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 Morethe productive garden
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
Workshops are back. Gathering again for Spring.
The garden is waking.
The light stretches. You can feel that small lift in the morning air. After a winter of steady writing and cups of tea at the kitchen table, it feels right to open the gate and welcome you in again. Workshops are back for spring.
I pressed pause in autumn to give the book the focus it needed. It has become a very large work, shaped into three parts. The first two are already with the editor and I am close to finishing the last. It is the biggest undertaking I have made since working on The Australian Garden. Long days, early starts, a rhythm that asked a lot. The garden outside the window kept me honest through all of it. Returning to workshops brings me back into a room with you. Conversation. Companionship. Practice.
What we will explore together
Four workshops, one intention. To help you create a garden that is generous, beautiful and productive at any scale. You step into my working garden, into the way I test ideas in real time. The wins, the missteps, and the simple considerations that make a space sing.
Garden Design with Natasha Morgan
A clear framework for seeing and shaping your garden. We look at site analysis, axis and circulation, microclimates, rhythm and layering, and how to create structure that can carry productivity and beauty. We use tracing paper and fat texta markers, quick sketching, and the confidence that comes from testing ideas on paper before taking them into the garden. The first date has already filled, which is a lovely sign of the season ahead. There’s a few paces left for the second date.
The Productive Garden with Natasha Morgan
Growing abundance at any scale. We focus on the foundations of creating a truly productive garden, spatial thinking for small and larger gardens, vertical growing, soil and worm systems, espaliers, along with the simple seasonal tasks that keep things moving. Discover the inspiration behind my productive gardens, the tools and techniques to make places of beauty and abundance, grounded in sustainable and innovative practises. This is where beauty meets purpose through food, flowers, medicinals and ornamentals.
The Wicking Bed Garden with Natasha Morgan
Water wise design with real world application. I share my approach to building and maintaining wicking beds, including how I use an IBC cube at Little Cottage on a Hill, and how worms and worm tunnels are integrated to keep soil life thriving. I also show how a no dig approach can be held inside a wicking system so the bed keeps improving year after year.
The Medicinal Garden with Caroline Parker & Natasha Morgan
A gentle and inspiring, hands on morning in the garden. Caroline Parker of The Cottage Herbalist joins me at Little Cottage on a Hill to share the healing potential of plants and how to bring them into daily life with ease. Together we learn, observe, gather and make.
We will create three simple preparations to repeat at home with confidence. An immunity boosting botanical syrup. A soothing balm for gardeners. A bright weedy pesto or salsa from foraged botanicals. We will wander the beds to pick and smell, talk about harvesting and handling, then pause at the long table for morning tea. You leave with recipes, a clear method and a sense of how to fold plant medicine into everyday rhythm. It is productivity held with care. Plants that nourish, remedies you can make, and a daily rhythm that is gentle and useful.
How I teach and what you can expect
We begin with context so the garden in front of you makes sense. At Little Cottage on a Hill we walk and notice and talk through how things operate in real time. In Garden Design and The Productive Garden I also draw on my years at Oak and Monkey Puzzle to show how principles translate across scale.
Each workshop has its own rhythm, and the backbone is the same. Clarity, practice, and time together in the garden. Garden Design leans into design thinking and drawing. The Productive Garden keeps design present but light, focussing on soil, systems, structures and seasonal work. The Wicking Bed Garden stays close to practice. I share my tailored method, show how I have adapted it to my needs, and how it sits within the wider design of the garden.
People often tell me they leave feeling welcomed, inspired and confident to begin. Small groups make this generous, rich and rewarding. There is time for questions. We break for tea and cake. We learn together. The energy comes from the room as much as from the garden, and everyone goes home with more than they arrived with.
Spring is the right moment
Spring brings surge and promise. Buds swell. Soil warms. Compost hums. Seeds leap. It is a generous time to set direction. A plan on paper becomes a clear morning in the garden. A bed that is cut back and fed responds. A wicking bed that is topped up and tended holds steady through the first warm spell. The work is simple and rhythmic, and the garden answers back.
A personal note
Thank you for your patience while I have been deep in the book. It has asked a lot and it has given a lot in return. I am looking forward to being with you again. The quiet focus that lands when a group leans over a drawing. The moment in the garden when a simple change makes the whole space feel right.
Join a workshop
Explore current workshops in the shop.
If you are building your garden from home right now, my ebooks on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.
