Romancing The Stones

 

"Paving in a garden is a rewarding extravagance." Russel Page, The Education of a Gardener

April 2013, waterfall step and landing

  

Asphalt surface in 1988, long before any thoughts of repaving

 

 

The job of remaking the path to the front door was unavoidable, but many years passed before I was ready to tackle the project. Partly I delayed starting because I didn't know how to go about replacing it (picture above, in 1988). Asphalt to stone was the intuitive choice, but which stone, from where, and how laid to good effect? Over two decades of ongoing exposure to small-scale stone-work projects would elapse before I could start on the path. Ultimately though, that old walkway had to come out, its asphalt veneer wearing thin after much use and continual weathering. And, in fact, it had been rather hastily contrived - perhaps as an expedient when the original holding was subdivided - and consequently brought off without much attention to detail. My conundrum was how to go about making a definitive change for the better. Complicating matters, I realized the surface would need to remain in service if we were to continue accessing the front door. There wasn't another workable option during a rebuild I was certain would take me a while, so there needed to be a way of constructing a replacement without having to take the existing path out of service. Considerations like these stumped me for years. Then unexpectedly, in 2010, I chanced on a source of irregularly shaped, flattish sandstone, a discovery that would set me on a very fruitful learning curve. Initially I was preoccupied with gathering enough stone for the project, a calculation based more on gut feeling than real experience (I am an amateur rather than a trained stone mason). I also wanted to ensure my new path felt more like a unified whole than the asphalt afterthought that came with the place. This mattered to me because of the arts-and-crafts thinking behind the 1913 house the path accesses. Overall, its alignment needed little tweaking, as it had been very carefully fitted to the site's natural contours. But the materials and finished dimensions of the replacement surface were another matter entirely. 

 

Raw materials for paving, newly washed and colour-saturated

 

I gathered this sandstone at a family getaway on Pender Island, collecting it from the many small landscape openings enabling driveways or new outbuildings in the immediate vicinity. The pieces I chose were sufficiently flat to function as rustic paving stones. Over time, I supplemented my stockpile with pickings from a nearby rock quarry. I recall being impressed that my trove of stone was all-of-one-kind rather than a jumble of materials collected from far and wide. Gulf Island sandstone is a bedded stone laid down by annual deposits of granular sediment on an ancient river delta, then subjected to enough pressure over eons to harden into stone. Because it is a form of bedded stone, it tends to fracture into flattish chunks of irregular shape - which was perfect for my intended use. I soon fell under the influence of its subtle colour variations (bluey greys, salmony pinks, brownish-golds, mostly tending towards blue-green when weathered). I also found it fascinating how dramatically these colours intensified whenever the stones were wet.

 

Washed stone glistening in winter light

 

With sufficient stone in hand, the next obstacle to confront was my lack of experience working with sandstone. True, I had repaired a flight of stone steps linking the asphalt path to an elegant verandah (including fashioning an entirely new step to reduce the climb involved) but this work was done with Victoria's underlying bedrock, in order to be consistent with the existing steps. Ultimately, Victoria bedrock is much harder than sandstone and not created by deposition, so it is far less prone to splitting into flattish slabs. A few years prior I had also built a circular stone patio in the rear garden (photo below) out of an eclectic mix of materials. Again, none of it sandstone. 

 

Circular stone patio built to create a sense of being an outdoor garden room

 

Given that this path is the principal approach to the house, it felt like a lot was riding on the outcome. So, lacking direct experience, I wanted to acquire some before embarking on the big job. I saw the project as my chance to create something that would address
the more glaring defects of the asphalt path - and not least, its baldly utilitarian quality. Asphalt is not (to my eye at least) an adequate paving choice for a self-regarding path - especially not one integral to the landscape at an arts-and-crafts house. Asphalt as a building material doesn't reinforce a distinct sense of place, nor does it make for a memorable impression in use. And as currently contrived, the path barely enabled the essential movements of people and goods. It was, for example, too narrow at points to function optimally. So I wanted to replace it with something of greater bearing, which to me meant a loftier treatment in worthier materials. Also, I was determined to add some beauty to the alignment's overall utility by emphasizing the quality of the materials used to fabricate the path. Looking back on this more than a decade later, these aspirations did set the bar quite high, so it was no wonder I felt considerable pressure to make it look good!

 

Gathering suitable slabs from shot rock at a nearby quarry

 

 

