ake a rambling red-brick farmhouse, nestling in gently rolling Norfolk countryside, and just add roses. On every weatherworn wall, over every gate and archway, roses climb, ramble and cascade, overflowing into borders and even the kitchen garden beds. Look for a moment longer, though, and there is a sense of something deeper at work here. As the sun rises over a parterre at the top of a garden carved out from former lambing fields, cushions of green and plum foliage – box, purple-leaved hebe and – and contrasting spires of foxglove and towering annual verbascum, soften this flamboyant show.
