Relic Boxwood

 

 

 Relic: "an object invested with interest by reason of its antiquity or associations with the past."  

 

 

I've been intrigued by boxwood shrubs for over a quarter century now, especially the older varieties found here and there in front yards and gardens around Victoria. Often they appear as thick-set hedges or path edgings, less frequently as screen plantings or specimen shrubs. To me the mere presence of boxwood near an older house suggests age and settled living, making it feel more homey. Years after first noticing these older plantings, I learned how to transfer them (and by extension, hints of their era) in the form of cloned offspring, a trick leading to a second life in a new locale. While I know little technically about them, the older varieties strike me as having leaf textures, colour variations, and growth habits that differ subtly from today's popular offerings. Some are decidedly coarser in appearance than current more-refined types, while a few are delightfully variegated and have a slight roll to their leaves.

 

 

I first began noticing these relic boxwood on walks taken in older neighbourhoods, where they firmly anchor houses to their surroundings even in small front yards. Most often they appear as fairly coarse hedging, tracing the line where lot meets sidewalk and marking a rectangular edge to the domestic realm while framing an access to the front door. Here they may lend hints of architectural intent to otherwise utilitarian front paths and retaining walls often made of concrete. Less frequently, they can be found serving as specimen shrubs in a border or foundation planting, where they are also likely to be taller and rather more open in appearance. In our more rural suburbs, where lots tend to be larger and sidewalks more rare, box hedging often echoes the property's frontage without defining it sharply. In these situations they serve as screens that help to integrate native species and natural features with human landscape choices, and they are often presented in the looser manner suited to more rural surroundings. 

 

Boxwood are also found tracing the outline of front paths to graphic effect, adding visual interest and vertical dimension to the ground plane. Somehow their mere presence intensifies feelings of long-habitation while adding form and character to the access spaces. Sometimes these front or side yard hedge plantings comprise most or even all of the small garden. 

 

The association of long-habitation with the presence of boxwood plantings likely derives from the fact humans have grown them ornamentally for so long a time and across so many cultures, both in the West (from before the time of the Roman Empire) and in the East, in Korea, China and Japan, where they are prized for their low mounding forms. Boxwood are native to many areas of the globe and have been used to order human landscapes for so long now that they are thought of as the world's oldest ornamental plant. Hence boxwood's presence imparts a sense of age no matter how recent the planting may be.

 

 

Ornamental use of boxwood today is broadly consistent with what we know from written records about its prior use - most notably by wealthy Romans at country villas in the heyday of their empire. Here it served as garden hedging as well as edging for paths, also as gradations between garden levels, and for topiary too - but much of it placed and arranged without great formality. "The literary mentions of box clearly depict the plant's use in high-status ornamental gardens in Italy. Pliny describes in detail how to take cuttings of box for topiary bushes and Pliny the Younger's description of his own garden layout had box hedges separating paths. In fact, the selection of box as an ornamental garden plant has been attributed largely to its suitability for topiary." (L.A. Lodwick, Evergreen Plants in Roman Britain). 

 

Boxwood are broad-leafed evergreen shrubs with a naturally compact appearance, so their shape remains more stable over the course of the seasons. Part of the charm of these slow-growing plants is how readily they take to cultivation with shears, responding with architectural definition and giving year-round garden structure. The more-dwarf varieties can be set out as low geometric shapes, or placed in lines, or treated as garden incidents, elaborating structure with a note of elegance. The taller and ultimately tree-forming varieties of boxwood work well as specimen shrubs whose upward growth can be held in check with regular pruning. Lodwick also notes that box "obscures temporal changes between the seasons", making them attractive to gardeners seeking year-round effects. Boxwood can provide welcome continuity in gardens whose scenic show of flowering plants disappears entirely from late fall through early spring. 

 

 

Use of boxwood by wealthy villa owners declined with the demise of the Roman empire and little is known about ornamental use in the ensuing long period of instability and warfare. With the return of peace coupled with rising wealth in the later middle ages, the old garden habit of edging beds and paths in clipped boxwood revived among prosperous Italians. This easily shaped shrub appears to have an affinity for marking bounds and edges in the hands of ornamental gardeners, a quality this era would take to new extremes. Geometry was then in fashion too, and in aristocratic gardens this led to heightened formality, tight symmetry, and a much-stiffened use of boxwood. From Italy, a fad for stiffly controlled  designs spread across much of Europe, ultimately giving rise to severe parterres in Holland and France (as at Versailles, for example). This trend towards unrelenting confinement of plant growth was intended to symbolize wealth, grandeur and social standing, as it takes vast labour to constrain boxwood in the despotic manner pictured below.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

European aristocrats, deploying fleets of gardeners, turned shaped boxwood into a symbol of pomp and splendour in their gardens, while demonstrating man's growing control over 'nature'. Even remote Norway, with a climate inhospitable to box cultivation except for a narrow strip along the southwest coast, initially adopted this stiffened look. Apparently, Norwegian gardeners working on grand gardens elsewhere in Europe brought rooted cuttings back home with them, setting these out parterre-style at the manorial homes of rich merchants. Interestingly, in Norway the vogue for tightly clipped plantings steadily gave way to a more loosened style of arranging and trimming boxwood, a trajectory that continues today (see photo cluster, below right). English gardeners in the seventeenth century also used boxwood fairly stiffly in their knots, mazes and parterres, and topiary uses had long been popular there. Topiary can include both representational shapes (birds, animals, initials, heraldry) and architectural or geometric shapes (pyramids, squares, globes, eggs, etc.). Despite the national inclination to trim box into fantastic shapes or to set it out in tightened parterres and knots, English garden use was never as stiff as the norm in France, Holland and Italy, and a counter tendency towards more-relaxed presentation always had a following. Later, when gardening became a more middle-class pursuit and the cottage-garden style came into fashion among owner-designers, a less-formal use of boxwood spread even more widely through English gardens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The long human association with boxwood across Europe is due in part to its widespread presence as a native species, the tree version of it providing a hardwood valued for certain specialized articles like fine boxes, combs, carved religious beads and musical instruments. Our pagan forebears also used boxwood branches over ages in their rites and rituals, prizing them for their year-round greenery and the longevity they exemplify. The ancient Gauls chose their long-lived native boxwood tree as a symbol of immortality. Since medieval times these trees have often been allowed to reach great age within settlements (but shaped for a degree of compactness, as above). The relic boxwood pictured in the churchyard above has become a mature tree that's reckoned to be between 500 and 700 years of age.