Bryn washing quarry muck from newly collected paving stones

To this point I lacked confidence I could attain an optimal design for the entire length of the path while working through sequences of shorter bouts. The alchemist's trick here would be turning the output of so many separate work bouts into a convincing and unified whole. Really, I had little to go on at this point, no tested rules of thumb to guide layout and design - not much more than a determination not to screw things up. While the patio project had taught me the rudiments of placing flattish stones of varying sizes together, overall it lacked the cohesion I wanted for the new path. Accordingly, I felt my approach to arranging random shapes into convincing patterns needed further consolidation. So, having a strip of fairly level space available near my cache of stone, I decided to lay out a sample run of imaginary paving in order to gain some direction. I prepared the ground for this exercise by top-dressing with a thin base of aggregate and rock dust (known hereabouts as 'road base') which served to even out coarse irregularities of level and provide a stable surface to experiment on. This setup allowed me to play around with placement without anything final riding on the outcome, which became the opportunity to learn by way of progressively refining layout. I soon found myself looking forward to the next session of layout-play. It served as a practical way of getting to know sandstone better, learning its characteristics and subtleties by working with it more. I was intrigued by the fact that manipulating the placement of individual pieces held out the possibility of intensifying the overall aesthetic effect. In this genre of work, combinations count. This perception led me to explore the visual impact of aligning different edges with one another (some are curved, some relatively straight, most are irregular, while some can be modified with hammer and chisel). Often this meant simply rotating them in place in order to canvass options, but it could also mean trying out entirely different combinations to improve overall effect. As I gained experience working with these new materials, I became more invested in the emerging method's results. In fact, looking back on that process, I am still fond of the imaginary pathway it led me to. At the time, I toyed with hauling entire segments back to town intact, on the improbable theory that what had worked in one locale could be transferred to another. One attempt at doing this disabused me of the idea - literal transfer of previously laid-out segments wasn't ever going to produce the path I was seeking on Grange Road (differences of width and lay of land militate against it, among other factors). But looking back on it now, I really did enjoy the process of refining that trial path and, as the pictures below attest, the process of laying it out suggested a viable method of composing more convincing wholes - primarily by arranging them to feel comfortable sitting beside one another. It also convinced me that achieving a tighter, more uniform fit among the random shapes had definite value in helping fuse them into a cohesive whole: edges echoing adjacent edges, as much as possible, in order to better establish a sense of ensemble. You can gauge my early progress in these new techniques from the next few shots. 

 

Small points of stone enable transitions between larger slabs

Edges echoing edges, so far as possible, without undue trimming

 

 

Placing stones so they feel comfortable alongside one another

 

This experiment continued over many weekends, spaced out over a number of months. As I refined my approach to layout, I came to realize that adding more base material beneath the stones enabled a process of finer levelling, which in turn more closely approximates the finished look a given cluster will have. Gulf Island sandstone tends to split irregularly when fractured (some of the pieces are only level-flat on only a single face). I first tried using sand for this finer levelling (there was some available on hand) but ultimately rejected it as being too unstable for this purpose. Then I recalled discovering crusher fines as a basing material during the patio project (crusher fines, aka three-eighths-minus, is basically a mix of rock dust and stone chips measuring less than three-eighths across). Recollecting this use was a real boon, as it remains my go-to base for both initial positioning and finer levelling of stones. A secondary process of finer levelling enables a more-flush alignment of the presentation faces, which in turn approximates more closely the look of a given arrangement when mortared. This step brings the overall composition into sharper focus, while offering hints about where added shaping of the stones might benefit appearances (this process involves lopping irregularities off using a hammer and chisel). Additional levelling-up also reliably exposes the true size of the residual gaps between larger pieces, in turn suggesting where further tightening at specific points is necessary. These gaps don't show as markedly in the initial layout. All this led me to realize that a distinct step towards tightened placement was simply good practice: a way of making the layout clearer, adding emphasis to the finished outcome. This approach enables a smarter and more formal appearance in the final product. For me, this was an important insight when the main event finally got going.

 

The lower step added earlier to reduce an undue climb from the path

While I was learning from experimenting with sandstone layouts, I was also researching some more-stylized approaches to path making in garden traditions other than the British one I'd inherited - foremost, the many ways the Japanese have of composing distinctive stone pavements. Japan hosts what is likely the most-evolved tradition of path-making among the gardening nations, perhaps due to its remarkable access to many different types of stone. Some of this stone is a by-product of natural processes like gravity and wave action, but some is due to more deliberate shaping by man, which the Japanese do (and employ) in striking ways. One precept I drew from looking at Japanese models involves the use of more substantial chunks to edge a path. This practice has a decided impact, imparting feelings of solidity and heft to the path. It also allows the edges to serve as a visual frame for an engaging flow of smaller pieces of stone within. The technique of using larger stones as edging while framing the arrangement of smaller pieces within results in outcomes that simply feel right to my eye. Practice at working irregularly shaped sandstone chunks into compositions that hold together visually also prompted me to begin using smaller fragments (or points) of stone to reduce some of the bigger gaps between larger stones. I tend to prefer naturally occurring quasi-geometric shapes for this: near-triangles (points), squares, oblongs, trapezoids and so on. When it works, this method of occupying openings between stones amplifies the sense of congruity among the principal stones. However, I have come to realize there's a fine line between using such points judiciously to animate the major intersections and over-relying on them to the degree that the composition becomes busy. My feeling now is that the right balance is best achieved intuitively during layout, by aiming for general restraint and an overall feeling of repose.