You may want to check out my related content below:
The Power of Noticing: How a Garden Wander Led Me to Morels – Explore the quiet magic of noticing the small wonders that grow in your garden.
Rooted in Reflection, Growing with Intention – Explore the intentionality behind creating a garden that serves both purpose and beauty.
If You Could Learn Anything From Me This Year, What Would It Be? – Discover what I’ve been reflecting on the workshops I’ve shared over the years—and dreaming into what might come next.
Stay connected
Follow along on Instagram, Facebook, Gardenstead, LinkedIn, Pinterest and YouTube, visit the website, and subscribe to the newsletter for seasonal updates.
Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx
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.
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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.
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Wishing you slow days and small victories in your garden this May.
Natasha xx
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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.
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.”
Creating Productive Gardens: Natasha Morgan’s Approach to Blending Beauty, Function, and Sustainability
In my years as a landscape architect, both large and small-scale projects have taught me that a garden can be so much more than just a space of beauty. It can serve a multitude of purposes, nourishing the body, connecting us with nature, and offering moments of mindfulness. My approach to creating productive gardens reflects this philosophy: a seamless blend of beauty, function, and sustainability that invites participation in the natural rhythms of life.
Little Cottage On A Hill, Daylesford
A Deep Connection with Nature
For me, a productive garden is more than just a source of sustenance; it is an active partnership with the landscape. It embodies a respect for the cycles of nature, encouraging us to grow what is suited to the soil, climate, and season. I believe that by working with nature, rather than imposing upon it, we can create gardens that are both abundant and sustainable.
Little Cottage On A Hill, Daylesford (As featured in Better Homes and Gardens Magazine - May 2024 issue)
Beauty and Function in Harmony
At the core of my garden design philosophy is the belief that beauty and function should never be mutually exclusive. Every element in the garden has a role to play. Whether it’s an espaliered fruit tree that defines the boundary while producing seasonal fruit, or a wicking bed that conserves water while adding sculptural interest to the landscape, I aim to create spaces where every element serves multiple purposes. It’s this careful balance of form and function that makes a garden truly inspiring.
The Wicking Bed Garden at Little Cottage on a Hill, Daylesford, uses repurposed and timber-clad IBCs (industrial-grade containers engineered for the mass handling, transport, and storage of liquids) and reinforcing mesh to create beautiful and water-wise wicking beds that not only nourish my productive crops but also save my back!
Sustainability as a Guiding Principle
Sustainability is integral to my approach. From Oak & Monkey Puzzle’s expensive five acres to the compact Little Cottage on a Hill, I’ve always prioritised environmentally conscious practices. This means using water wisely through techniques like wicking beds, encouraging biodiversity by planting for pollinators, and reusing materials wherever possible. These practices are not only good for the environment but also make the garden more resilient and self-sustaining.
Small Spaces, Big Impact
My latest project, Little Cottage on a Hill, is a testament to how even the smallest spaces can be highly productive and deeply rewarding. With only 515 square metres, I’ve reimagined the concept of a productive garden, demonstrating that with thoughtful design, small spaces can produce an abundance of food while remaining beautiful and inviting. From the verge gardens that provide seasonal vegetables, medicinal plants and herbs to the espaliered fruit trees that define the space, every square metre has been carefully considered to maximise both productivity and aesthetics.
Little Cottage on a Hill’s west-facing verge garden includes flowers and medicinal plants, maximising our wide verges on deep volcanic soils.
A Space to Live Well
A productive garden isn’t just about growing food—it’s about cultivating a space that allows for living well. It’s a space to slow down, observe the seasons, and find joy in the simple act of planting, harvesting, and preserving. For me, this mindfulness is just as important as the garden’s physical yield. It’s about creating a space that nourishes the body and the soul, offering a deeper connection to nature and to ourselves.
Little Cottage on a Hill’s north-facing verge garden includes flowers, herbs and vegetables maximising every horizontal and vertical surface.
Gardens are living, evolving spaces. They are places of beauty, function, and sustainability, where each season brings new challenges and rewards. My approach is always to create spaces that are not only visually pleasing but also deeply functional and environmentally mindful. Whether working on large-scale projects or intimate urban spaces, my goal remains the same: to inspire others to live well through the creation of beautiful, sustainable, and productive gardens.
