you’ve been following along for years or have just arrived—is that it becomes a place where I can share the journey, skills, and knowledge I’ve built over a lifetime.
The past 12 years have been a lesson in what it really means to live well. Moving to the country, creating Oak & Monkey Puzzle—an idyllic, internationally recognised garden—navigating a pandemic, and now settling into my next chapter on a small block in Daylesford, squeezing in the very best of those country life lessons. Along the way, I’ve learned that true success has nothing to do with material things. Instead, it’s about the richness of experience, the rhythm of the seasons, and the deep contentment found in tending the land and sharing what I love.
I’ve grown more comfortable in my own skin. I’ve come to understand what an incredible gift it is to be called to the land, to plunge my hands into the soil, to create spaces that nourish both people and place. I’ve found the greatest joy in collaboration, conversation, and sharing knowledge—in those simple moments that remind me I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. The making of spaces. The passing on of skills. The quiet but profound reminder that what I do matters.
For those of you who are new here—welcome. It’s so so good to have you here. Please do reach out, say hello, and let me know what brought you here.
And if you didn’t get a chance to catch the full Gardening Australia episode, I’ve popped it right here for you to watch.
You may want to check my related content below:
Designing Gardens For All Seasons – Explore how to create a garden that evolves beautifully throughout the year.
My Favourite Ornamental Grasses: Movement, Texture, and Year-Round Interest – Discover how ornamental grasses like Miscanthus, Panicum, and Calamagrostis bring dynamic beauty to your garden through all seasons.
Explore my workshops:
~ Garden Design with Natasha Morgan – Craft a garden that balances structure, beauty, and functionality.
~ The Productive Garden with Natasha Morgan – Learn how to grow abundantly, no matter your space.
~ The Wicking Bed Garden with Natasha Morgan – Build a self-watering, water-wise garden for effortless growing.
~ Preserving The Seasons with Natasha Morgan – Capture seasonal flavours with time-honoured preserving techniques.
~ Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping with Saffron and Natasha – Learn how to raise happy, healthy chickens at home.
With gratitude,
Natasha x
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.
Solitude and Connection Through Gardens
There is a quiet presence in a garden. The kind that is felt rather than seen—the rustle of leaves shifting in the breeze, the hum of pollinators moving from bloom to bloom, the slow exhale of the earth after rain. To stand within it, hands in the soil, is to be held by something larger than oneself.
People often think of gardening as a solitary act, but I have never found myself alone in a garden. Whether in the sprawling expanse of Oak & Monkey Puzzle or the intimate confines of Little Cottage On A Hill, I have always been surrounded—by the unseen networks beneath my feet, the birds and insects that move through the landscape, and the shifting rhythms of the seasons.
Gardening is an act of connection. It is a dialogue, a conversation without words. The soil responds to our touch, plants lean towards our care, and in return, we are nourished—not just with food but with something deeper, something instinctive. When we nurture and nourish the earth, we nourish and nurture ourselves.
Part of Something Greater
Humans are not separate from nature. We are not visitors or caretakers—we are participants. There is no ‘other’ when it comes to the land; we are woven into its fabric, as much a part of the cycle as the rain that feeds the roots or the fungi that thread through the earth.
This is why a garden, no matter how small, holds such power. It is a reflection of this interconnectedness, a reminder that every action ripples outward. A seed planted is not just the beginning of a plant—it is a commitment, an agreement between you and the land. You tend to it, and in return, it sustains you, offering beauty, nourishment, and a place to rest.
The Solitude of Gardening
There is a certain solitude in gardening, but it is not loneliness. It is the kind that allows you to slow down, to listen, to be fully present. The kind that quiets the noise of the world and makes space for something deeper—intuition, instinct, knowing.
I often find myself alone in the garden as the day draws to a close, the golden light casting long shadows, the air cooling after the heat of the afternoon. These are the moments that shape me, that ground me. The hum of bees still lingers in the air, weaving between the last blooms of the day, and the earth, warmed by the sun, releases its scent. There is no rush, no expectation—only the quiet rhythm of my breath and the land settling into the night.
Gardens as Places of Connection
For all the solitude a garden offers, it is also where I have built some of my strongest connections. A garden is a gathering place—where hands come together to plant and harvest, where stories are shared over a basket of just-picked produce, where skills and knowledge are passed from one generation to the next.
At Oak & Monkey Puzzle, this was at the heart of everything I created—a space where people could come together to learn, to share, to build something greater than themselves. At Little Cottage On A Hill, this spirit continues, in the small acts of tending and growing, in the workshops where hands meet soil, in the quiet moments where a garden teaches more than words ever could.
A Reflection of Life Itself
A garden is never just a collection of plants. It is a reflection of the seasons, of time passing, of growth and renewal. It mirrors our own lives—the stillness and the storms, the moments of dormancy and the bursts of abundance.
To be in a garden is to be reminded of this. To know that we are part of something far greater than ourselves. That in tending the earth, we are tending to our own well-being. That in seeking solitude, we find connection.
And so, when I wander the garden in the evening light, I do so knowing that I am never alone. The land, the seasons, the unseen rhythms of life—they are all there, waiting, reminding me that I belong.
Would you like to cultivate a deeper connection with your garden?
Explore my workshops, where we bring hands to soil and stories to life.