 

"Until you can feel, and keenly feel, that stones have character, that stones have tones and values, the whole artistic meaning of a Japanese garden cannot be revealed to you. In the foreigner, no matter how artistic he may be, this feeling needs to be cultivated by study." In a Japanese Garden, Lafcadio Hearn, Atlantic Magazine, 1892

 

It also became clear that orienting the stones across the direction of the path (i.e. horizontal to its actual movement) lessens feelings of forward thrust, resulting in a more-relaxed composition and user experience overall. The converse is also true - and for my purposes was to be avoided - i.e. that setting stone in the direction of the path's movement speeds things up, hurrying eye and body along the extent. My new path was intended to provide an experience to be enjoyed, not one to be hurried through. Further romancing of these experiments in layout follows pictorially.

 

 

Levelling-up offers truer glimpses of final appearances

Finer levelling reveals the true size of gaps between stones

 

Literal transfer doesn't make for a pathway that fits elsewhere

At some point I realized I needed to take a leap of faith and just embark on the main project, so I began hauling stone to the site. Soon afterwards, I started laying the new path out in earnest. This entailed accepting that I could not have a complete impression of it before mortaring sections in place. Somehow I needed to be confident I could knit things into a unity as the project unfolded. At first this seemed a big stretch, but in the end it simply meant accepting the uncertainty and getting on with the knitting. Knowing there was sufficient material to finish the job consistently ultimately helped me believe in a unified outcome despite working piecemeal. So one day I just dove in. I began by tearing a section of the existing asphalt out, about seventeen feet or so, from the base of the steps. Next I excavated and removed the underpinnings - meaning suddenly there were oodles of material to manage as first asphalt, then coarse gravel and sand, came out, and a layer of road base topped with three or four inches of crusher fines went in. Once the new base material fully compacts, the paving stones rest on a stable platform that can withstand temporary use without needing to be mortared in place. When fully compacted, the layer of crusher fines sets up a sound base for mortaring in our moderate, wet climate.

 

Levelling up the layout on a base topped with crusher fines

 

There was no going back once I'd taken the plunge. Fortunately life contrived to hand me some disposable time, which was just what the project needed. The photo above gives an early look at the emerging path, with fine levelling yet to come. You can see how the path's edge wanders along the rocky outcrop in rough conformity to its contour.  Placing these first stones alongside their neighbours developed expectations about the potential to evolve a convincing sequence of shapes on the land. Designing went on for a time while I consolidated an approach to these new materials. For one thing, it was clear that the daily comings-and-goings over the unmortared paving stones effectively pre-loaded the base layer (pre-loading occurs when the base material compacts to the point where there is virtually no potential for it to contract any further). And because this project was not being done professionally (a process where time does equal money) but rather as a labour-of-love and for the intrinsic satisfaction, I could allow things to simply unfold while focusing on refining my layouts. Once I got the initial section to a point where I was satisfied with the design, the next challenge was to find a way to keep the path operational while mortaring stone in place. Here I landed on the notion of working on only half the width at a time - a simple but effective solution, if necessitating some fussing in order to ensure prior and new work felt seamless. This approach allowed newly mortared sections to be sequestered from use, affording them time to set up and harden. Use of barriers as visual cues helped keep people off work that was still drying. And fortunately, my family are the principal users, so they readily acclimatized to my slow-motion paving routine. I think the method adopted (i.e. working on but half the width at a time) has a certain elegance to it - although only someone with the privilege of doing this work as an undertaking rather than as a job could indulge himself this way. Yet effectively, there was no choice at our house - the path to the front door simply had to remain in use!

 

Spring shows the new path extending

 

Considerations of utility also played a role in shaping the path. While the existing alignment was fitted deftly into the site's natural contours (credit to Hubert and Alys, the original designers) the path needed widening where the asphalt iteration pinched unacceptably. I wanted to ensure sufficient width for people to pass by each other comfortably. This is both appropriate on an entry path where it will inevitably occur, and also better accommodates the goods and appliances moving into and from the house (many of which are bulky and typically enter suburban buildings via the front door, which is usually the widest doorway).

 

Width is needed to accommodate easy passage

 

Other factors needed considering too as things began taking shape on the ground. As the path runs past the bedrock the house sits on, the land's contour rises sharply towards the house.

 

On the house side, land contour rises sharply from the approach path

On the road side, the contour flattens out into a bench comprised of humps of glaciated bedrock  punctuated by several narrow shrubbery beds. A vertical stone retaining wall on the house side had been as hastily contrived (and awkwardly realized) as the asphalt surface itself, rising so abruptly it called out for rebuilding in a more horizontal profile (a step that served to soften its edge

substantially). I was also coming to feel that greater symmetry (of material type and size) between the stones forming the outer edges of the path would have a positive effect. The local stone used for raised edges mates well with the rocky outcrops bordering the path, as it is made of the same material. There had been loads available onsite when I first landed here in 1988. But doing both sides in a consistent manner would mean adding more stone (stone was once readily available nearby, a byproduct of massive highway projects that left loads of waste stone behind). The local stone edging contrasts pleasingly with the warmer and flatter sandstone I was using for the path.