 

 

The fashion for boxwood bones in garden design was reinforced among prosperous landowners across the entire western world during the seventeenth century, a time of European colonial expansion and rising mercantile wealth. Boxwood reached America in this era too, brought with colonists as a potent reminder of the home landscape - a tangible symbol of continuity with life there. Early American colonists brought slips and roots of boxwood with them to adorn their homesteads in the new land. Boxwood had long stood for 'home', a value it still carries today. In the southern colonies especially, where extensive plantation gardens were often maintained by African American slaves, boxwood readily gave novel form to new-world gardens. George Washington, America's first President, used boxwood extensively to frame the gardens at his Mount Vernon estate, and Thomas Jefferson in turn rooted cuttings from Washington's gardens to frame his estate at Monticello. From early on an American love affair with these shapely, reliable plants has ebbed and flowed repeatedly, dividing allegiance between a stiffer and more formal look and something more relaxed and informal (so likely better suited to garden-making in a previously untamed nature). The 1892 house by San Francisco architect

Willis Polk standing on Russian Hill (photo above) has a foreground planting of boxwood that are used informally. The descent of Lombard Street (photo to the right) is structured by switchbacks edged in trimmed but still-flowing dwarf boxwood.

 

 

 

The use of boxwood in older Victoria gardens is a more recent and far less-self-conscious matter than the stiff look of formal parterres, town settlement here only having come about in the latter half of the nineteenth century. From the turn of the twentieth century and with Victoria becoming a small city, boxwood have regularly been used in local shrubbery gardens, typically as front or side yard hedging that is kept with a certain coarseness of texture. My impressions of this versatile plant grew from noticing one such hedge crowning a low granite wall, first seen back in 1988 at the house at Fort and Linden pictured below. 

 

 

This hedge, which seemed venerable to my eye thirty years ago, has a timeless quality that seems to run with the genre. Once aware of this dynamic synergy between boxwood and stone walls, I began to notice it more often and of course I coveted the specific effect for my own garden.

At some point in the early nineties I happened to notice an older boxwood hidden behind the fence separating our yard from the neighbour's, which is on a panhandle lot subdivided from the original grounds. I realized then that our home garden had at one time hosted boxwood – or, at least, a single specimen - and I immediately wanted to reintroduce it. This old plant was still lovely, semi-shaggy after years of neglect, and distinctly tilted in its direction. Strangely though, not long afterwards  my neighbour chose to rip it out, and then offer it up with its root ball badly mangled. I took it of course, then attempted a hapless rescue by replanting the whole plant in a shady spot and trying my best to keep it watered. I doubted its chances of survival, especially coming into full summer drought, and so was not surprised when it quickly expired. 

 

 

 
Still, I wasn't at all pleased with how this went down, realizing later that I had missed the opportunity to take cuttings from the doomed plant. I suspect I've been making up for that failure ever since! But in fact I was only just at the point of learning how to root cuttings, so lacked the awareness to prompt the thought. However, once the feasibility of the rooting process became more clear, I realized it could easily be applied to any older boxwood that happened to catch my eye.

 

 

 

Some years after the mangling incident, another situation inviting relic box rescue arose and by then I was ready for the challenge. I happened to be working with the Provincial Capital Commission in the mid-1990s, at the time it was overseeing restoration of St. Ann's Academy and renewal of the extensive grounds. St. Ann's is one of those regional institutions with a long history of mixing boxwood into its surroundings. Today boxwood plantings deftly extend a sense of architectural arrangement outwards from the building's vertical lines to the park-like setting pictured below, here aided and abetted by yew, holly and hydrangea (also regionally significant landscape plants).

 

 

 

One day, while touring the grounds with PCC staff, I noticed a trio of shaggy older boxwood hidden in a rarely visited corner at the northwest end of the arboretum. Evidently these mature plants had been overlooked for some time in what was an overgrown shrubbery. I found them fetching, reminiscent of the deceased home boxwood, and so decided to try cloning them for our own garden. There was some urgency to this rescue mission, as a plan to open up a new public access to the grounds at the corner of Humboldt and Blanshard made it very unlikely these oldsters would survive the construction process (and none did). So, with permission, I returned and took several dozen growing tips for rooting. I planted these directly into garden soil in a shady spot, kept them well-watered, and hoped for the best. I was excited to attempt to preserve this token of local garden history, for incorporation one day into our home garden. And this first try at multiplication of relic boxwood was ultimately to have beneficial consequences for design I did not remotely anticipate at the time.

 

 

 

 

It took about a year of keeping these cuttings moist until they developed roots sufficiently strong to support new growth. I lifted the rooted cuttings a year later, transferring them into pots where they grew on happily for many years. As a result, we began playing around with potted boxwood as garden accents, increasingly using them to add visual interest or soften transitions between garden spaces. With adequate watering and occasional light feeding, younger boxwood tolerate pot culture in our climate extremely well.

 

 

 

 

Eventually the rooted cuttings reached a size where planting them out suggested itself. At this point I made the fateful choice to set the St. Ann's boxwood out in curving lines (as pictured above). This we did in a number of other places too, often in proximity to stone retaining walls or other stone features, in order to gain synergy of effect.  