Natasha xx
Follow along on Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, YouTube, or visit my website for more insights into gardening, sustainable living, and the quiet magic of growing.
Visit Bar Midland: www.barmidland.com
The Hands That Grow and Cook: A Visit to Bar Midland’s Productive Garden
Bar Midland: A Testament to Sustainability, Provenance, and the Beauty of Productive Gardens
There is something undeniably special about walking through a garden where food is grown with intention—where each leaf, each root, each flower is nurtured not just for sustenance, but as part of a philosophy that honours the land, the seasons, and the act of growing itself. This is precisely what I experienced when I visited Bar Midland’s chef, Alex Marano, and his garden in Chewton, where much of the produce for the restaurant is cultivated.
Nestled in the heart of Castlemaine, Bar Midland is more than just a restaurant—it’s a living, breathing expression of sustainability, provenance, and a deep commitment to the land. Every dish that graces the tables at Bar Midland tells a story of its origins, its growers, and the careful stewardship that ensures its quality. Their approach to food is one that resonates deeply with my own beliefs about productive gardens and living well.
The Chewton Garden: Growing with Purpose
Chef Alex and his wife Dani have created a garden that is more than a source of produce—it is a reflection of their values. Here, the food is grown without chemicals, guided by organic and regenerative practices that enrich the soil and support biodiversity. This thoughtful, hands-on approach ensures that the ingredients used in Bar Midland’s kitchen are fresh, flavourful, and inherently connected to place.
Walking through their garden, I was reminded of why I champion productive gardens—not just as spaces to cultivate food, but as living ecosystems that sustain us, both physically and emotionally. A truly productive garden is not simply about yield; it is about working in symbiosis with nature, creating balance, and fostering abundance in a way that is restorative rather than extractive.
A Menu that Celebrates Provenance
Bar Midland’s menu is a reflection of the rich landscape of Victoria. They celebrate ingredients that are indigenous to this land, as well as introduced species that have become part of our culinary fabric. Their ethos extends beyond traditional farm-to-table concepts, embracing regenerative agriculture, foraged ingredients, and wild foods. Even the wine list is carefully curated to showcase the best of Victorian growers and makers, reinforcing their hyper-local approach.
One remarkable example of their commitment to provenance is Alex’s approach to sugar. Given that sugar is not commercially grown in Victoria, he has taken it upon himself to grow sugar beets and produce his own sweetener. This resourcefulness ensures that even the most fundamental ingredients align with Bar Midland’s ethos of sourcing and creating everything as locally as possible.
This philosophy speaks to the power of provenance—of knowing where our food comes from and valuing the hands that grow it. It is an approach that echoes through my own work with productive gardens and preserving, where every decision is guided by an appreciation for the land and the rhythms of the seasons.
Sustainability as a Way of Life
Sustainability is often discussed in the context of food, but at Bar Midland, it is embedded in every aspect of their operations. From their relationships with local farmers and producers to their commitment to minimising waste, sustainability is not a marketing buzzword—it is a way of life. They honour the traditional custodians of the land, the Jaara Jaara people of Dja Dja Wurrung Country, and work in a way that respects and uplifts the land’s natural cycles.
This is the essence of true sustainability—not just growing food responsibly, but considering how each choice impacts the broader landscape. It is about connection, stewardship, and a genuine respect for the intricate web of life that supports us.
Overcoming Challenges: Managing Kikuyu Grass Organically
One of the greatest challenges Alex has faced in establishing his garden is the relentless spread of kikuyu grass. Given his commitment to organic practices and his refusal to use chemical sprays, he has developed a strategic three-year plan to eradicate this invasive weed. The process begins with laying down plastic sheeting, which is then covered with mulch, effectively smothering the kikuyu over time.
In the meantime, much of his produce is grown in large above-ground garden beds and pots, allowing him to cultivate a diverse range of vegetables and herbs without interference from the encroaching grass. This approach is a testament to the fact that constraints often create opportunities. His efforts demonstrate that if a restaurant can successfully grow its own produce in pots and raised garden beds, then anyone—regardless of space limitations—can cultivate something meaningful, whether on a balcony, in a courtyard, or within a small backyard.
Living Well Through Connection to Land and Food
Visiting Alex’s garden and experiencing Bar Midland’s approach to food reaffirmed my belief that living well is deeply tied to our connection with the land. When we grow, harvest, cook, and eat with mindfulness, we nourish more than just our bodies—we cultivate a way of life that is fulfilling, rooted, and sustainable.
Bar Midland is a shining example of what is possible when food is treated as more than a commodity. It is a place where every ingredient has a story, where sustainability and provenance are woven into each dish, and where the act of dining becomes an experience of connection—to the land, to the growers, and to the community.
In many ways, their approach mirrors my own ethos with productive gardens—creating beauty and abundance in a way that is thoughtful, intentional, and always in symbiosis with nature. It is a reminder that good food is not just about taste, but about the journey it takes to reach our plates, and the values that shape its path.
If you’re passionate about sustainable gardening, provenance, and the beauty of growing your own food, explore my workshops and resources. Join me in cultivating a life that is abundant, connected, and in tune with the rhythms of nature.
Explore my workshops:
~ Garden Design with Natasha Morgan – Craft a garden that balances structure, beauty, and functionality.
~ The Productive Garden with Natasha Morgan – Learn how to grow abundantly, no matter your space.