Glaciated bedrock bursting through, like surfacing whales

Another aesthetic idea gradually taking shape in  my mind involved the analogy of a stream flowing across the hillside. As I'd learned from looking closely at pictures of Japanese examples, stone paths can be designed to emphasize feelings of flow. In that vein, I'd already decided not to speed up the downhill motion visually, so I set my stones across the path's actual direction. But as the design progressed, I also found myself wondering whether the impression of path-as-stream-course could be amplified by shaping other components. For one thing, if a path is consciously styled to resemble a stream course, then low boundary walls on either side stand in for its banks - a thought that reinforced the idea of making them of similar scale.

 

"Craftsmanship means dwelling on a task for a long time and going deeply into it, because you want to get it right." Matthew Crawford, Shop Class as Soulcraft

 

I also felt that stream-like motion would be reinforced by reducing the path's incline slightly, which meant raising it by creating a more formal step at the base of the run. At this point in the trajectory, the land begins to descend more sharply. The asphalt path 'addressed' this geological fact by means of a half-step, in order to break the grade slightly before giving in to the rapid descent. This seemed to me a makeshift solution at best. So I found myself considering the impact of making a better-defined step down, one positioned further down the slope in order to soften the gradient a little more. The background idea of hinting at stream-like-flow ultimately proved fruitful, affecting both where I placed the step and the dynamic shape of its curving lip. I wanted something that implied directional flow while mimicking, however distantly, the drop of a waterfall. But where exactly this full step would go, and how to make it reinforce feelings of stream-like flow - those details remained to be worked out. Complicating matters, this is where the path divides into distinct channels, the more major leading to what eventually became a landing, the more minor veering off at ninety degrees, heading down a hill, then linking through a series of descents to a woodland path. You can see the existing half-step's placement in the photo below, and a first look at a potential shape for the waterfall-step.

 

Early design for a step moved down slope, old half step behind

 

Shape of new step emerging, amplifying the sensation of flow

Initially I was hoping to retain the existing half-step to shore the base under the new path, so I tried a layout on for size (see photos above). It was immediately apparent the old makeshift had to come out entirely. Also, it was clear that a more distinct step up from what would become a landing was desirable for overall ease of access. An initial layout along these lines showed that a new direction contributed to impressions of stream-like movement. And, best of all, the effort of prospectively laying out a potential top course helped me to find a flowing shape for the waterfall-step's edge. Having the top course roughed-in in design (photo above) also helped solidify placement of the base course beneath it! The next two photos show a more final layout evolving.

 

Half-step gone now, new base course being mortared-in

 

View of the turn to the left and the overall styling of the lip 

 

There was a lot of playing around with possibilities at this point. I wanted the layout to express free-flowing movement while retaining the feeling of being nestled into the land form. There's no inherent contradiction between these aims (streams cut channels naturally, so fit themselves into host landscapes seamlessly) but this double imperative (free flowing while built-in) made for plenty of tightening and refining of layout before any mortaring could happen. Once the base course under the path's curving lip was in place, a crib was created that could be back-filled with crusher fines and raised towards working grade. The step-base has an intriguing curve that implies forward movement as it curls past an emerging rockery bed (photo below).

 

Base course set, crib backfilled with fines

 

I also got caught up in shaping the rockery bed adjacent to the path (to the right, photo above). I wanted it to harmonize with the surrounding contours and nearby planting beds, so I continued using native stone for continuity of form. I realized while working on this piece of the puzzle that rockery bed and stone path were actively defining one another. You can see how I accommodated the diverging paths here, also just how co-defining bed and path are in the pictures above and below. I took pleasure in knitting these elements together in design before finally fixing them in place with mortar.

 

Lip of emerging waterfall-step, curling past the new rockery

My approach to path-making involves focusing on creative placement that enables me to draw out patterns among stone shapes. This objective (discerning latent pattern among randomly shaped stones) benefits from the habit of experimenting with possibilities during layout. Experimentation nearly always produces better outcomes if one is in a creative frame of mind that lends itself to exploring possibilities. This frame of mind, also referred to as a state of flow, is ideal for creativity. Occupying a state of flow affords better outcomes the time and space needed to develop fully. All that it means to inhabit a state of flow is that the maker's mind is fully engaged by the process at hand - in other words, one is lost inside the work, with no competing awareness of time or other obligations. Accordingly, we find ourselves pleasurably enveloped by the job.

 


"When you find your place where you are, practice occurs, actualizing the fundamental point."  Dogen, 12th century Zen master

 

 

Zen-like moment with stones mortared but seams still unfilled

 