 

 

 

I was surprised how readily these gentle boxwood curves made themselves central to the garden's personality and overall look, so much so that it would be hard to imagine it without their presence now. Many years on, they continue to provide year-round structure while greatly enhancing a mood of age and repose in our woodland garden setting. The success of this foray in boxwood propagation, which led eventually to entirely new planting possibilities, whetted my appetite for more of these relic boxwood. The practice allows the transfer of some mood and magic from an older garden to a more recent one, thus romanticizing the past. No matter, it remains a good way of developing fresh plant material, material that ultimately contributes to intensifying feelings of serenity and repose in any garden. 

 

The older institutional settings dotting our urban region are among the more likely places to encounter larger collections of relic boxwood, sometimes used with greater formality than around homes. These boxwood may be trimmed up into neat rectangular hedges marking the edges of beds or perimeters, grown as specimens to a greater and more natural shape, or used as screens manifesting a residual shagginess. Boxwood add significant texture to any garden or landscape setting and will, varying with closeness of clipping, handily fill in a given shape.

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hatley Castle's grounds (pictured above and below) in Colwood sport a major collection of boxwood of different eras, some said to be over a hundred years old. Built in 1908 by Samuel Maclure for James Dunsmuir, heir to the Vancouver Island coal family's fortune, Hatley's immediate surroundings include a captivating Italianate garden with boxwood used as bed edgings. Overall, Hatley Castle's mix of formal and informal elements effectively binds its house, gardens and grounds into a unified whole - a place that feels like its various parts all belong together. This is based on using boxwood extensively to define intermediate spaces as outdoor rooms between the house and its surrounding woodlands. Hatley Castle is unique in the variety of boxwood used in contrasting styles of presentation, from orderly formal parterres and knots to sophisticated architectural sequences on terraces or as grand mounds and point plantings punctuating walkways.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The above shots of Hatley Castle's collection of boxwood include mounds and chopped pyramids in pots along walks, boxwood edgings in the Italianate garden (said to date from the 1930s), boxwood in a parterre of circular shapes at the front entry of more recent vintage, and rows of older box used as screens, which may date from the earliest days of the building.  

 

Another trove of these relic boxwood is found at Camosun College's Lansdowne Campus, where lines of box hedging frame the perimeter on two sides of its extensive grounds. These long runs of hedging colour up dramatically with the seasons, showing as fresh greens during our often-long spring while turning an eye-catching orange-gold in our typically wet fall and winter. This campus also has an intriguing raised circular parterre of clipped yew and boxwood, echoing the classical symmetry of the Young building, in addition to specimen plantings shaped into larger mounding sentinels. Finally, there are many old boxwood, some hard-clipped and maintained, others badly overgrown and calling out for fresh attention, around the Dunlop mansion (Maclure, 1928) which forms an integral part of the landscaped grounds on this lovely part of the campus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A small collection of relic boxwood also survives on the grounds of the BC Legislature, where a further adventure in plant-transfer was to occur. One day, as a new-minted MLA, I was interviewed in the Rose Garden, a small sunken terrace on the west side of the legislature with a broken circle edged in older box (picture below). It happened these hedges were being pruned that very day, so it was evident exactly how much of their growing tips were to come off. There seemed to be just enough length to take viable cuttings, so I had a word with the gardener before taking a handful from above the trimmed height. I then carried on with the usual process of rooting them in pots.

 

 

 

This approach to multiplying plant material is slow and improvised compared to the ease and certainty of greenhouse propagation, yet it succeeds regularly here in our temperate marine climate. So it happened that by the time my term of office was over, the newbies were nearly ready to be planted out. I decided to place them at the front of our house, along the edge of a stone retaining wall where I felt they would show well. The layout ran along the edge of our parking spot, making a hard right turn for the steps up from it (so requiring an L-shaped planting). I took a playful approach to the challenge and wound up with an unconventional layout. The result, more modernist than traditional, uses boxwood in units or short runs rotated slightly across the centreline of the L (below right). I further complicated matters by introducing a second type of relic boxwood, with a more rounded shape, to punctuate the runs of squared-up box at various points. This complexity has given the result a rather funky, segmented quality overall. The plants have adapted well to their difficult growing site, and the design seems to hang together reasonably well despite its unusual qualities.

 

 

 

 

The habit of collecting older boxwood isn't abating, despite the spatial limitations of our suburban lot. It turns out that many different types of relic boxwood have been used hereabouts over the past century, so new discoveries of older boxwood exemplars are still being made. I find they tend to be less glossy, often more dull in coloration, and coarser and bulkier in habit than today's rather neater offerings. Perhaps more of the older box are in fact 'sempervivens' (native species, so given to taller growth) while the newer varieties have tended to be 'suffruticosa' (dwarf English variants that are naturally mounding and of tighter foliage density)? However that may be, my main interest is to obtain more of the look and feel of prior use by transferring older examples into the home garden.

 

 

 

Boxwood make an attractive choice of garden shrub insofar as they have few special requirements in our climate and soils. While they are said to thrive in full sun, they do seem to prefer sites where they get some relief from direct light for part of the day. It may be that on upland sites like ours boxwood flourish better without full sun exposure. Some varieties will tolerate deeper shade too, but many tend to be more straggly in such settings. It's vital to water them during our prolonged annual drought (last year over three months with no substantial rain!) but not too much. They like soil that drains well and will not put up with having wet feet. There is no need to amend most soils for boxwood (heavy clay excepted) beyond top dressing with leaf compost and possibly mulching (but don't mound either up to the leaf line, as that enables the diseases box is susceptible to). Also on the plus side, their slightly pungent odour and likely bitter taste deter deer from browsing them, a blessing for gardeners facing spiking herds. One caution here: male deer growing new antlers resort to thick shrubs as rubbing points, so any coarser boxwood along a buck's regular path is liable to serious damage. A further plus, to this point at least, is that Victoria's arid summers seem protective against the boxwood blight afflicting moister, more humid climates. There are other diseases that may develop from over-pruning, over-fertilizing and over-watering, but the likelihood is remote if one avoids these practices. However, this may all be different in the future, as a rapidly changing climate rearranges what plants can flourish here (just look at the amount of die-back in our cedars!).