~ The Wicking Bed Garden with Natasha Morgan – Build a self-watering, water-wise garden for effortless growing.
~ Preserving The Seasons with Natasha Morgan – Capture seasonal flavours with time-honoured preserving techniques.
~ Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping with Saffron and Natasha – Learn how to raise happy, healthy chickens at home.
Follow along on Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, and YouTube | Subscribe to my newsletter
Thanks so much for following along—I love sharing this journey with you.
Natasha xx
Growing Soil: The Foundation to Vibrant Gardens and Nutrient-Dense Plants
When it comes to gardening, there’s a prevailing mindset that plants are the focus—after all, they’re the ones that bear the flowers, fruit, and greenery we cherish. However, over the years, I’ve come to realise that the true key to a thriving garden lies not in the plants themselves, but in the soil beneath them. Healthy soil is the silent partner in every garden’s success, providing the essential foundation for plant health, nutrient density, and overall garden vitality. The message I always share with fellow gardeners is this: feed the soil, not the plants.
The philosophy of growing soil might seem a bit backwards at first, but it is through nurturing the soil that we ultimately provide plants with everything they need to flourish. Think of the soil as the heart of the garden—rich in essential nutrients, diverse microorganisms, and the structure required to support healthy plant growth. In the same way that we must care for our own health to feel and perform our best, soil health is integral to a garden’s success.
The Backbone of Soil Health: Structure and Beneficial Microorganisms
A healthy garden starts with healthy soil. The structure of the soil dictates how well water, air, and nutrients are retained and made available to plants. It’s not just about the nutrients that exist in the soil, but also the way those nutrients interact with the roots. Soil rich in organic matter provides a more balanced and thriving environment for plant roots to access minerals, water, and air.
The richness of soil goes far beyond its mineral content. Beneath the surface, a vibrant community of beneficial microorganisms such as fungi, bacteria, and earthworms work tirelessly to break down organic matter, making nutrients available to plants in a natural and sustainable way. These microorganisms also enhance soil structure, improve water retention, and boost plant resilience. In fact, many plants are able to access the nutrients they need only because of the interaction between their roots and these beneficial organisms.
The concept of growing soil essentially means fostering this community of life—encouraging the soil’s microbiome to thrive, which in turn supports the plants. This approach is central to the notion that we must feed the soil, not the plants. When you focus on soil health, you’re not just adding fertiliser to make plants grow faster; you’re creating an ecosystem where plants can take up nutrients as nature intended, resulting in healthier, more nutrient-dense produce.
Why Soil Health Matters: A Holistic Approach to Gardening
Soil health affects everything—from the growth of plants to the flavour of your vegetables. If your soil is well-nourished and full of life, your plants will thrive without the need for synthetic chemicals or constant fertilisation. Nutrient density, particularly in food crops, directly correlates with the health of the soil. If the soil lacks the proper minerals and microorganisms, plants struggle to absorb nutrients, and the result is less flavourful and less nutritious produce.
A good example of this is the way we see our food garden versus ornamental or lawn-based gardens. While all gardens benefit from good soil, vegetable gardens—where you’re looking to maximise yield and nutrient density—particularly rely on the richness of the soil to deliver the nutrition you need from your harvest. The more diverse and active the soil ecosystem, the better the flavour, the more vibrant the colours, and the higher the nutritional content.
How to Grow Soil
There are a number of practices I follow to build and maintain healthy soil in the garden, ensuring it remains the foundation for plant growth.
One of the simplest and most effective methods is the no-dig approach, which aligns perfectly with my philosophy of minimal disruption. Digging and tilling can harm the soil’s delicate structure, disrupt beneficial organisms, and lead to erosion and compaction over time. No-dig gardening allows the soil’s ecosystem to flourish undisturbed, creating a healthy, living environment for plants.
In a no-dig garden, organic matter such as compost, mulch, or even lawn clippings are added to the top of the soil, where they break down slowly, feeding the microorganisms and enriching the soil with vital nutrients.
Over time, these additions form a fertile layer that not only nurtures plant life but also improves water retention and prevents soil erosion. This method also saves time and energy while giving you more space to focus on growing your garden’s beauty and abundance.
Another crucial practice in growing soil is crop rotation, which helps prevent soil depletion. By rotating what you grow in different areas each year, you prevent any one set of nutrients from being overused and ensure that your soil remains balanced. Including deep-rooted plants like legumes (peas and beans) can also help to fix nitrogen in the soil, while other crops will absorb different minerals, keeping the soil in good health.
If you want to further enhance soil health, consider planting green manure crops. Varieties such as clover, mustard, or fava beans are ideal for enriching the soil by adding organic matter and nutrients, particularly nitrogen. These fast-growing plants are typically cut down before they flower and can be left to decompose on the surface, where they slowly break down and return vital nutrients to the soil. This natural process not only boosts fertility but also improves soil structure, enhancing water retention and aeration. Green manure crops help increase microbial activity and add valuable organic matter, supporting a healthy, balanced soil ecosystem that benefits plant growth for the long term. It’s a technique I’ve had huge success with when it comes to promoting good soil structure, especially in heavy soils.
A Sustainable Approach to Soil
Ultimately, soil is the unsung hero of every successful garden. By understanding that it is the soil we’re growing, not just the plants, we tap into a much more sustainable and rewarding approach to gardening.
