It was in the coldest, bleakest part of winter 1984 when I saw the little Cape Cod house clinging to a bulldozed slope-and fell in love. Logically, it didn't make sense. The 50-year-old house was a disaster. What I saw as a romantic Wind in the Willows Through the Looking Glass retreat, was in fact, a rough fixer-upper, rooted in rock-hard soil.

But I squinted in the sun and saw that its light would travel from the eastern hill behind the house, along the southern border of the little acre-and-a-half plot before setting in a long, glowing sigh across the valley to the west. With sunshine all day long, I could have roses. The little spring in the foreground could become a pond, the giant spruce trees would add elegance and winter color, and, with some new topsoil, this home could anchor my dream garden. I ran quickly through the house with my eyes closed, signed the contract, and named my little estate Broccoli Hall. Every spare moment and penny went into gardening books and bricks and whips of fruit trees and barrels of flowering bulbs.

The early work is in full maturity now. The courtyard and the former dirt-floor garage-turned-guesthouse is at the center of it all-sunny, brick-paved, and herb-filled. It leads to the cottage garden where lilies, hollyhocks, and phlox are kept in line by a boxwood frame and an apple tree tunnel leads to a teak love-knot bench. The woodland garden is laced with bluebells, trillium, and white daffodils in spring. The pond mirrors the tall spruces in winter and, in June, reflects the long border bursting with peonies and roses. - Maxine Paetro.

Published: May 2008