With well-rooted cuttings in hand, the gardener faces choices of form for planting out, coupled with degrees of looseness in trimming. Are they to be grown as specimen plants or as part of a shrubbery, shaped into balls, pyramids or squares, or grouped to run in gently curving or staggered lines? Are they to be left to elaborate their natural billowing form, clipped more closely to emphasize their mounding quality, or rendered into some more fantastical shape via the legerdemain of pruning? Working through these choices is what designing your garden with boxwood is all about. I enjoy using them playfully and without too much preconception, as they can show well in pretty much any form they are given or allowed to take. If you have boxwood as individual specimens in pots, you can use potted samples to try a layout on for fit. A playful approach keeps it interesting for the amateur gardener, who is free to revel in having a supply of plants and just follow novel inclinations in placement. Boxwood do not have to be used in a formal way, and in fact there is a strong case that a more informal and relaxed look better aligns with the natural landscape we inhabit. In the end, as with everything in a garden, one is looking for mixture in an interesting balance.

 

 

 

If you're of a mind to try rooting relic boxwood here in Victoria, you won't need much equipment to get started (other than a pair of secateurs and approval to take cuttings). If there's any delay before the cuttings go into the ground, you need to ensure they remain hydrated (I use plastic bags with wetted paper towels to keep them moist). Boxwood roots quite easily given decent conditions, which in our relatively benign climate can typically be out of doors. (In places with harsher winters, a greenhouse may be needed for rooting cuttings, and the range of cultivars severely limited by the need for hardiness to counter prolonged freezing). Here on the peninsula at the southern tip of Vancouver Island, with weather moderated by proximity to the ocean, the range of usable cultivars is broad and the approach to rooting is to this point wide open.

 

 

 

 

 

However, do be aware that sudden reversion to frigid winter can subject unrooted slips to frost heave, which projects them right out of the soil and means having to resettle them afterwards. I think it is best to take cuttings in the fall when the rains are returning, so that plants lacking roots aren't subject to the added stress of sustained drought. I always select cuttings of vigorous young growth (avoiding older, harder wood), strip off most of the leaves to expose the stems for rooting, use a hormonal rooting compound (#2 is likely best for a shrub like box) to encourage root growth, and employ ordinary garden soil as a medium, amended with a little leaf compost if it is available. I like to put the cuttings straight into pots using holes made with a hand-cultivator, keeping them out of direct sun (dappled shade works well), and ensuring they remain moist (they initially absorb moisture through their stems, so pots can dry out very quickly). After a year or so, you will see signs of fresh growth and then it's either pot them on or plant them out.

 

 

 

 

 

Down the road, I can see myself introducing a screen of relic boxwood at the front of the house where it will help to mask noise and movement on a busy street. Likely this will be left to develop a bit more openly than city hedging. Loosened treatment allows box to develop its bulk more in line with natural growth, yet clipped enough to render its shape intentional. Our garden seems ideal for this looser use, being a piece of woodsy suburbia with many native oaks. As an overall direction for garden design with boxwood, I find the following comments from the American Boxwood Society to be useful:

"Generally speaking the landscape architect...errs in stressing formal effect, whilst the amateurs, seeking to express their personalities, overdo the informal. We believe one's endeavour should be directed, not to creating the garden of one's dream, but to confine one's self to trying to work with the natural setting and environment of your actual garden. Utilize the indigenous growth that can and does thrive where you live. By doing this, your work will blend in with the natural scenery which exists in the area. One cannot improve on nature, and, if one persists in trying to do so, one simply ends up with an artificial oasis." 

 

 

 

Secateurs at the ready, you can now go forth and multiply relic boxwood cuttings to your heart's content. Think of the possibilities of playing around with past time in your own garden today. Be sure to get permission (people do love to give away those cuttings) and remember to enjoy yourself!

 

Articles/links referred to in the text, all available on the web:

Lodwick, L.A., Evergreen Plants In Roman Britain

Master Gardener Program, The Italian Garden

Salvesson, P.H. and Kanz, B., Boxwood cultivars in old gardens in Norway

Salvesson, Kanz and Moe,  Historical Cultivars of Buxus sempervivens revealed in a Preserved 17th century Garden

American Boxwood Society newsletters  http://www.boxwoodsociety.org/

 

This post is adapted from one that first appeared in The Seasoned Gardener blogspot, published in February 2019. It is affectionately dedicated now to the memory of my sister Ann, a talented artist-gardener and floral designer who introduced boxwood to her garden for its shape in Ontario winters.

 

One of the themes explored in this post is humankind's long association with boxwood. The article invokes pagan use of box to symbolize longevity. But, as I inadvertently discovered recently while reading Kindred by Rebecca Wragg Sykes, the association with boxwood goes back much further than that! People who study Neanderthal remains have long surmised that these people were also skilled woodworkers, in addition to being highly skilled stone tool-makers. Proof of course has been elusive for the woodworking side, given the susceptibility of wood to breaking down in contact with soil. However, recent excavations at Poggetti Vecchi in Italy - dated at 171,000 years prior to the present - have unearthed worked wooden digging sticks, about which the following is remarked: "Excavations for the construction of thermal pools at Poggetti Vecchi (Grosseto, Tuscany, central Italy) exposed a series of wooden tools in an open-air stratified site referable to late Middle Pleistocene. The wooden artifacts were uncovered, together with stone tools and fossil bones, largely belonging to the straight-tusked elephant Paleoloxodon antiquus. The site is radiometrically dated to around 171,000 y B.P., and hence correlated with the early marine isotope stage 6 [Benvenuti M, et al. (2017) Quat Res 88:327–344]. The sticks, all fragmentary, are made from boxwood (Buxus sempervirens) and were over 1 m long, rounded at one end and pointed at the other. They have been partially charred, possibly to lessen the labor of scraping boxwood, using a technique so far not documented at the time. The wooden artifacts have the size and features of multipurpose tools known as “digging sticks,” which are quite commonly used by foragers. This discovery from Poggetti Vecchi provides evidence of the processing and use of wood by early Neanderthals, showing their ability to use fire in tool making from very tough wood." Here the boxwood is valued for its comparative hardness as a wood, but not overtly sentimentalized in discernible ways. However, this association with humankind is evidently ancient!