From Oak & Monkey Puzzle to Little Cottage on a Hill: A Journey in Sustainable Living and Landscape Design
From Oak & Monkey Puzzle to Little Cottage on a Hill: A Journey in Sustainable Living and Landscape Design
My journey from Oak & Monkey Puzzle, a five-acre oasis of creativity and community, in Spargo Creek, to the intimate space of Little Cottage on a Hill, Daylesford, has been one of transformation and growth. Both properties, though vastly different in scale, have come to embody my evolving philosophy on sustainable living, community connection, and the role of landscape design in nurturing not only the land but also the spirit.
Oak & Monkey Puzzle: A Dream Realised
Oak & Monkey Puzzle was my first foray into creating a space that combined my love for landscape architecture, horticulture, and the beauty of country living. Situated on five acres in the Central Victorian Highlands, this property became much more than just a home. It was a hub where artisans, craftspeople, and creatives gathered to share their skills, collaborate, and inspire one another. The fertile soil and expansive landscape offered endless possibilities for growing, preserving, and teaching.
The property became an evolving hub that sparked dynamic conversations and fostered a deep sense of community. It was a place where creativity flourished, and I had the privilege of nurturing not just the land but also the relationships that grew around it. I learned to live with the seasons, appreciate the beauty of nature’s cycles, and understand the value of sharing these lessons with others.
Oak & Monkey Puzzle became a canvas for all my passions—a place where I could experiment with landscape design, host workshops, and foster a vibrant community. It was a richly layered experience, filled with lessons about what it means to live well, deeply rooted in the land.
The Shift to Little Cottage on a Hill
In 2022, after nearly a decade at Oak & Monkey Puzzle, I found myself reflecting on the lessons I had learned about sustainability, community, and the rhythms of country life. The global pandemic provided the space to reevaluate what was truly important to me. I started thinking about how, with a bit of creativity, beauty, and productivity, one could thrive in much smaller spaces. This shift in perspective led me to Little Cottage on a Hill, a 515-square-meter property nestled in the heart of Daylesford.
Little Cottage On A Hill (above 2022, below 2023)
Little Cottage on a Hill has been a joyful challenge—distilling the expansive, productive gardens of Oak & Monkey Puzzle into a small town block. With the constraints of space, I’ve had to rethink how every garden element could serve multiple purposes, maximising productivity while maintaining a sense of beauty and simplicity.
Reimagining the Productive Garden
The move to Little Cottage on a Hill wasn’t just about scaling down; it was about reimagining what a productive garden could be. Here, orchards have been transformed into espaliers along the boundary fences, verges have become abundant gardens, and the driveway doubles as a multifunctional courtyard. It’s an experiment in how little space one needs to create something that is both functional and beautiful.
By working within the limitations of a small space, I’ve come to appreciate the intricacies of thoughtful design all over again. Every element must work hard—be it the wicking beds that reduce water usage or the espaliered trees that provide both fruit and visual interest. This garden has become a prototype for sustainable living, showing that even the smallest spaces can be highly productive, environmentally conscious, and deeply rewarding.
A New Kind of Community
One of the most unexpected joys of Little Cottage on a Hill has been the connection it has fostered with the local community. The verge gardens, planted with flowers, seasonal vegetables, herbs, medicinal plants and espaliered fruit trees, have become a source of inspiration for neighbours and passersby. People stop to chat as I tend the garden, and in those moments, I’m reminded of the power of gardens to bring people together, even in an urban setting.
The sense of community that I cherished at Oak & Monkey Puzzle has continued to flourish here. It’s proof that beauty and connection can thrive in any environment, regardless of size.
Lessons Learned and Shared
The journey from Oak & Monkey Puzzle to Little Cottage on a Hill has been a lesson in adaptability, creativity, and the importance of living with the land. What I’ve learned through this transition is that a productive garden isn’t defined by its size but by the care and intention with which it is designed. Whether on five acres or 500 square meters, the principles of sustainability, beauty, and community remain the same.
As I continue to experiment with this new space, I’m excited to share the insights and tips I’ve gathered along the way. Little Cottage on a Hill is a living example of how anyone, with a little planning and imagination, can create a garden that nourishes both body and soul. It’s a reminder that no matter the scale, we can all start where we are, use what we have, and do what we can to live well.
Moving from Oak & Monkey Puzzle’s expansive rural property to the intimate yet vibrant Little Cottage on a Hill has reaffirmed my belief that beauty and productivity can flourish anywhere. It’s not about the size of the garden but the heart and intention behind it. Whether you’re working with acres of land or a small backyard, the principles of sustainable living, community connection, and thoughtful design can create spaces that are not only beautiful but deeply nourishing.
