Thirty-three years ago, when we were shown this property, there were no gardens. It was a much-loved family farm, circa 1810, complete with milk house, dairy barn, and cozy groups of cattle dotting the fields. The sellers were empty nesters, looking to size down, and we were hoping for a warmer climate and peaceful acreage on which to raise our children. I believe we had the realtor bring us back three or four times. We loved the size, and of course the mountain views, but knew the property was missing something. Trees. And water. Not to mention gardens. The kind of plant-richness we had known in New York. Still, we decided to go for it. My husband joined a medical practice, and I settled in, as I’d imagined I would, to start a novel. I’d come to Virginia as a dedicated writer, but soon discovered I was much more keen on becoming a gardener.

So it began, my deep obsession with plants and design. My first project was the bullpen. With its rich and wormy soil– not at all the red clay we’d been warned of– it became our rose garden. Two ponds, winding drives, and countless trees and plantings later, the property now hosts species enough to qualify us (were we public) as a level II arboretum. At some point, the original name of the farm, Braeburn, no longer seemed to fit. The gardens at Waterperry Farm sounded much more like it, Waterperry being one of England’s first horticulture schools for women. After all, I would make a life-long study of it.