Cf:Wooden tools and fire technology in the early Neanderthal site of Poggetti Vecchi (Italy), Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, Feb 5, 2018

 

 

 

 

 

Romancing The Stones

 

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

April 2013, new waterfall step and landing

  

Asphalt surface in 1988, long before I had any thoughts of repaving

 

 

The job of remaking the path to the front door was unavoidable in the end, but many years passed before I was ready to tackle the huge project. Partly I delayed starting because I didn't know how to go about replacing it (picture above, in 1988). Asphalt to stone was my intuitive choice, but which stone, from where, and how laid to good effect? Over two decades of 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 long use and constant weathering. And, in fact, it had been rather hastily contrived - perhaps as an expedient when the original holding was first subdivided - and consequently it was 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 fully 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 to manage the entire 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 paving 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 other matters entirely. 

 

Raw materials for paving, newly washed and hence colour-saturated

 

I gathered my sandstone at a family getaway on Pender Island, collecting it from the many small openings enabling driveways or new outbuildings in the immediate vicinity. The pieces I chose were sufficiently flat to function as rustic pavers. Over time, I supplemented this stockpile with pickings from a nearby rock quarry. I recall being impressed that my trove of stone was all-of-a-kind rather than a jumble of materials collected from far and wide. Gulf Island sandstone is a bedded stone that's laid down by annual deposits of granular sediment at an ancient river delta, then subjected to sufficient 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 spell of its subtle colour variations (bluish greys, salmony pinks, brownish-golds, mostly tending towards a blue-green coloured when weathered). I also found it fascinating how dramatically these colours intensified whenever the stones were wet.

 

Washed stones glisten in the winter light

 

With sufficient stone in hand, the next obstacle was my lack of experience working with sandstone. True, I had already repaired a flight of stone steps linking the asphalt path to an elegant verandah (including fashioning an entirely new step as a base to reduce the height 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 is not created by deposition, so it is far less prone to splitting into flattish slabs. And a few years before I had also built a circular stone patio in the rear garden (photo below) from of an eclectic mix of materials. But again, none of it was sandstone. 

 

Circular stone patio that creates a sense of being an outdoor garden room

 

Given that this path is our principal approach to the house, it felt like a lot was riding on the outcome. So, lacking direct experience, I was determined to acquire some before embarking on the big job. I saw this project as my chance to create something to address
the more glaring defects of the asphalt path - 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 impart a distinct sense of place, nor does it make 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 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 I 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 the shot rock at a nearby quarry

 

 

Bryn washing quarry muck from the newly collected paving stones

To this point I lacked confidence I could develop an optimal design for the entire length of the path, especially not while working through sequences of short bouts. The alchemist's trick here would be turning the output of many separate bouts into a convincing unified whole. Really, I had little to go on at this point, no tested rules of thumb to guide me in layout and design - not much more than my resolve not to screw things up. While the patio project had taught me the rudiments of placing flattish stones of varying sizes together, overall that project lacked the sense of cohesion I wanted for the new path. Accordingly, I felt my approach to arranging random shapes into convincing patterns needed more consolidation. So, having a strip of fairly level ground available near my expanding cache of stone, I decided to lay out a sample run of 'imaginary' paving in order to develop direction. I prepared the ground for this exercise by top-dressing it with a thin base of aggregate and rock dust (known in these parts as 'road base') which served to even out coarse irregularities of level and provide me with a stable surface to experiment on. This setup allowed me to play around with placement without any finality riding on the outcome, which became the opportunity to learn by way of progressive refinement of layout. I soon found myself looking forward to the next session of this 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 do 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 the options, but it could also mean trying out entirely different combinations to improve the 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 lay out. 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 simply be transferred to another. One attempt at this disabused me of the idea - literal transfer of previously laid-out segments wasn't ever going to produce the path I wanted 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 the stones to feel comfortable sitting beside one another. It also convinced me that achieving a tighter, more uniform fit among the random shapes had a 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 the larger slabs

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

 

 

Learning to place stones so they feel comfortable beside one another

 

This experiment continued over many weekends, spaced out over perhaps six 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 approximated 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 process of fine levelling (there was some ready to hand) but ultimately rejected it as being too unstable for my purpose. Then I recalled having discovered 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 that are less than three-eighths of an inch across). Recollecting this use was a boon, as it remains my go-to base for both initial positioning and fine levelling of stones. A secondary process of fine levelling enables a more-flush alignment of the presentation faces of the stones, approximating more closely the look a given arrangement will have when mortared-in. This step brings the overall composition into sharper focus, while offering some hints about where added shaping of particular stones would benefit appearances (this process involves lopping irregularities off with a hammer and chisel, which in a soft stone involves some risk of damage). Additional levelling-up also reliably exposes the true size of residual gaps between larger pieces, in turn suggesting where further tightening at points is needed. These gaps don't show as markedly in 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 that added emphasis to the finished look. This approach enables a smarter and more formal appearance in the outcome. For me, this was an important insight when the main event finally got going.

