A comfortable though long journey ended when I opened the car door into a sodden overhanging conifer; it wasn’t the only time I’d get wet that afternoon. Rain was set in for the day, and would only pause occasionally to catch its breath. For the first time in months I was back in my raincoat, with my faded gardening hat ready for action too.

The garden with its new gardener was the focus for the afternoon, and aside from a decorator darting swiftly in paint splashed dungarees from van to the house and back, all that could be heard was the rain. Water poured from the heavy sky glossing over the old flagstones paving the Manor House front, and streamed from the old lead downpipes into mossy drains. We decided to start the afternoon with some steaming black coffee in the gardener’s kitchen.

Chatting whilst watching the weather through an open door, all that we could see was an enclosed courtyard, but in no time at all the raising light level lifted our spirits. We moved out swiftly and through the arch into the damp grey garden, crunching across the gravelly drive towards an area in need of a plan.

On the way we perused empty borders, and some packed full of wet perennials just going over, then made footprints through sodden grass as we moved towards the once glorious garden. Pausing before shallow steps up

to some beautiful wrought iron gates, we were checked by two stone edged planting pockets, each before a large stone gate pier with an urn on top. Growing from the pockets were tall grasses standing guard like soldiers, although these soldiers had clearly exceeded their watch duty, both being more than ready for a change of guard. Mental notes were made.

Unlocking and pushing open the wet gates, we turned our attention to a courtyard garden not much bigger that a boxing ring with room for a few rows of seats around its edge. This space though, in complete contrast to a colourful fighting ring was green-themed with plants, heritage and character oozing from every nook and cranny. Aside from the wide gates where we stood, the garden was totally enclosed, its solid elements being of hefty time-worn stones, hand made bricks, stained oak window frames and pitted ironwork.

This charming garden was filled with features that, like the church bells next door struck just the right notes. Buildings on two sides were of course centuries-old and firmly anchored to their place, and their outdoor space, having clearly evolved from a tough farmyard beginning, was a protected space in every way. The handsome little enclosure I found myself in, however, needed work.

Skirting around its perimeter path, we looked over the space that once supported the tightest and most elegant box hedge parterre. Called the Knot Garden, its low hedges once twisted and curved and lined out the entire middle of the space, although was now reduced to a ghostly pattern of sticks, only a few sporting a leaf here and there; this parterre had been blighted, its day was done.

Chewing over the process that had been and that which lay ahead, we studied the space with our eyes on its future. We couldn’t take it back for blight had struck it down, but we could take it forward – we had to. The rain began to fall again, and heavily, even the old beech tree that overhung some of the garden failed to filter the flow, so we swiftly retreated to the dry room to pour over papers and images, and make our plans.

Before long we returned to the garden to carry on regardless, and continued to view the little garden from every window, doorway and corner. We each considered all of its angles, its sunny and shadowy spaces, and dug through the parterre path to find it was hardly a path at all. Options were opening for us.

We knew that a central point allowed the eyes to flow over the old parterre and through the iron gates, dropping gently down to a yew hedged walk and a large stone urn. Beyond that, any thoughts of an onward view terminated at a slender stone bench backed by a wall of yew. Although, as we looked on, a longer view did indeed appear, up over the hedge to a little summerhouse just beyond some trees; this garden had revealed a secret.

Hedge lines had grown out of line over the years and disguised the scene, planting beds had overflowed, topiary had over-matured and pendulous branches had obscured a view that once was, yet it was all still there. Even the lost parterre grew in stature as these details, despite the grey day, reappeared. The garden’s previously strong lines and structure had, as they do, simply veered off track.

We had seen the light though, as people say, and could visualise the path ahead. As we talked and paced and viewed, as we considered and created a plan organically formed. It would take time of course and a good deal of hard work was ahead, but the garden had shone through the gloom of that day as though it knew we were there to help, to repair its injuries and realign its bones.

That garden in its rural idyll deserves time and tender loving care, for it held, indeed it holds a very special power to delight, to awaken and to charm; like gardens do. That garden is unique, and it will thrive again; I know it, the gardener knows it, and everyone who passes through will soon enough see it for themselves, maybe clearer than before.

Gary Webb, Like Gardens Do, for Gardening Ways.