Matthew Evans, in his book Soil, strongly advocates for seeing soil as a living, dynamic system that needs to be nurtured with organic matter, minimal disturbance, and biodiversity. His philosophy encourages gardeners to grow their soil first, which will naturally lead to healthy, thriving plants and a more sustainable gardening practice. For further insight into Evans’ approach, his book Soil is an excellent resource.
By shifting our focus to nourishing the soil—through practices such as no-dig gardening, crop rotation, composting, and cover cropping—we create a lasting, fertile foundation that will support vibrant, nutrient-dense plants for years to come. Soil health isn’t just about feeding plants; it’s about fostering a thriving ecosystem that supports life, enriches the environment, and ultimately helps you grow a healthier, more resilient garden.
Take a moment to pause, observe, and appreciate the incredible life happening beneath your feet. In doing so, you’ll begin to understand the profound impact that soil health has on your garden’s success. After all, a garden begins with the soil—and so does its true potential.
Further Reading and Resources
• Matthew Evans’ Soil - An in-depth exploration of soil health, its role in sustainable gardening, and practical advice on building vibrant, living soil ecosystems.
• YouTube Video: “Growing and Nurturing Soil Health” - Watch Matthew Evans’ conversation with Nick Ritar of Milkwood that further delves into the importance of soil health for creating sustainable, thriving gardens. Watch it here.
Growing Zucchini: Space-Saving and Pollination Tips for an Abundant Harvest
Zucchini are a joy to grow, but let’s be honest—they can be space-hungry plants! This morning, as I harvested a mix of Zucchini ‘Nitro’ (green) and ‘Goldy’ (yellow), grown from seeds by the brilliant team at Lambley Nursery, I reflected on the tips and tricks I’ve learnt over the years to grow zucchini successfully without letting them overrun the garden.
If you’ve been struggling with space constraints or are noticing issues with fruit development, this guide is for you. Whether you’re working with a sprawling veggie patch or a modest raised bed, these tips will help you cultivate an abundant, healthy crop of zucchini.
1. Prepare the Soil for Success
Zucchini thrive in a sunny spot with rich, well-draining soil. They’re heavy feeders, so taking the time to enrich their growing area with plenty of compost and aged manure will reward you with lush, productive plants.
In my cool temperate climate here at Little Cottage on a Hill, zucchini can be planted between September and January. Aim to space plants about a metre apart if you’re growing them traditionally.
2. Save Space with Vertical Growing
One of the best lessons I’ve learned is to encourage zucchini to grow vertically. By staking plants or training them to trail over the edges of raised beds, you can save precious garden space and improve airflow around the leaves. This not only keeps your garden looking tidy but also helps reduce the risk of powdery mildew—a common problem during warm, humid summers.
I use sturdy bamboo or hardwood stakes, securing the stems gently with elastic ties as they grow. If you’re using raised beds, consider planting near the edges and allowing the plants to cascade over the sides. It’s a simple change that can make a huge difference.
3. Harvest Regularly for Continuous Yields
Zucchini are most tender and flavourful when picked young. Regular harvesting not only ensures you’re enjoying them at their best but also encourages the plants to produce more flowers and fruit.
During peak season, I make it a habit to check my plants every couple of days. It’s incredible how quickly zucchini can grow—leave them too long, and they’ll transform from petite and perfect to oversized marrows in no time!
4. Water Wisely
Consistent, deep watering is key to growing healthy zucchini plants. Water at the base of the plant to encourage deep root growth and avoid wetting the leaves, as this can exacerbate mildew problems.
During the hottest parts of summer, I water early in the morning or late in the evening, ensuring the soil is evenly moist but not waterlogged. Mulching around the base of the plants can help retain moisture and keep weeds at bay.
5. Address Pollination Problems
If your zucchini are starting to form but the ends are rotting before they mature, the issue is likely poor pollination. Zucchini plants produce both male and female flowers, and for fruit to develop, the pollen needs to be transferred between them.
If you’re not seeing many bees around, don’t despair—you can hand-pollinate. Early in the morning, pick a male flower (it has a straight stem), remove the petals, and gently brush the pollen onto the centre of a female flower (the one with a small swelling at the base). It’s a simple process and one that can make all the difference to your harvest.
What’s Your Experience with Growing Zucchini?
Zucchini are a staple in my summer garden, not only for their abundance but also for their versatility in the kitchen. From quick sautés to homemade pickles, they’re a reminder of why I garden in the first place—to enjoy fresh, seasonal produce straight from the soil.
Have you tried growing zucchini in your garden? I’d love to hear your tips, tricks, and challenges in the comments below. Let’s continue to share and grow together.
The Beauty of Diverse Productive Gardens: Finding Inspiration in Every Space
The morning light streams through the summer haze as I sit here, tea in hand, watching the bees buzz between the flowering herbs and vegetables. The garden is approaching its most abundant time now, with tomatoes ripening on their vines and zucchini seemingly doubling in size overnight. From a life of making productive gardens and my transition between Oak & Monkey Puzzle's sprawling 5 acres to Little Cottage on a Hill's intimate 515m², I've learnt that productive gardens come in all shapes and sizes, each with their own unique story to tell.
Nature has a way of teaching us that there's no one-size-fits-all approach to creating a productive garden. Each space holds its own magic, whether it's a tiny urban courtyard or a sprawling rural property. The potential for abundance is always there, if we learn to work with what we have - especially when the earth feels warm beneath our feet and the air is thick with the scent of ripening tomatoes.