 

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

 

While I was learning from experimenting with sandstone layouts, I was also researching some 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 all the gardening nations, perhaps due to its remarkable access to so many different types of stone. Some of this stone is a by-product of natural processes, such as gravity and wave action, but some is due to more deliberate shaping by man, which the Japanese do and deploy in striking ways. One precept I drew from looking at Japanese models involves the use of substantial chunks of stone at the edges of the path. This practice has a big impact, imparting a feeling of solidity and heft to the path. And, it also allows the edges to serve as a container for a potentially engaging flow of stones within, potentially reinforcing movement. This technique of using larger stones as edging while framing arrangements of other pieces within results in outcomes that simply feel right to the eye. Practice at working irregularly shaped sandstone chunks into compositions that hold together visually also prompted me to adopt the idea of using smaller fragments (or points) of stone to fill some of the larger gaps between major pieces. I tend to prefer naturally occurring, quasi-geometric shapes for this use: triangles, squares, oblongs, even trapezoids, and so on. When it works, this method of filling openings amplifies the sense of congruity among the principal stones. However, experience has shown there to be a fine line between using such markers to reduce gaps and over-relying on them to the extent of making the composition feel 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

 

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

 

 

Levelling-up the stones offers a truer glimpse of final appearances

Finer levelling reveals the true size of the gaps between the 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. Shortly afterwards, I started laying the new path out in earnest. This entailed accepting that I could not have a complete impression before mortaring sections in place. Somehow I needed the confidence that I could knit things into a unity as the project unfolded in real time. At first this seemed a stretch, but in the end it simply meant accepting the uncertainty and getting on with the knitting. Just knowing there was sufficient material to finish the path consistently ultimately helped me believe I could achieve a unified outcome despite working piecemeal. So, one day I just dove into the project. I began by tearing a section of the existing asphalt out, about seventeen feet long 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 back in. Once the new base material is fully compacted, the paving stones rest on a stable platform that will withstand temporary use without having to be mortared in place. Once compacted, the layer of crusher fines sets up a sound base for mortaring stones in our moderate, wet climate.

 

Levelling up the layout on a base topped with compacted 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 is an early look at the emerging path, with fine levelling yet to come. You can see how the inside 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 considerable time while I consolidated an approach to the new materials. For one thing, it became clear that daily comings-and-goings over the un-mortared paving stones effectively pre-loaded the base layer (pre-loading occurs when the base material compacts to the point where there is virtually zero potential for it to contract further). And because this project was not done professionally (a process where time does in fact equal money) but rather as a labour-of-love and for the intrinsic satisfaction, I could allow things to just unfold while focusing on refining the layout. Once I got the initial section to a point where I was satisfied with the design, the next challenge was finding a way to keep the path operational while mortaring stone in place. Here I landed on the notion of only working on half the width at any given time - a simple but effective solution, if necessitating some fussing in order to ensure prior and new work felt seamless. This approach allowed the newly mortared sections to be sequestered from use, affording them time to set up and harden. Use of temporary barriers as visual cues helped people steer clear of work that was still drying. And fortunately, my family were the principal users, so they readily acclimatized to my slow-motion paving routine. I think the method adopted (i.e. working on a half-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 in this way. Yet effectively, there was no other choice at our house - the path to the front door simply had to stay in use!

 

Spring shows the new path extending itself

 

Considerations of utility also played a role in shaping the path. While the existing alignment had been fitted deftly into the site's natural contours (credit to Hubert and Alys, the original designers who allowed the path to follow the line of least resistance) it did need widening where the asphalt iteration pinched unacceptably. I wanted to ensure there was sufficient width for people to be able to pass by each other comfortably. This is both appropriate on an entry path where it inevitably happens, and also better accommodates the goods and appliances moving to and from the house (many of which are bulky and often enter suburban buildings via the front door).

 

Width is needed to accommodate easy passage

 

Other factors needed considering too as things were taking shape on the ground. As the path runs past the bedrock the house reposes on, the land rises sharply towards it (picture below). Whenever the path was remade in asphalt, relatively large chunks of rock had been used to form a rough wall to mark the rising landscape. But this had been as hastily contrived (and awkwardly realized) as the asphalt path itself.

 

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

On the other side of the path, the contour flattens out into a bench comprised of humps of glaciated bedrock with narrow shrubbery beds. On the house side, in my opinion, the walled edge called out for a less-vertical rebuilding (a step that would also soften its effect considerably). I was also coming to feel that a matching low wall on the street side of the path would also have a positive effect, especially if done with symmetry of material type and size. The local stone I chose for these low walls mates well with the surrounding bedrock, as it's basically the same material. There was lots of this type of stone available onsite when I first arrived in 1988. But doing up both sides of the path consistently would mean collecting more of it than I had on hand (supplies were available in the immediate neighbourhood, left over from major highway-building projects along the capital approaches). Using local stone for the walls also contrasted pleasingly with the warmer and flatter sandstone going into the path.

 

Glaciated bedrock bursting through the ground, evoking surfacing whales

Another aesthetic idea gradually forming in my mind involved the analogy of a stream flowing across the hillside. As I'd learned from looking at pictures of Japanese examples, stone paths can be designed to emphasize the feeling of flow. In that vein, I'd already decided not to speed the downhill movement visually, electing instead to set my stones across the path's actual direction. But as my design progressed, I found myself wondering whether an impression of path-as-stream could be amplified by conscious shaping of other components. For one thing, if a path is styled to resemble the course of a stream, then low boundary walls on either side would stand for the stream's banks - a thought that reinforced the feeling that these should be 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 if I reduced the path's incline modestly, which meant raising the bed by making a more formal step at the base of the main run. At this point in its trajectory, the land begins to descend increasingly sharply. The asphalt path addressed this geological fact by means of a half-step, breaking the grade slightly before accommodating a more rapid descent. This seemed to me a makeshift solution at best. So I found myself considering the impact of a better defined step, which would entail moving it further down the slope (which would in turn soften the gradient further). The background idea of hinting at stream-like-flow ultimately proved fruitful, affecting both step-placement and the dynamic shape its curving lip ultimately took on. I wanted something that implied directional flow while mimicking, however distantly, the sudden drop of a waterfall. But where exactly this full step would go, how to make it reinforce feelings of stream-like flow - those details remained to be worked out. Complicating matters, this is also where the main path divides into separate channels, the more major leading to what eventually became a landing, the more minor veering off at a right angle, heading down the slope, then linking via a series of spaced descents to a woodland path. You can see the existing half-step's placement in the photo below, and the first glimpse of a possible shape for my waterfall-step. 