I do enjoy getting to the point where the stone pattern is set but the seams have yet to be filled - arguably a path's most zen-like moment, because the effect of the voids makes the pattern more graphic (photo above). Yet despite the appeal of open seams (as is sometimes done in Japan) I opt to fill them with mortar because it simplifies ongoing maintenance. In our wet winter environment here on the west coast, any trough left open to the elements quickly fills with soil-forming material that supports organic life (which usually means moss). It is time-consuming keeping open seams clear of this debris buildup (fine perhaps for those with minions to do their bidding, but for the rest of us, not so much). Filling the seams checks soil development to a degree, although it won't block it entirely. Eventually moss has to be reckoned with, as it tends finally to cover even mortar-filled seams. Along with regular sweeping to prevent debris buildup along the edges, I deploy a product like Thirty Seconds to kill moss on contact without toxic side effects (Thirty Seconds is apparently a molecule shy of being bleach, which it smells like). However, you still have to deal with the encrusted remains of the dead moss after using such a product. A further advantage of filled seams is that the surface of the seam can be tooled with a tuck pointer, which aids appearances and torques the path's grip under foot. And, my conclusion is that tooled seams subtly reinforce a blended - or in Japanese terms, 'gyo' - quality in the overall look, emphasizing unity of ensemble over the constituent elements. In the English landscape lexicon, designs are typically seen as either formal or informal. However, in Japan there exists this middle term for designs that achieve a blend of formal and informal characteristics. So a path that is gyo by design might involve the use of informally shaped materials (say, irregular chunks of flattish sandstone, in this case) yet placed for compositional formality or neatness of effect. The modern term for paths designed in this way is stone carpet ('nobedan' in Japan) which characterizes a blend of formal and informal effects.

 

 

Layout finalized, base course set, mortaring presentation stones

 

Even an approach as slow as this eventually yields a complete outcome, after which the paver can take satisfaction in the work done, while anticipating the work yet to come. In the picture below, I am definitely drawing satisfaction from the job, despite it having only just begun. In fact, the section I'm sitting on will turn out to be the first of four phases resulting in a complete sequence of walkways. Here I am also enjoying the way my stream-like-flow idea appears to have borne fruit, as affirmed in the path's dynamic curve beside the emerging rockery bed. I am also pleased with how the lip of the waterfall-step thrusts forward, implying water's trajectory. At this point my expectations of where this project is heading are expanding in tandem with my appetite for the work yet to come!

 

Surveying results to date, preparing for whatever comes next

 

 

 

Contriving A New Landing


Given that the way I like to work is more adaptive than prescriptive - meaning, more by eye and intuition rather than exact measurement - I tend to discover things along the way that are knock-on consequences of prior choices. So, for example, when I intuitively decided to introduce a full-step to soften the incline of the main run of path, in effect I was also tilting towards making a landing of the section below it (as a way of levelling out its slope). That conclusion wasn't immediately evident, however. Only gradually did I realize how sharply the asphalt path descended through the next section, leading to a realization that raising its alignment by a full step at the far end would result in a more level platform. And a landing, while more formal than the asphalt version of the path, was also potentially more elegant. Despite the uncertainty involved, I felt I ready energy for whatever challenges came along. So I continued my experimental approach by excavating the lower half of the asphalt, just to see where that led. It was readily apparent that the entire old path needed to come out, in order to optimize advantages. Once I resolved the framework, the idea of a landing came into focus.

 

Asphalt and underpinnings partly gone, new base compacted

 

I recall this sequence of decisions vividly because I was far inside the process of path-making and feeling confident of resolving any problems presenting themselves along the way. This is a great mental space to occupy, one where creativity flows on despite the challenges faced. I felt optimistic about coaxing the new form into harmony with the previous section's character. By this point, I had real appetite for more of this sort of self-expression, so was coming at the work with a serious wind to my back.

 

Quickly (but rather carelessly) roughed-in

 

Defining the height of a new step up, for a more level landing

 

The new landing was laid out in late spring 2012 and mortared-in during the summer and fall. Once the idea of making a landing was resolved, I found myself caught up in sequences of entirely creative bouts. The photos below show the evolving progression towards a levelled landing in preference to retention of any of the old path.

 

Some asphalt still, but the grade is wrong

 

Bullet bitten: asphalt out, base going

 

 

With my earlier imprecision about final gradients (and the imperative to decide these first) I realized that I also hadn't been paying attention to the orientation of my stones. We weren't close to having a finished design at this point - hastily canvassing options in order to glimpse possible outcomes - so I hadn't ensured that the stones were being laid across the path's direction. But once a landing was decided, there was fresh opportunity to be more systematic about layout. A new wrinkle emerged however, taking the form of a need to manage my stock of stones optimally for the phases of work yet to come, including the landing, a flight of steps and an additional but as yet undefined short pathway. Principally this meant retaining sufficient larger pieces to meet my needs for edging stone, which saw me deploy more of my stock of smaller pieces of stone for the landing's interior. The following shots show how I sorted this through.

 

Layout redone more horizontally, in a more uniform gradient

 

From above, format now more horizontal

Once the layout felt plausible to my eye, mortaring could begin. This work ran through fall 2012 and was followed, weather permitting, by bouts of filling and tooling of seams. While I recall being busy with other garden chores (fall is like that for gardeners) I somehow found the time and energy needed to bull the new landing towards closure.

 

The landing now rises a full step up, effecting a hard right turn

 

Late October, new landing mortared-in

 

 

New landing from the opposite direction

 

By the spring of 2013 the landing had already weathered its first winter and I was getting ready to tackle more paving. Our exterior restoration efforts were going to be recognized by the Victoria Heritage Foundation for our home's centennial year, and we had also been asked to show the house for the Saanich Fall Heritage Tour (which we were keen to do). My goal, however, was to advance the paving as much as possible before the tour happened. The next section of path posed some novel design challenges, giving it an engaging complexity from the outset. But by this point the merits of trying layouts on for size - and the clear glimpses this afforded of how things would look when mortared - made me confident of getting a good outcome. As the zen saying puts it, 'the obstacle is the path' - meaning to me that facing and surmounting obstacles along the way defines the ultimate shape the path takes.