Today, I want to share a round-up of inspiring productive gardens that form part of a ridiculously large collection of images in my Pinterest library (I am a serial collector of 'precedent images'). Each demonstrates the myriad of ways productive gardens can be designed and implemented and that with abundance there can be great beauty whilst meeting the needs of each context.
The Layered Garden
There's something magical about a garden that grows up as well as out. I love how climbing beans create living walls, their flowers drawing in buzzing bees while their leaves cast dancing shadows on the plants below. At Little Cottage on a Hill, these vertical spaces have become some of our most precious growing areas. On hot summer days, the layers of green create cool, sheltered spots where tender lettuces can thrive even as the temperature soars.
The Urban Oasis
It fills me with joy to see how creative gardeners become when space is limited. Some of the most inspiring productive gardens I've seen are tucked into the smallest corners of city life. Pots overflow with herbs, vertical walls burst with strawberries, and clever trellises transform bare walls into green havens. These spaces remind me that gardening isn't about the size of your plot - it's about working with what you have and finding beauty in the possibilities.
The Traditional Kitchen Garden
Perhaps it's the rhythm of repeated plantings or the satisfaction of neat rows bursting with life, but there's something deeply grounding about a traditional kitchen garden. Right now, ours is a symphony of summer abundance - tomatoes reaching for the sky, basil perfuming the air, and zucchini flowers opening to greet the morning sun. Between these ordered rows, nature adds her own touch - self-seeded flowers pop up in unexpected places, creating moments of surprise and delight.
The Orchard Garden
Orchards are, for me, special landscape spaces. At Oak & Monkey Puzzle, the fruit trees created their own rhythm through the seasons, from spring blossoms to summer's abundance. The skills I learnt in trying out espaliering was a particular joy - watching fruit trees trained along wires transform a simple fence line into a productive, living wall. Now at Little Cottage on a Hill, we're creating our own espalier orchard along the north-facing fenceline, proving that even in a small space, we can work with nature to create beautiful, productive boundaries. On hot summer days, I'm especially grateful for the dappled shade fruit trees cast, creating perfect spots for both plants and people to gather.
Lessons from an Ever-Evolving Garden
What I've learnt through my own journey is that productive gardens are truly "open works" - they're never finished, always evolving through seasons and years. Right now, they're teaching me about resilience, about adapting to heat and how to preserve precious water while still creating abundance. This is my driest summer in years, and now, being located in Daylesford, I’m learning about what that means in this location.
Growing Through Change: Productive Gardening for Every Space
As we continue to adapt to our changing climate and smaller spaces, these diverse approaches to productive gardening become increasingly valuable. They show us that whether we have acres or square metres, there's always room to grow, to learn, and to create beauty - even in the challenges of an Australian summer.
Want to learn more about creating your own productive garden? Join me for my upcoming workshop: Workshop with Natasha Morgan. Together, we'll explore how to transform your space, whatever its size, into a thriving productive garden that reflects your unique vision of living well.
I'd love to hear about your favourite productive gardens. What style speaks to you? Share your faves in the comments below —- It’s so good to know from others what inspires them too.
How to Grow Strawberries: A Guide for Every Climate
There’s something special about growing fruit that isn’t readily available at the grocer – varieties that are softer, richer in flavour, and simply not bred for commercial transport. Cambridge Rival is one of those rare treasures. With its soft, tender flesh and exceptional taste, this variety earned a remarkable 90/100 on the Diggers Club taste test – and it’s easy to see why.
In my garden, growing strawberries like Cambridge Rival is not just about the harvest but about reconnecting with what real food tastes like. Whether you garden in a cool climate or the warmer edges of the country, strawberries can be cultivated to suit every environment – with a little care and attention.
Here’s my guide to growing strawberries across Australia’s five climate zones so you, too, can savour fruit that money simply can’t buy.
Why Choose a Garden-Only Variety Like Cambridge Rival?
Commercial strawberries are bred to withstand transport, meaning they’re often firm, uniform, and robust – but flavour is secondary. Varieties like Cambridge Rival don’t make it to supermarket shelves because of their delicate, soft flesh. Instead, they thrive in home gardens, where fruit can be picked when perfectly ripe and enjoyed moments later.
It’s one of the simplest pleasures – and for me, it embodies living well.
Growing Strawberries Across Five Climate Types
Cool Climates
Cool climates provide the winter chill strawberries love and reward you with sweet, concentrated flavour.
Planting time: Late winter to early spring.
Tips: Mulch heavily in winter to protect crowns from frost and keep fruit off damp soil.
Care: Water regularly as the weather warms but avoid soggy conditions.
Temperate Climates
Perfectly balanced for strawberries, temperate zones allow plants to thrive with minimal fuss.
Planting time: Early spring or late autumn.
Tips: Add organic matter to improve the soil, and use straw mulch to retain moisture.
Care: Net plants to keep birds away as fruit ripens – the soft-fleshed berries are irresistible.
Warm Climates
Warm climates require extra attention to heat stress, but strawberries will flourish with care.
Planting time: Late autumn through to early winter.
Tips: Provide shade during extreme summer heat and mulch well to cool the roots.
Care: Water deeply in the morning and avoid wetting the leaves to prevent disease.