 

An early design for a step moved down slope, the old half step behind

 

Shape of new step just emerging, amplifying the feeling of flowing water

Initially I was hoping to retain the existing half-step to shore up the base under the new path, so I tried a layout on for size (see photos above). But it soon became clear that old makeshift step had to come out entirely. Also, it was apparent that a more distinct step up from what would one day become a landing was desirable for overall ease of access. An initial layout along these lines showed that the new direction did contribute 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 lip of the waterfall-step. Having the top course roughed-in in design (photo above) also helped me solidify placement of the base course beneath it! The next two photos show a more complete layout evolving.

 

 

Old half-step now removed, new base course being mortared in place

 

View of the dramatic turn to the left, overall styling of the step's 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, yet built-in) made for plenty of tightening and refining of layout before any I got down to any mortaring. Once the base course under the path's curved lip was in place, it formed a crib that could be back-filled with compacted crusher fines and raised towards working grade. The step's base has an intriguing curve that implies forward movement as it curls past the emerging rockery bed (photo below).

 

Base course now set, crib back-filled with fines

 

I also got caught up in shaping the rockery bed adjacent to the path (to the right, photo above) as an extension of the boundary wall. I wanted it to harmonize with the surrounding contours and nearby planting beds, so I continued to use native stone for continuity of form. I realized while working through this piece of the puzzle that rockery bed and stone path were actively defining each other. 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 all these elements together in design before finally fixing them in place with mortar.

 

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

My approach to path-making involves focusing on a creative placement that enables the drawing out of patterns among stone shapes. This objective (discerning latent pattern among randomly shaped stones) benefits from my 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 the exploring of possibilities. This frame of mind, also known as a state of 'flow', is ideal for tapping creativity. Occupying a state of flow affords better outcomes the time and space they need to evolve fully. All that it means to inhabit such a state is that the maker's mind be fully engaged with the process at hand - in other words, one loses oneself inside the work to hand, with no competing awareness of time or any other obligations. Accordingly, one finds himself 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-in but seams remaining 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 is to make the pattern more graphic (photo above). Yet despite the appeal of open seams (which is sometimes done in Japan) I opt to fill them with mortar because this step simplifies their ongoing maintenance. In our wet winter environment here on the coast of Vancouver Island, any trough left open to the elements quickly fills up with soil-forming material that supports organic life (which usually means moss). It is time-consuming keeping seams left open clear of 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 (especially in areas not exposed to full sun). Along with regular sweeping to prevent debris buildup, I tend to use something that kills moss on contact without toxic side effects (One example of this is Thirty Seconds, which apparently is a molecule shy of being bleach, which it smells rather like). However, you still have to deal with the encrusted remains of the dead moss after using this. Another advantage of filled seams is that the surface can be tooled with a tuck pointer (a brick-mason's tool) which aids appearances and torques the path's grip under foot considerably. And, my feeling is that tooled seams also subtly reinforce a blended - or in Japanese terms, a 'gyo' - quality in the overall look, emphasizing unity of ensemble over the constituent elements. In the English landscape lexicon, designs are typically either formal or informal. However, in Japanese idiom, there exists this middle term for designs blending 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) that are placed for compositional formality or neatness of effect. The modern term for paths designed in this manner is stone carpet ('nobedan' in Japan) which is characterized by a blend of formal and informal effects.

 

 

Layout finalized, base course set, mortaring presentation stones in place

 

Even an approach as slow as mine eventually yields a relatively complete outcome, after which the one doing the paving can take satisfaction in the work done, while anticipating what is yet to come. In the picture below, I am definitely drawing satisfaction from surveying the job, despite its 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, affirmed by the path's dynamic curve alongside the emerging rockery bed. I am also pleased with how the lip of the waterfall-step thrusts itself 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 still to come!

 

Surveying results to this point, preparing for whatever comes next

 

 

 

Contriving A New Landing


Given that the way I 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 my previous 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 in the direction of making a landing out of the section below it (as a way of levelling out its slope). That conclusion wasn't immediately evident to me, however. Only gradually did I come to 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 certainly much more formal than the asphalt version of this section, was also potentially more elegant. Despite the uncertainty involved, I felt ready energy for whatever challenges came along. So I continued my experimental approach and excavated the lower half of the asphalt, just to see where that led. It was readily apparent that the entire old path had to come out, in order to optimize the advantages for the new path. Once I resolved the framework, the idea of a landing came into sharper focus.

 

Asphalt and underpinnings now partly removed, new base compacted

 

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

 

Layout quickly (and rather carelessly) roughed-in

 

Defining the height of a new step up, to gain more level for the 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 had resolved itself, I found myself caught up in sequences of entirely creative bouts of work. The photos below show the evolving progression towards a levelled landing in preference to retaining any of the old path.

 

Some asphalt still remains but the grade is wrong

 

Bullet bitten: asphalt out, base being removed

 

 

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

 

 

Layout redone, now more horizontally, with a more uniform gradient

 

Seen 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, as the weather permitted, by bouts of filling and tooling of seams. While I recall being busy with other garden chores then (fall is like that for gardeners) I somehow found the time and energy needed to bull our new landing towards closure.

