Mildred Stokes's inspiring garden is a harmonious mix of colour and texture
As soon as we drive through the sturdy sandstone gateposts we get a very good feeling about Mildred Stokes's garden. A green ribbon of neatly mown grass bowls along between twin wheel tracks, giving the short drive an appealing country character. And when we come round the bend, the elegant, two-storey farmhouse is perfect. Built in 1835 by the family of Stokes's husband, Michael, it stands a staunch and confident rectangle in the Tipperary landscape: three windows across the top, and below, a hall door flanked by a window on either side.
Self-seeded Mexican fleabane ( Erigeron karvinskianus) casts its tiny daisies in a pink-tinged, white froth over the stone steps, while a covering of Parthenocissus hoists its ivy-like leaves up the walls, surging towards the lichen-dotted slate roof.
We drive into the yard, watched resignedly by a pretty sheepdog, temporarily penned in because she is in heat, and impatient suitors are liable to come swaggering in at any minute. And it couldn't be a lovelier place for an assignation: dozens of pots of quilt-leaved hostas are clustered in a corner, while in another niche a musical babble comes from a little flow of water that runs into the yard, before meandering off again into the garden.
Sheets of mauve clematis, 'Perle d'Azur' and 'Prince Charles', drape themselves luminously over a wall, supported invisibly by sheep wire (one of the best climbing frames for scrambling plants, but, alas, not practical for gardeners with small needs, as it is generally sold in 50-metre lengths).
Before setting off through the rest of the acre, my fellow visitor and I are treated to tea and the lightest, moistest scones (complete with impeccably-whirled butter curls and homemade jam).
Wholesomely fortified, we step out from the yard, beckoned by the gently-waving, pink-belled wands of angel's fishing rod ( Dierama pulcherrimum) and the yellow-flowered stems of giant cowslip ( Primula florindae) that spring from the margins of the miniature stream. Further on, astilbes in candy colours - sweet pink, deep red and white - draw the eye with tones that echo and complement the rosy, dangling bells of the dierama.
Beyond the astilbes, and a crowd of other plants - among them lilies, shapely conifers and more hostas - we suddenly come upon a pond, hidden from view by the dense vegetation. It is the stream, pooled into a shallow hollow, and lined with boldly-structured plants. Sword-leaved phormium, bronzed and statuesque rodgersia, filigreed Japanese painted fern, curvaceous arum lilies and more stands of Primula florindae hug the edge of the water.
July rain - buckets of it - begins to dimple the dark surface, so we find partial shelter on a couple of stone benches underneath a nearby larch. There we sit in the summer downpour, a little bit damp, but happy to have these moments to contemplate the delightful plant combination at our feet, where the ground is covered with maidenhair fern, wood violets and cyclamen.
As the rain continues to fall, and keeps us in this protected place, we have plenty of time to study the greater tapestry. And, although the term is over-used, Stokes's garden really does resemble a tapestry, with different harmonious textures and colours - especially in the foliage. It is in a pleasantly old-fashioned style where many of the plants are specimens, planted singly, instead of in groups, swathes and waves, as is the modern mode.
It's a kind of planting that needs artistry, if it's not to look dauby and unconnected. Yet, its owner is adept at placing plants, so that the eye coasts easily from one to another, pausing at the strategically-situated and impressively-shaped evergreens, and linking similar colours - such as the dark tones that recur in the Japanese maples, purple-leaved elders, maroon-paddled cannas and a fine example of the near-black-leaved Cercis canadensis 'Forest Pansy'.
Stokes's mastery of plant placement is no doubt aided by her craft as an accomplished flower arranger. She has been a member of Clonmel Flower Club for 40 years, and is sought after in the area for decorating churches for weddings.
She often spends all day in the garden, with weeding, that most meditative of pastimes, one of her favourite tasks. Like all true gardeners, she goes into a kind of horticultural daze, losing track of time, and forgetting about food and drink. Husband Michael tells us: "I could arrive home at four o'clock and she'll look up and say: 'Is it lunchtime?' "
When the rain stops, my fellow visitor and I move on from our temporarily sheltering larch. Paths, some of flagstones, some of simple beaten earth, wander through the densely planted area. Off to one side is a small, intriguing, stone-built lean-to with a translucent roof that lets in an enchanting, watery light. Now it is home to a collection of potted plants, and in wintertime it shields Stokes's lilies from cold and wet, but it was originally the privy, a sociable place with a double seat.
Soon, we find ourselves on the front lawn, an undulating carpet of grass that flows gently with the contours of the land, and which acts as a peaceful interlude in the midst of the busy planting.
Behind us, the house gazes benignly over the garden and into the field beyond, where a troupe of bullocks and horses graze companionably, occasionally kicking up their heels for a mad, joyful gallop. I think I understand a little about how they feel, in this entrancing and thoroughly contented corner of Co Tipperary.