Subtropical Climates
Humidity is the biggest challenge here, but good airflow and spacing will set your plants up for success.
Planting time: Late autumn or early winter.
Tips: Choose raised beds or pots to improve drainage and airflow.
Care: Water consistently, and pick fruit early to avoid spoilage in humid conditions.
Arid Climates
In arid areas, the key to growing strawberries is keeping moisture consistent without waterlogging.
Planting time: Early autumn to establish plants before summer arrives.
Tips: Use pots or raised beds filled with well-draining soil. Position in morning sun and afternoon shade.
Care: A drip irrigation system works wonders, delivering water directly to the roots where it’s needed most.
Caring for Your Strawberry Patch
Regardless of climate, strawberries are wonderfully adaptable when given the basics:
Soil: Strawberries thrive in well-drained, slightly acidic soil (pH 5.5–6.5). Work in plenty of compost and aged manure before planting.
Sun: At least 6 hours of sunlight a day. In hotter climates, protect plants from harsh afternoon rays.
Feeding: Use an organic, potassium-rich fertiliser during flowering and fruiting to encourage sweet, plump berries.
Mulching: Straw mulch is essential for keeping fruit clean, retaining moisture, and preventing weeds.
Spacing: Give plants 30–40 cm of space to allow good airflow – it helps prevent fungal diseases.
The Joy of Soft-Fleshed Berries
One of the greatest joys of growing Cambridge Rival – or any non-commercial variety – is tasting fruit at its best. Soft-fleshed strawberries are bursting with flavour because they ripen fully on the plant, unlike their firmer supermarket counterparts, which are often picked early to travel long distances.
In your garden, you can:
Harvest ripe fruit daily during peak season.
Share the experience – nothing delights family or friends more than a handful of fresh-picked strawberries.
Preserve the surplus – their tender flesh makes the most exquisite jams, syrups, and desserts.
Small Spaces, Big Rewards
If space is limited, strawberries adapt beautifully to pots, hanging baskets, or vertical gardens. Containers let you manage soil quality and positioning, ensuring plants get the sunlight and protection they need. Place them on a sunny balcony or patio, and you’ll still enjoy a generous harvest.
The Reward of the Garden
Growing strawberries like Cambridge Rival is a quiet rebellion against the ordinary. These are berries you’ll never find in a plastic punnet – their delicate, soft flesh and extraordinary flavour are rewards only a gardener can enjoy.
Whether you’re in a cool, temperate, or subtropical climate, nurturing strawberries brings beauty, productivity, and the sweet satisfaction of something truly special.
So go on – plant your strawberries, tend them well, and savour each sun-warmed berry as if it were summer’s finest gift.
The joy of growing strawberries is not just in the harvest, but in reconnecting with the true taste of real, homegrown food.
The Root: Shoot Ratio – Why Bigger Isn’t Always Better
In the world of gardening, there’s a quiet but profound truth that often goes unnoticed amidst the allure of lush foliage and mature plants in oversized pots. It’s the relationship between a plant’s roots and its shoots, and why, when it comes to creating a thriving garden, bigger isn’t always better.
As someone who has spent decades immersed in the nuances of horticulture, I’ve learned that the root: shoot ratio—a plant’s balance between its underground root system and aboveground growth—plays a pivotal role in its health and performance. Let me share why I often favour the humble tubestock plant over its more advanced counterparts and why you might want to do the same.
Understanding the Root: Shoot Ratio
At its core, the root: shoot ratio is a measure of equilibrium. Roots anchor the plant, absorb water and nutrients, and store energy, while the shoots (leaves, stems, and flowers) drive photosynthesis, growth, and reproduction. A healthy balance ensures that a plant can sustain itself, particularly during stressors like drought, transplantation, or pest attacks.
When a plant’s foliage is disproportionately large compared to its root system—often the case with advanced plants in oversized pots—it struggles to support itself. The roots may be unable to uptake enough water and nutrients to fuel the demands of the canopy, leading to stress, slower growth, and reduced vigour.
The Hidden Strength of Tubestock
Buying a smaller, less-developed plant might seem counterintuitive, but tubestock has an inherent advantage. These younger plants typically have root systems proportionate to their size, allowing them to establish quickly when transplanted. Because they haven’t been restricted in oversized pots, their roots are less likely to be pot-bound or encircled, which can lead to long-term issues like girdling and poor nutrient uptake.
From my own experience, tubestock plants tend to “hit the ground running.” Their compact root systems adapt more readily to the garden soil, growing outwards to establish a strong, extensive network. This adaptability often means that within a season or two, tubestock plants outpace their larger, more mature counterparts, both in growth and resilience.
Why Tubestock Outgrows Potted Plants
I’ve come to appreciate the quiet magic of tubestock. These young plants, full of potential, adapt swiftly to the world beyond the nursery’s care. Unlike their older, potted counterparts, they haven’t lingered too long in comfort, tethered by roots bound tightly in circles. Instead, they are ready to stretch and grow, their roots eager to anchor deeply into the soil. It’s a gentle reminder that sometimes, less time in the safety of ideal conditions leads to greater strength and resilience in the wild beauty of a garden.
As illustrated in the the KES Community Nursery’s case study (images below), the difference between tubestock (right-hand images) and potted plants (left-hand images) becomes clear when you see their results. In February 2009, they planted three messmate gums at the nursery—two tubestock and one more mature tree in a 30cm pot.