 

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

 

Late October, new landing now mortared-in

 

 

New landing seen from the opposite direction

 

By the spring of 2013 the landing had already weathered its first winter and I was readying myself to tackle more paving. Our exterior restoration efforts were approved to be recognized by the Victoria Heritage Foundation, in our home's centennial year, and we had also been asked to show the house on the Saanich Fall Heritage Tour (something 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 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 appear once mortared - made me confident I could achieve a good outcome. As the old 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 brand 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 of this post 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 an aura of mystery and interest to this section of path. It also reinforced the arts-and-crafts motif of the house, allowing me to settle this new path organically into the surrounding contours of the land (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, with no 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 somewhat bland building material - the front path is often too narrow for two-way use (forcing at least one party, if not both, to take to the lawn). Our front path's alignment fell at the opposite end of this spectrum. Built into the site's natural contours, the path strolls the visitor past the entire facade, before switching hard back to another flight of stone steps that leads to a verandah and front door.

 

Switchback path that leads to the verandah

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 imaginings of a brand 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 then no more than exposed bedrock up which one climbed. The existing setup connected precariously through some sharp descents before accessing a distant woodland path that lead to a supplementary parking pad. Heading the other way, the land rises sharply towards the main path, which is what prompted me to think first 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 of this space (slippery when wet, mossy all winter) a feature that would only become more difficult as occupants aged and their movements became less certain. So my first thought was to offset the precarious rise here by making at least two, and 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 to be truly comfortable in use. The experimental method however, affording glimpses of outcomes before construction, was invaluable in working this piece of the puzzle out.

 

 

Complexities: bed edges to be shaped, steps to be fitted into landscape

 

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

 

There were many things to consider before arriving at a workable design for the new steps. First was a decision to flow the landing level around the adjacent edge, so making it continuous with the surface of the first step (layout just emerging in the picture above). This feature allows the movement of a loaded wheelbarrow from the top step to the landing without having to hoist it up to the level of the main run of path (a choice that is motion-minded, especially when the wheelbarrow happens to be loaded with heavy material, like stone). But the steps themselves also needed to feel they were settled into the site's contours, in order to mate with the rest of the path. Rockery beds on either side of the steps helped orient my designs here - once again, they became co-defining, so grew in tandem with the shaping of the steps. Accordingly, there was a lot of feeling-our-way-along through this section of path, 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 huge dividends.  Steps were a definite advantage in this locale, but the actual number required remained unclear (you can make out an embryonic (possible) third step at the base of the photo above). Finalizing the layout would ultimately define a fourth phase for this project, but given my adaptive method, 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 become co-defining. However, spring's return inspired getting out there on the land and getting on with the job, so we just rolled on! 

 

 

The return of spring brings fresh opportunity for stone step-making

There was a lot of fooling around in getting to a final design, but the bedrock the steps sat on made  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 into place. 

 

First step at the landing level, large stones conferring greater heft

   

Top step mortared, second step now emerging

 

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 between stones 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 without slopping it around, but also rewarding and strangely satisfying as things to move towards closure. We get to observe the individual components of the path 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, which increases 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 these sun effects down, for example: 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 mortar cures. I find this to be an ideal use of my old election signs, elevated above the fresh mortar on small chunks of stone, to avoid any contact with the freshly tooled seams.

 

 

Tooling seams for better grip, and aesthetic effect

Tooled seams using tuck pointers of varying widths, for grip and effect

 

Hand-misted after tooling seams, drying slowed for optimal strength

Creating A New Stub Path


As noted earlier, I had difficulty deciding whether it should be two steps or three. That was because there remained some distance to be traversed before one finally 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 gain an impression of how this would look on the ground. The alignment ran through a dip in the land, complicating matters somewhat. I decided to level the dip up with crusher fines, which enabled me to rough-in the short section of path. The picture below shows the dip filled and a quick prospective layout in place. This step reinforced the idea's feasibility and utility.

 

 

Back-filled, quickly roughed-in to afford glimpses

 

This work was happening in early autumn 2013 after the fall heritage award ceremony and the house tour. Conditions for path-making were ideal by that point: warm enough to still 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 of path, 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 my practice of using large pieces to define the edges of the path. Continued use of larger pieces gave the stub path a look of heft, which is good because in this location the pavement appears more boldly than it does on the main run (where the edges are bounded). Anyway, I was determined to finish the job with the materials I had on hand rather than delay finishing by going off to collect more stone. As it was, fall leaf raking and compost-making took over, and then suddenly it was winter again. 

 

 

Early spring freshness allows one to refine a layout in ideal conditions

 

Winter's forced break in activity 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, especially along 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 be congruent with the sloping ground. The next picture shows the stub-path with a base course roughed in under it. Shoring up the edge in this way would give the path feelings of greater stability, but it would also entail substantial additional mortaring. The idea is shown in draft in the next photo.

 

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

 

One day, contemplating things, I realized that my stub-path had assumed a somewhat phallic appearance, a thought that was initially very off-putting (photos above and below). But thinking things through at a deeper level, it struck me that the path's shape had been derived organically from the dimensions of the space it was contrived to be fitted to. So, no matter how phallic its appearance, it did enable movement in the exact manner needed. Awareness of this fact allowed me to relax about any implications of 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 (i.e., outliving me substantially). This made fixing the last stones in place feel supremely satisfying. The following shot reveals that part of the process in motion.

 

The new stub path now mortared in place

 

Once set in mortar, the artistry of tooling the cemented voids awaits 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, the mortar still wet, joints tooled and looking smart

 

When a project has gone on for years the way this one has (executed mostly in spare moments, 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, an intense longing for more of the same. In the end, the job really isn't completely done anyway, because there is still finishing work to be done 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 that have been semi-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 an immensely satisfying undertaking. 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 its 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 garden 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, I offer a few more shots of the front path evolving and changing through the course of the seasons and the years.

 

 

After spring's first flourishing, it's trimming time

 

Stub path and steps in wet fall, oak leaves down

 

 

 Drying out after a mid-year summer downpour

A stream channel traversing the hillside

Woodland path with early spring bluebells

 

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

 

Note 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 traditional 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 as 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 the risk of epic failure). As much as possible, I try to utilize the facets the stones naturally came 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 restful crosswise placement of paving stones.