I once rented a summer house that had been an elegant estate 60 years before, but was largely neglected after the Second World War. Great drifts of fragrant old rugosa rose hybrids survived in what were now just overgrown fields running down to the shore, some elegant beeches, several flowering trees. But particularly charming were the foxgloves gone wild in the rough, peeking out at the margins at the woodlands.
So that’s how I’ve sited mine now. Their scale and uprightness looks glorious among the trees from near or afar, the slight horsiness of their foliage disappears among native grasses and weeds, the undergrowth shields them from wind damage, they thrive on the shared moist, and dappled shadows from above resonate with their freckles. (For a glimpse in larger context on a foggy evocative day, click below.)