Fast forward 20 months, and the results speak for themselves. The tubestock trees had grown to nearly double the height of the potted tree, as seen in their comparison photos. Against the fence railing, the striking contrast in growth rates highlights the advantage of starting with tubestock. Younger, adaptable plants establish faster and grow stronger than their older, pot-bound counterparts - those lacking the vital root-to-shoot ratio.
For more details and to see the comparison yourself, visit their page: KES Community Nursery.
30cm pot Tubestock
One week after planting.
Five months after planting.
Fourteen months after planting.
Twenty months after planting.
The nursery was hit by strong winds 2 years after planting. The tubestock plant performs considerably better.
Reference: (https://www.kes.org.au/nursery/tubes)
The Practical and Sustainable Choice
Opting for tubestock isn’t just better for plant health; it’s also a more sustainable choice. Smaller plants require fewer resources to grow and transport, making them a more environmentally friendly option. They’re often more economical, too—perfect for filling out larger garden spaces without breaking the budget.
A Personal Perspective
I vividly recall planting a windbreak at Oak and Monkey Puzzle using nothing more than a collection of small tube plants. The results were astonishing. Within a few years, the slender saplings had grown into a robust, thriving hedge, outpacing neighbouring advanced plantings. Witnessing the transformation reinforced my belief in the power of starting small.
Even now, at Little Cottage on a Hill, I often find myself reaching for tubestock to create layers of growth in my productive garden. Watching these small plants establish, flourish, and eventually take centre stage is a testament to their hidden strength and potential.
Tips for Success with Tubestock
1. Prepare the Soil: Loosen the planting area and enrich it with organic matter. A well-aerated, nutrient-rich soil gives roots the perfect start.
2. Water Wisely: Young roots need consistent moisture, but avoid waterlogging, which can cause rot. Drip irrigation systems are ideal.
3. Mulch Generously: Mulch helps retain soil moisture and regulate temperature, creating the perfect environment for roots to grow.
4. Patience is Key: While it might take a little longer to see the results you’re after, the long-term rewards are well worth the wait.
Rooted in this understanding…
Gardening teaches us that growth is not a race but a journey. By embracing the root:shoot ratio and the inherent vigour of smaller plants, we not only set our gardens up for success but also align with the rhythms of nature—working with the land rather than imposing upon it.
So next time you’re choosing plants for your garden, consider reaching for the tubestock. These unassuming little plants may just surprise you with their strength and vitality. After all, in gardening, as in life, it’s not about how big you start but how well you grow.
Landscape Lingo: The ‘Chelsea Chop’ and Ways to Have Plants Look Their Best
Gardening is a quiet dialogue with nature—a dance between allowing plants their wild freedom and offering a gentle hand when they need it. My sedums have taught me this over time. They’re endlessly generous, resilient companions in the garden, giving so much while asking for so little. But as their blooms swell and grow heavy, they sometimes sprawl outward, leaving a bare patch at their heart and encroaching on their neighbours. There’s charm in their natural sprawl, but in a garden that’s both my sanctuary and a living workshop space, a touch of refinement feels right.
It’s in these moments that the artistry of gardening reveals itself. Over generations, gardeners have discovered thoughtful ways to help plants present their best selves—not just for our pleasure but for their own health and vitality. Among these techniques is one cherished by horticulturists preparing for the Chelsea Flower Show: the celebrated ‘Chelsea Chop.’
The Chelsea Chop: Timing, Precision, and Beauty
The Chelsea Chop is a pruning technique as practical as it is poetic. Named for its timing—late May, coinciding with the Chelsea Flower Show—it involves cutting back herbaceous perennials like sedums by up to half their height. This clever intervention delays flowering, strengthens stems, and encourages a bushier, more compact growth. The result? Later blooms that stand tall and elegant, supported by sturdier frames.
I admire the elegance of this technique, its balance of science and intuition. But for my sedums, whose blooms are a signature of the garden’s display, I’ve chosen another approach. Instead of delaying their beauty, I’ve found a way to support it—a solution that feels as practical as it does poetic.
Crafting Support: A Gentle Hand for Garden Grace
Gardening, to me, is always a collaboration—a conversation between the garden’s wild instincts and the care I bring to its growth. For my sedums, the answer came in the form of handmade frames. Using leftover sections of reinforcing mesh, I crafted curved supports that hold their stems upright, celebrating their natural shape while keeping them from sprawling. With their rusted patina, these frames blend seamlessly into the garden, offering a kind of invisible grace.
This simple act—creating support rather than imposing control—feels deeply satisfying. It’s a reminder that gardening is as much about enhancing as it is about tending, about working with the plant’s nature rather than against it.
Finding Balance: Techniques to Prevent Flopping
While I’ve chosen bespoke frames for my sedums, there are so many ways to support plants with thoughtfulness and creativity. Each technique offers its own charm and practicality:
Staking: Bamboo canes tied with twine offer simple elegance for taller, singular stems like delphiniums or foxgloves, gently guiding them skyward.
Grow-Through Supports: Circular or grid-like frames, either crafted or ready-made, allow sprawling plants to grow with structure, naturally weaving through the support.
Cages: Early-season circular cages help encourage upright growth, perfect for plants that love to tumble outwards.