 

Looking smart, if new, for the centennial

 

Fashioning A Flight Of Steps

 
 
"Where there is a path or flight of steps, the course of it is ruled by the contour of the ground, so that the whole impression is that of Nature smoothed down in places and in others encouraged to do her very best." The Natural Garden, The Craftsman, January 1908
 

Readers will recall that the main path divides into distinct channels at the base of what I call the waterfall-step, the secondary path angling off sharply towards another part of the front garden. The question here was how best to go about making a ninety-degree turn, especially given the accelerating descent through this section. Here, I felt the analogy of frozen movement captured by the waterfall-step and the landing should be allowed to flow right into the topmost of what became a new flight of steps. This would lend mystery and interest to this section of path. It also reinforced the arts-and-crafts motif of the house, allowing me to settle the new path organically into the surrounding contours (the house has built-ins, such as window seats, fitted into the surrounding decor, and the building itself had been carefully inserted into the landscape without major disturbance). The typical front walkway in modern suburbia comprises a fairly straight shot from parking to a nearby front door. Typically rendered in concrete - a wonderfully serviceable if rather bland building material - this path is often too narrow for two-way use. Our front path's alignment fell at the opposite end of this spectrum. Built into the site's natural contours, the path strolls past the entire facade, before switching hard back to another flight of stone steps leading to a verandah and front

 

Switchback path leading to the verandah

door. I thought the path, with its rustic alignment, should provide a more memorable sense of entry to the house without sacrificing the feeling it belonged where it had been placed. But as I was learning, consistent use of similar stone materials for paving strongly reinforces the impression of long habitation.

 

 

First imagining of the new flight of steps

The challenge here was to find a way of tying the main run of path seamlessly into the new flight of steps, which were no more than exposed bedrock in the past. The existing setup connected precariously through some sharp descents before accessing a distant woodland path leading to supplementary parking. Heading the other way, the land rises sharply towards the main path, which is what prompted me to think of a flight of steps. Anyone utilizing the old arrangement was obliged to scramble up a sharp incline in order to finally gain the main run of path. The exposed bedrock complicated navigation (slippery when wet, mossy all winter) a feature that would only become more difficult as the occupants age and their movements become less certain. So my first thought was to offset the precarious rise by making at least two, perhaps three, generously wide steps. Steps here would lessen the challenge associated with this route, enabling more comfortable access from below. A major issue was scaling the new steps to fit with the main path and landing. This meant avoiding mistakes like making them too petite for the scale of the main path. Initially (photo below) when I roughed in the first step, I gave it insufficient tread-depth for true comfort in use. The experimental method however, affording glimpses of outcomes before construction, was invaluable in working this piece out.

 

 

Complexity: bed edges to shape, steps to be fitted to landscape

 

Top step now deeper to better fit with the main path and landing

 

There were many considerations in arriving at a workable design for the new steps. First was the decision to flow the landing level around the adjacent edge, so as to make it continuous with the surface of the first step (layout emerging in the picture above). This feature enables moving a loaded wheelbarrow from top step to landing without having to hoist it up to the main run of path (a choice that is motion-minded, especially if the wheelbarrow happens to be loaded with heavy material like stone). But the steps themselves also needed to feel settled into the site's contours to mate with the rest of the path. Rockery beds on either side of the steps helped orient my designs - once again, they became co-defining, so grew in tandem with the shape of the steps. Accordingly, there was a lot of feeling-our-way-along through this section, ultimately leading to choices about tread-depth and the finished look we wanted to achieve. This is where a willingness to play around with possibilities can pay big dividends.  Steps were a definite advantage in this location, but the actual number required remained unclear (you can make out an embryonic third step at the base of the photo above). Finalizing the layout would ultimately define a fourth phase for the project, but given my adaptive methods it remained to be clarified. One needs to have the right frame of mind to get results from this type of design exercise, where distinct entities like bed edges and paths are co-defining. However, spring's return inspired getting out there on the land and getting on with the job, so I just rolled on! 

 

 

Spring's return brings fresh opportunity for stone step-making

There was a lot of fooling around in getting to final design, but the bedrock the steps sat on made for a stable foundation. Once you commit to mortaring stones in place, they are well and truly fixed in place (comprising a new datum, as it were) - and so I needed to be certain that things were going to work out, in all dimensions, before mortaring any layouts in place. 

 

First step at landing level, larger stones conferring greater heft

   

Top step settled, second now shaping up

By May and June of 2013, things felt like they were progressing fairly well. I find the act of setting an emergent step's shape to be supremely satisfying - you get to witness the birth of finished form, but initially with the voids left open (emphasizing the gaps - photo below). Filling of the seams demands careful work too, work that's time-consuming and finicky in regard to placing mortar in narrow spaces, but also rewarding and strangely satisfying as things to move towards closure. We get to observe the individual components magically fuse into a cohesive composition.

