Why Gardening Is The Best Therapy

Pamela Page is one of those supremely talented plantswomen who can knock together a lavender parterre and then pen an inspiring piece about gardening in almost the same breath. A self-taught landscape designer (as many of the best gardeners are), she and her husband purchased an 18th century farmhouse in southern Connecticut – which seems to be something of a hothouse for talented horticulturalists (Bunny Williams' famous garden is also in the same part of the country) – and then embarked on an ambitious plan to restore the property. Ten years later, she has created a spectacular space that is so productive, she often sells the excess produce out of the back of her Mercedes each week.

I love the fact that she's happy to use her Merc as a luxury mobile wheelbarrow, but what I love more is that she calls gardening "sexy". She also uses the words 'spiritual', 'whimsical', 'healthy', and 'fun'. I have to say, I like Ms Page. She sounds like a gardener to love.

Recently, I discovered a piece that Pamela wrote about gardening for the Huffington Post – which you can find here: Why I Garden. I was so moved by it, I thought I'd compile my own little list. I'm not as erudite as Pamela Page (far, far from it), but I still hope it inspires some of you to take up this wonderfully therapeutic activity at some stage of your lives.

WHY I GARDEN...

I garden because it's procrastination disguised as a spade. Plus, you can hide in a garden –whether with a digging fork or a good book – and no one will ever know you're there! But if you're cooking raspberry tarts in the kitchen or watching Oprah re-runs in the living room, you have no excuse for your pathetic lack of productivity.

I garden because it's cheap therapy. If I'm mad I can go out to the potager and stick a rake in a weed's heart. Or do something unmentionable to a slug.

I garden because it's great exercise. Pulling up weeds, shovelling soil or hauling bundles of leaves to the compost heap is almost as exhausting as doing a spin class.

I garden because – like a relationship – it takes effort, hard work and lots of love to reap rewards. It won't grow if you don't give it life.

I garden because there is nothing better than wandering out at twilight to pick some fresh rosemary for the roast lamb, or plucking a just-ripe lemon to slice for your evening G&T.

I garden because some of the loveliest people in the world are gardeners.

I garden because I like sticking up for the underdog. While some horticultural snobs prefer the posher produce – such as the Purple Podded Dutch thingamebob (apparently it's the Elle Macpherson of beans) – I'm happy to support the little fellas. Such as the good old-fashioned radish.

I garden because it is not for poseurs or pretentious souls. It doesn't matter whether you own a late-model Merc or a McLaren F1, whether you went to Harvard or the Sorbonne, or whether you wear head-to-toe Chanel or haute couture. If you can't grow a squash or some other simple thing, you're not going to last very long.

I garden because it's the only subject in the world where, no matter how much you learn, you will still never know it all. Even Rosemary Verey admitted she was still an amateur.

I garden to be surprised. A new-spring hyacinth one day. A perfect pink summer peony the next.

I garden because even the unwanted flowers are beautiful. (Japanese anemones grow like weeds where we live. But oh – what beautiful weeds they are!)

I garden because it's a living painting. And you get to be Monet for a day. (Or longer, if you're lucky.)

I garden to smell the scent of jasmine on a beautiful spring morning.

I garden because, even though I don't know the Latin names of plants ("what's that pink thingy called" is my oft-repeated phrase at our local nursery), and I often mispronounce names (Pittosporum is such a silly word anyway), the Latin Set still forgive me.

I garden in order to be enthralled by heirloom seeds. Such as Listada di Gandia. And Bohemian Pumpkins.

I garden because there are few things more entrancing than a hand-drawn garden plan.

I garden because a potting shed is one of the most magical places you will ever see.

I garden because it's humbling. Mother Nature is a wicked boss. You can spend a day preparing a lawn and then a heat wave will hit. You can spend a weekend planting an avenue of pears and then a disease will float in on some foul wind. And you can spend a month digging out a potager and planting all your beloved vegetables, only to find there's not enough sun in that spot to grow even a spinach leaf.

I garden because if you try being a little rebellious, it won't work. (For example, just try ignoring your mother's advice and growing that Japanese wisteria or Robinia Casque Rogue and see how much it overtakes the house.)