Twine Supports: A series of stakes connected by twine creates a rustic corral, offering a soft, intentional way to gather wayward stems.
Strategic Pruning: For plants like salvias or asters, trimming portions early encourages stronger stems and prevents legginess.
Creativity Meets Practicality
What I love most about these solutions is their blend of artistry and utility. Whether bending wire to shape a bespoke frame or carefully pruning for balance, each decision feels like a small act of creation. Gardening, after all, is a partnership. It’s about listening to the garden, understanding its needs, and crafting solutions that bring beauty and vitality into harmony.
A Place of Both Productivity and Respite
Gardening isn’t just about neatness or control; it’s about creating spaces that feel alive—balanced, welcoming, and abundant. Supporting plants, whether with a Chelsea Chop, a handmade frame, or a rustic twine corral, is a way of nurturing not just the garden but the spirit of the gardener too.
So, as you wander through your own garden, take a moment to notice the plants that might benefit from a little extra care. Imagine how a thoughtful touch—a frame, a stake, or a light pruning—might transform their growth. Each act of support is a gesture of connection, an invitation to collaborate with the natural world.
After all, even the smallest acts of care can help a garden thrive. And in those moments, as you tend to your plants, you might find that the garden is tending to you too.
“As we help a garden bloom, it gently teaches us the art of patience and presence.”
The Sunshine Secret: What Your Veggies Need
The Sunshine Secret: Illuminating Your Garden’s Potential
Every garden has its own story of light. The sun’s gentle dance across your space shapes where tomatoes thrive, where soft mosses carpet the earth, and where leafy greens find their sanctuary. Understanding this light—its patterns and rhythms—is one of the most transformative steps in gardening. It’s the language of nature, quietly guiding us toward creating spaces that flourish.
Decoding the Language of Light
When you start a garden, the words “full sun,” “part shade,” and “full shade” appear again and again, like clues to a puzzle. These aren’t just suggestions—they’re essential keys to knowing where each plant belongs.
Full Sun: These are the open, sun-soaked areas of your garden that bask in 6–8 hours of direct sunlight daily. They’re the perfect home for fruiting vegetables like tomatoes and zucchinis, Mediterranean herbs like rosemary, and bright flowers that revel in the light.
Part Shade: These spots receive 3–6 hours of sunlight, often in the cooler morning hours or filtered through leafy trees. They offer a balanced light, ideal for greens like spinach and lettuce or delicate blooms like hydrangeas and foxgloves.
Full Shade: With less than 3 hours of sunlight each day, these tranquil spaces are often tucked beneath trees or alongside buildings. They may seem like a challenge, but they’re the perfect canvas for shade-loving plants like ferns, hostas, and the understated beauty of hellebores.
Seeing the Light in Your Garden
When I first arrived at Little Cottage on a Hill, I spent hours simply watching the sun move across the garden. There’s a quiet joy in discovering how sunlight touches your space—it’s like getting to know a dear friend. Here’s how you can begin:
Sketch Your Space: Start with a simple map of your garden. Throughout the day, observe where the light falls and make notes. In the morning, trace the golden pools of sunlight, and as the day progresses, watch how shade stretches and shifts.
Seasonal Shifts: Remember, the sun’s angle changes with the seasons. A corner bathed in summer sunlight may rest in winter shadow. Take time to observe how these patterns evolve throughout the year.
Intuitive Tools: Your eyes and intuition are often the best guides, but if you want extra help, sunlight meters or garden apps can measure light levels for you.
Planting with Purpose
Understanding your garden’s light is like finding its heartbeat. Once you know how the sun moves, you can plan with intention:
For Full Sun: Let these spaces glow with sun-hungry crops like capsicums, sunflowers, and melons. They’ll thrive in the warmth, but don’t forget to water often—these areas dry out quickly.
For Part Shade: Embrace soft, leafy greens, parsley, and shade-loving flowers. These plants will enjoy the gentler light and respite from the heat of the day.
For Full Shade: Turn these cool corners into lush retreats. Fill them with ferns, mosses, and hostas, creating pockets of peace and texture.
Visualising Your Garden’s Light
To make sense of these patterns, visual aids can be invaluable. I love drawing simple sun maps of my garden, noting the changing light throughout the day. Photographs taken at different times can also help capture how light and shadow dance across your space.
Another simple trick is to use markers—small stones or flags placed where different light levels fall. These little guides can help you visualise which plants will feel most at home in each corner of your garden.
A Reflection on Light
For me, sunlight is more than a practical element—it’s a mindful teacher. Watching it move through the garden slows me down, reminds me to pause, and connects me to the rhythms of the earth. Every garden is unique, and the way sunlight touches yours will shape its soul.
Take some time this week to observe your garden’s light. Sketch a map, dream about what you’ll plant, and let the sun guide you as you create a garden that not only provides but also inspires.
Join Me to Discover the Light in Your Garden
If you’d like to explore how to work with light and space to create a garden that thrives, I’d love to invite you to my Garden Design workshop. Together, we’ll unlock the secrets of your garden, from understanding sunlight to crafting a space that’s as productive as it is beautiful.
Let’s spend a day planning, dreaming, and designing your perfect garden. You’ll leave with practical tools, creative inspiration, and the confidence to bring your vision to life. Visit Garden Design Workshop for details.
Because a garden shaped by the light is a garden filled with life.