 

"Follow the path through a picturesque landscape and you will come upon a succession of distinct places, each designed to evoke a distinct emotion." Michael Pollan, A Place Of My Own

 

Once summer comes, paving needs to be got at earlier or later on in the day, as the sun is simply too strong otherwise and hurries the mortar relentlessly. This in turn hurries you, increasing the likelihood of mistakes. If mortar sets up too quickly through direct exposure to intense sunlight, it also fails to develop optimal strength. Things can be done, however, to slow such sun effects down, for example by using a hand mister to keep mortar and adjacent stones moist during seam-filling. You can also cover the newly mortared stones so they are shielded from direct sunlight while the mortar cures. I find this to be an ideal use of old election signs, elevated above the mortar on small chunks of stone to avoid contact with the freshly tooled seams.

 

Tooling seams for better grip and effect

Tooled seams made using tuck pointers of varying widths

 

Hand-misted after tooling, drying slowed for optimal strength

Creating A New Stub Path


As noted earlier, I had difficulty deciding whether it would be two steps or three. That was because there remained some distance to be traversed before one reached the woodland path. The choice resolved itself into either making a deep third step or, more realistically, designing a short stub of path instead. So I decided to try laying it out as a path so I could get an impression of how this might look on the ground. The alignment ran through a dip in the land, complicating matters somewhat. I decided to level up the dip using crusher fines, which enabled me to rough-in the short section. The picture below shows the dip filled and a prospective layout in place. The outcome reinforced the idea's feasibility and utility.

 

Back-filled, quickly roughed-in for glimpses

 

This work was happening in early autumn 2013 after the fall heritage award ceremony and tour. Conditions for path-making were ideal by that point: warm enough to be pleasant working outside in shorts, yet not uncomfortable even in direct sunlight. This was optimal for the sort of playing around with layout possibilities that unearths novel designs. Despite this section being narrower than the main run, I still wanted it to feel substantial and in balance with the scale of the steps. I still had some chunkier pieces of stone left, so I could continue the practice of using larger pieces to define the edges. Continued use of larger pieces gave the stub path a look of heft and solidity, which is good because in this location it the pavement appears more boldly than on the main run where the edges are bounded. Anyway, I was determined to finish the job with the materials already on hand rather than delay finishing further by going off to collect more stone. As it was, fall leaf raking and compost-making took over, and then suddenly it was winter.

 

Early spring freshness, refining layout in ideal conditions

Winter's forced break prompts reflection, and at some point I realized that beyond the dip there was another issue having to do with a significant cross-fall through this section: the gradient fell away on the south side of the path (i.e. to the left in the picture above). Given this geodetic fact and the reality that the segment sits visibly above-ground along especially its southern edge, I decided it would be imprudent not to add a base course under this edge. A base course of stone had the effect of thickening the path considerably while projecting it as stepped down to model the sloping ground. The next picture shows the stub-path with a base course placed under it. Shoring up the edge in this way gave the path feelings of greater stability, but it also entailed substantial additional mortaring. The idea appears in draft in the next photo.

 

Base course under the stub path's south side, for stability

 

One day I realized that my stub of path had assumed a somewhat phallic appearance, a thought that was initially off-putting (photos above and below). But thinking it through at a deeper level, it struck me that the path's shape was derived organically from the dimensions of the space it was contrived to fit into. So, no matter how phallic it appeared, it did enable movement in the manner needed. This awareness allowed me to relax about the implications of its shape, ultimately meaning a focus on refining the design as much as possible.

 

Modestly phallic stub pathway emergent

 

Once layout reaches a point where all the inner tests have been met, the process of mortaring stones in place can begin (a most enjoyable moment too, the more so as this was the final phase of the project). By this time I was confident of being able to shape my stone placements so they would stand the test of time. This made fixing the last stones in place feel supremely satisfying. The following shot reveals that part of the process in motion.

 

The stub path now mortared in place

Once set in mortar, the artistry of tooling the cemented voids awaits our attention. This is the moment where finished paving fully emerges, where we get to see what's been held in the imagination for so long suddenly pop into being as a built object in a real landscape. Feelings of pride and satisfaction ensue!

 

Just finished, mortar still wet, joints tooled and looking smart

 

When a project has gone on for years the way this has (executed mostly in spare time, in a leisurely manner, weather permitting) the maker gets very attached to the work process and habituated to watching its slow progression towards finished form. When it all finally does come to an end and the job is apparently complete, there ensue contradictory feelings of satisfaction and, perversely, intense longing for more of the same. In the end, the job really isn't completely done anyway, because there is still finishing work on the adjoining beds and path edges. And, of course, there are other paving jobs calling out for attention elsewhere in the garden, and likewise a host of other garden responsibilities neglected during the paving process. But none can seem so prominent as this undertaking has been, and certainly none has so much riding on the outcome. Looking back on it over a decade later, I still find recalling the long process of design and construction immensely satisfying. The finished path feels like an enduring part of the gardens on Grange Road - so much so that it's virtually impossible to imagine the place without it. The sandstone I used has a grain open enough to age and weather readily, which is both a strength and a weakness. On the plus side, it does mean the stone appears not-new in short order, reinforcing the impression that it belongs where  placed - indeed, that it may really always have been there! This sense of it being fit-for-purpose contributes to the overall feeling of repose that I wanted for the gardens surrounding an arts-and-crafts house. And of course, this entry pathway helps structure perceptions of that garden's spaces and of the architecture's overall harmony with the land, drawing you in as it carries you through sequences of engaging scenery. Below, a few more shots of the front path evolving and changing through the course of the seasons and the years.

