A few years ago on a trip to England, my sister and I had the opportunity to spend some lovely, lazy days at an ancient country inn. The setting was magnificent—the rolling green hills of Devonshire—but what made the place really special was a delightful walled garden, where, at the rear, sat an inviting glassed summerhouse. Converted from an old potting shed, this small building had a cushioned banquette inside, as well as a small open-air terrace with old-fashioned gliding chairs out front. Perched in these comfortable seats, you looked down the axis of two flanking perennial borders awash in summer reds, golds, and oranges toward the weathered stone of the seventeenth-century house. Every evening after dinner, digestif in hand, my sister and I would retire across the rolled lawn to this summerhouse, where we’d review the events of the past day and our plans for the next as the bees gently hummed in the flowers about us, until the setting sun finally put an end to this pleasant scene.
The hours spent in that summerhouse were so utterly charming that I immediately began pondering what particular elements made it so enticing. I finally decided that its appeal lay in the fact that the converted shed allowed us to appreciate the garden from within the garden, unlike so many other outdoor spaces—such as patios and decks—that provide visual enjoyment from afar. Here was a chance to experience the multi-sense pleasures of the garden—scent, sound, color—with an immediacy that was completely lacking in my own Boston landscape. I resolved then and there to make some corrections upon my return.