I garden because there is nothing more spectacular in the world, in my opinion, that the Chelsea Flower Show.

I garden because the rhythm of the seasons makes one aware of one's own mortality.

I garden because it nourishes the soul.

The Perfect Parisian Honeymoon...

Here's something strange. I've never been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I know! I can't believe it either. How could I have written 3 books about Paris and never looked out over the twinkling, shimmering skyline of Paris from the top of La Tour Eiffel?

I think I know the reason. All my life, I've waited for The Perfect Man to share it with. What a tragic cliché! Roll your eyes if you feel like it. I won't mind. For the same reason, I've never snatched a midnight kiss on the Pont Alexandre (above), nor boarded an old boat for a sentimental cuddle on the Seine, listening to an accordionist play the obligatory Piaf tune from behind. I've never done these things because I've never found The Right Person to do them with. I felt the Eiffel deserved someone special, you see. And as for a sexy kiss on the Alexandre Bridge? Well, it's not the kind of thing you can do alone. Not unless you wish to be arrested for Lewd Acts in Public Places.

So anyway, a few years ago I found The Perfect Man. Okay, Mostly Perfect. We were meant to have married last year but due to unforeseen circumstances (otherwise known as The Black Hole of 2011), the marital plans dissolved. It was probably a good thing. I didn't think I was quite ready to walk down the aisle for a third time. I know my first two weddings were with the same man, but it still feels a little Liz Taylor-ish for me. Besides, I've run out of dresses to wear. There are only so many Vogue patterns I can manage on my mother's Janome. {Gorgeous image of dress is from the great blog One and Only Paris Photography. Other images by me.}

So now we're dancing around an April elopement. (I say 'dancing', but I'm actually dragging my heels with the reticence of Julia Roberts. There are skid marks an inch deep along our deck.) As part of this engagement 'negotiation', I asked Mr Mostly Perfect if he'd consider going to Paris for a honeymoon? Well I mean, it seemed liked the ideal trade-off. He got the wedding. I got Paris. "Just think honey–" I whispered. "Eiffel Tower. You. Me. A tiny bottle of pink bubbly. A perfect Parisian sunset. Who knows where the night could lead?" He turned and looked at me as if I'd just told him he had severe leprosy.

"PARIS?" he spluttered in the same way that Obama pronounces "Republican". "What would we do in PARIS?" And then he gave me The Leprosy Face again.

Now I'm not suggesting that Mostly Perfect Man is unromantic. I mean, this is a guy who once gave me a garbage bin for a birthday present. He knows how to pull out The Big Gifts. But he WOULD rather spend a week in Washington DC than wander around the Left Bank. "I don't even like French politics!" he said. "Well honey, I'm not suggesting we crack a macaron with Sarkozy," I replied. "I'm simply picturing a cute studio on Rue du Seine, and a week full of French-style love?" "I don't think so!" he said, shaking his head. "I don't want some frog sticking his dirty fingernail in my coffee!" And then he went back to watching the news on the ABC. (Okay, he didn't really say that. That was my journalistic embellishment. And he's actually much nicer than the conversation suggests. I'm just spinning a story to make you laugh. I know he'd let me, too. He's lovely like that.) (Oh – and the top image isn't us. They're much more attractive versions of us.)

And so we are off to the US for our elopement. Which worries me slightly. Because we could end up in Mexico, and then WHO KNOWS what might happen on the honeymoon?

So as a little consolation to myself, I've put together The Perfect Parisian Honeymoon – or, more correctly, The Perfect Parisian Honeymoon As I Always Imagined It To Be. Would you like to come with me as I spend a week in Paris, doing things that flâneurs and romantics do? I'd rather not be alone, and would really love the company. It'll be fun. Trust me. Honeymoons are always better in your dreams.