 

After spring's flourish, it's trimming time

 

Stub and steps in wet fall, oak leaves down

 

 

 Drying out after a mid-year downpour

A stream channel traversing a hillside

Woodland path with early spring bluebells

 

Rockery beds, flight of steps, and Rumble the cat, fall 2022

 

Notes on stone carpet paths:

Nobedan is a modern Japanese term for a particular approach to path design, involving contrasting arrangements of stones mixing naturally rounded pieces or chunks split into flattish slabs with other stones worked into more formal shapes (oblongs and squares mostly). The path pictured to the right gives an idea of how this technique is used in Japan, but stone carpet paths are now also made outside Japan too, where they tend to be less formal and less-zen in appearance than customary in Japan. Nobedan translates roughly as 'stone carpet' in English, an approach to design that can result in distinctive outcomes. Antecedents of stone carpet designs were sometimes referred to as tatami-ishi (literally, 'stone mats', after the tatami-mats that figure prominently in Japanese homes). Japanese path makers sometimes mix cut stone panels as edges with sequences of irregular found-stones in ways that have zen-like results (inset photo, above). These stone mats often come with quite strict linear edges due to the use of cut stone. But in North America, stone carpets tend to be made of irregular fragments of fieldstone or flagstone without the characteristic use of squared or rectilinear stones (which are not readily or commercially available, as they are in Japan). My own path was contrived of flattish sandstone pavers, hand-collected and of random shapes and sizes. My design challenge was assembling them into an ensemble that was both useful and beautiful (cf William Morris). One thing I learned from examining photos of other stone carpet paths is that a distinctive look can be achieved by deploying larger stones for the edges. I borrowed this idea for my design and found it worked well in practice. I also began seeking a rough equivalence of size between edging stones on both sides, an idea that tends towards a more balanced outcome. Another idea gleaned from examining photos involves the practice of echoing adjacent facets of stone in layout, so that the individual pieces blend more readily into a whole. This in turn helps the stone to feel it belongs where it's placed. This became a key organizing principle too – one face echoing the next as much as possible, without too extensive a reworking of surfaces with hammer and chisel (I try to avoid over-working my stone, as going further with local sandstone inevitably runs a risk of an epic failure). As much as possible, I try to utilize the facets the stones naturally come with, seeking ways to amplify distinctive association among slabs through creative placement. I am very pleased with the outcome of this principle of placing like-with-like-facets and would recommend it as an approach to anyone thinking of building a path in stone-carpet style. Japanese path-makers also readily accept the use of mortar as a medium for knitting arrangements into a kind of permanence, recognizing it increases their range of design choices. Using mortar allowed me, for example, to 'float' the individual pieces of stone towards a final placement that strengthened the association of the parts as an ensemble. 

Japanese artist-gardeners often employ a trio of terms, originating in calligraphy, to describe the composition of aesthetic objects, including garden paths: 'shin, gyo, and so', where 'shin' refers to the formality of geometrically cut stone, and 'so' contrasts with it in the rustic quality of broken stone or rounded cobbles that are subject to gravity and rivers. 'Gyo' is the middle term, chiefly used for designs  seeking to balance the poles of formality and rusticity. Overall, my path was decidedly 'gyo' in composition and arrangement, but the stone slabs were probably somewhat 'so', inasmuch as they randomly broke into various shapes by whatever process was used to extract them from the ground. My attempt at 'gyo'-like quality derived from combining edge-stone discipline with the echoing of like-with-like-facets, which is a way of composing a cohesive whole from the fragments and residuals of eons of geological process combined with the effects of more recent human extraction. There was also the idea of setting stones consistently across the direction of the path, which slowed its aesthetic momentum down. I must say I enjoyed every minute of this exercise because it stretched me creatively, a lot.

Books For Looks:

Michael Pollan, A Place Of My Own, Random House, New York, 1997.

 

Garden Technical Series

ISBN4 - 87460 - 778 - 0
 

 

 

Japanese Garden Design, Marc P. Keane, Tuttle Publishing, 1996.

Space & Illusion In The Japanese Garden, Teiji Itoh, John Weatherhill, New York, 1973.

Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, Mihaly Csikszentmihaly, Harper Perennial, July 2008.

Garden Paths, Gordon Hayward,  Camden House Publishing, Vermont, 1997 (especially Chapter Four: Stone Carpets: Informal Fieldstone Walkways).

Shop Class As Soulcraft: An Inquiry Into The Value Of Work, Matthew B. Crawford, Penguin Books, 2009.

Path pictured by Vasila Romanenko illustrating a restful crosswise placement of paving stones.