THE TROUSSEAU

A proper Parisian honeymoon begins with the wardrobe. Dior would be perfect, but we can't all drop $10K on a frock. (I can't anyway. Very sad about that.) So I suggest we whip up something like these pretty dresses on our old Janomes. Very fitting for a sashay around Paris, non? {Via the beautiful dustjacketattic blog} 

THE HOTEL

Then, we need a suitable honeymoon hotel. You know. The kind that upgrades you to a suite when you're only paying 100 euros for the room in the first place. (Told you: it's a Dream Honeymoon!) I suggest the Belle Étoile Suite of the Meurice (above), which features a 250-square-metre terrace with a 360-degree panorama over Paris. Just look at it. Have you ever seen a more beautiful hotel room? Or a more extraordinary view? I'd just be happy to spend a week in that ludicrously luxurious marble bath, singing Piaf to my little heart's content. Non, je ne regrette rien...  {Images via Meurice} 

And if we can't afford the Meurice, there's always this gorgeous back-up  –

ACCOMMODATION 'PLAN B'

If our budget can't stretch to the Meurice, we could always book into the Caron de Beaumarche on Rue Vielle du Temple in the Marais. I once checked in here after a huge row with my parents (who were staying in an apartment up the road). We were all tired (they'd just been travelling for 6 weeks), Paris was raining non-stop and we'd all caught a bad cold. It wasn't a recipe for a happy family holiday! But the Caron fixed the tears. I love this hotel. It's intimate, affordable, friendly, ideally located and decorated with élan. I'd happily spend my faux honeymoon here!  {Image of rooftops via JR Studios – I love this shot}

DINING OPTIONS

Then we need some wine. Just to start the faux honeymoon off on the right foot. (Weddings can be such stressful things.) I'm thinking a long boozy lunch. Russian caviar. Some Mouton Rothschild '99. And enough lush interior design to keep us amused between courses. I know. Let's book a private room at Lapérouse. Steeped in history, this is the restaurant where mistresses of politicians used to scratch their rings on the mirrors to see if their jewels were real or not. We won't need to do that, of course. We'll know our pink diamonds are the Authentic Come-To-Mamma Numbers. The best part, however, is that it's possible to book a private room all to ourselves. They even come with a daybed to, er, louche on between servings. (*Not that we'd need that.) You simply ring a buzzer when you want the waiter to come and pour some more of that Rothschild. So very French to think of things like that.

Then I'd suggest a wander around the Marais. We don't need a plan. The Marais is best explored without an itinerary. Although I would suggest we pop into the Musée Carnavalet (below). It has the BEST interior design exhibits. And it's FREE! Gotta love a museum that's free.

Then we might head over to the Left Bank, for a wander through my favourite square, the Place Furstemberg. We might pop in to Flammant for a look at the homewares, and perhaps Assouline for a browse through the books, before heading to Ralph Lauren for a drink and a sophisticated stickybeak at the store's fantastic interior design. {Images of Ralph Lauren by Thierry Chomel}

Then it might be time to head home for a siesta before dinner, don't you think? But why don't we detour through the islands to get there? Some of the best views of Paris are from the river bank. I could look at this view for hours...

More Paris honeymoon ideas next week.

Behind The Scenes on Vogue Living

Confession. I love Vogue Living. I really do. It's the Sydney Opera House of interior design magazines: surprising, refined, a little edgy (I love the way it always curves off in unexpected but joyous directions) and distinctly Australian. It also has a cheeky spirit wrapped inside that taut, dignified body. You could almost say it's the Hugh Jackman of glossies, but let's clear the screen of magazine analogies now.

Many years ago I did a lot of writing for Vogue Living. Correction: I did a lot of secret writing for Vogue Living. Unfortunately, I had a full-time journalism job so I had to do it under a pseudonym that was as faux as the leopard print cushions in the rooms we shot. But I didn't care. It was my dream magazine. I was just grateful for the opportunity.

I remember going along to shoots with the best photographers and stylists of the day – including Earl Carter – and seeing how the pros made magic. It was like seeing what went on inside the top hat of interior design.

So it was interesting to receive Vogue Living's email launching its new Before + After 2102 issue. In this email, VL offered a little editorial tease by (very kindly) allowing a behind-the-scenes peek at at a photo shoot of a Sydney penthouse apartment.

I have to say VL: I love you, I really do, and it breaks my heart to say this, but it wasn't your best story. Or, as they say in fashion, "it wasn't your best angle". At the risk of upsetting those involved (my sincere apologies; I know how difficult it is doing these shoots), this is what I would have loved to have seen instead...

Here's the 'before' shot of that enviable harbour view.

Here's the after:

Are you thinking it's like 'Where's Wally?' too? Okay, it's apparent that a few outdoor chairs have been moved but apart from that, I can't see much of a difference at all. 

What I would have LOVED to have seen is the space BEFORE the VL crew came over: the sports socks and coffee cups scattered here and there, the old Sunday newspapers strewn on the coffee table, the empty wine glasses from the big night before (lipstick stains still attached), and the sexy evening dress thrown over the Egg chair after that great big AFL footballer/banker/visiting Hollywood movie star carried the owner off to bed! (Can't quite see if it's an Egg chair from here, but go with me on this.) 

THEN, I would have loved to have seen how they arranged the floral display (how they even chose the flowers for this space!), how they got the wine stains off the chair, and why they choose what they did for the table scape. 

That would have been a real 'before' and 'after', don't you think? 

And what I really, REALLY would have loved to have seen is how the photographer lit that seemingly dark room and then managed to shoot it with the sunny view outside (all very difficult to do). 

Here's the crew making the bed. Now this is nice. A lovely taupe linen throw, artfully folded and draped just so. But here's what I want to know: What was on the bed before? Was it the Ikea sheets? The hand-made crochet rug? The big hairy dog? Or the AFL footballer/banker/visiting Hollywood movie star?

And what about the artwork? I've worked on shoots where the crew has come in and taken everything away. I mean - Every. Single. Piece. And then replaced the lot with David Bromleys and interesting indigenous paintings.

Also, I like how they've removed their shoes. Very respectful. I notice things like that.

Here's a shot of the crew shooting and observing. This image doesn't tell me a lot. Who chose this for the spread? It shows the bridge and the placement of the apartment, but where are the pix of everybody frantically cleaning the place, styling the corners, moving the furniture? That's what I would have loved to see.

Ah, here we go. Now we're getting there. 

But what about the next shot to this sequence? The styling of the table? The polishing of glasses. The breaking of glasses... 

That would have been better...

Here's a pineapple. 

That banana looks a bit old and cruddy. Helen Redmond (VL editor) doesn't normally allow bad fruit through the Quality Control. (Once I heard her say: "I want six perfect potatoes!" And I just knew they had to be per-fect.) Where's the shot of someone checking the mouldy old banana and taking it away?

Here's the room where the pineapple went. I know what I'm thinking. What are you all thinking?

Okay, so it's a lovely kitchen. (I LOVE a monochrome cooking space.) But not sure about the pineapple people??? It looks like one of the free fruit bowls hotel managers sometimes leave in my room... 

I would have done a tower of chocolate aubergines. Or even an artful display of white ones? 

And why can't they put people in shots anymore? I just find these spaces so empty, stagnant and devoid of life when there's no human movement through them... I know it's a signature look of another interior design magazine (which we won't name here), but can't we show some human life? Even just a pair of shoes on the floor? Just to show somebody lives here?

Apart from that, it's beautiful.

Here's some people looking at a laptop screen, probably to check the images and composition as they go along. 

I know. I'm thinking the same thing. Where are the shots of someone on their hands and knees cleaning the floor? And wiping the table? And sweeping the leaves from that extraordinarily large Fig tree in the background?

Ah, HERE we go! Look at that! Piles of cushions! Now we're seeing the dirt. 

I want to see the BAGS of cushions being brought into the apartment, the TRUCK outside, the REAL styling going on. I want to see the staff laughing, and swearing with exhaustion, and talking about the bad date they had the night before, and why is that AFL footballer still in the penthouse bedroom...???

I'm not a big fan of big, iron-and-steel, bridge-y things in my photos. But that's just me. 

And I'm thinking this terrace needs some 'fluffing'. It needs Faux Fuschia in there to overcushion it. Even one would be nice. Or perhaps some funky lemon, lime and bitter glasses? Or perhaps the AFL footballer leaning over the balcony, sans his robe? (Oh! Did I say that out loud?)

But you know what? It's still a great story, despite my tongue-in-cheek remarks. I think there should be more 'before' and 'after' images like these in magazines. But REAL ones. 

Yes, we even want to see the cleaning lady! And could someone bring that AFL footballer back into shot, please?

{All images via Vogue Living. Buy the latest issue for more insights and loveliness.}