06/08/2026
I finally got the chance to visit the iconic little black house with the yellow windows, on the Kent coast, deep in the Romney Marsh, travelling practically the entire length of the UK, past drought, wildfire, beauty, and strife, on what felt like the edge and the end of the world.
Derek Jarman's Prospect Cottage and its garden-come-sculptural-installation has had such a profound effect on my life, even though I had never set eyes on it in the flesh. The garden in the shingle, a garden in the most unlikely of places, growing around and through sculptural formations of rocks, flint, driftwood, and metal, was mostly dried out with only valerian, sea kale, curry plant, and fennel surviving in amongst islands of spiky gorse gnarled by the wind, all plants Derek Jarman has written about and which I have come to associate with him. The health of the curry plant tells me everything I need to know about why I have failed to grow it in this wet, cold place. I was hoping to see some borage (I borage, bring courage) but there was something about the dried husks and skeleton forms of the garden, ghosts, that represented the absence of the gardener and the artist who made this place.
This is a brutal landscape, exposed, hot, with telephone cables interrupting an expanse of blue sky, the detritus of fishing equipment, broken boats, traffic cones, and the Dungeness nuclear power station looming in the background, and yet there is so much beauty here. The sky feels absolutely vast. Derek Jarman himself created such a powerful legacy in the savage societal, cultural, and medical landscape of the 1980s. And yet, this place feels like it represents all the texture and savagery of 2026 too. I understand now what Derek Jarman meant when he wrote "my garden's boundaries are the horizon", something about being pushed to the edge, and discovering the elasticity of your edges, maybe, and that hardship is part of growth.
For any gardener and artist, this place reminds us that we are called to the different creative outlets at different stages in our lives, and that gardens heal, and that they can be decorative, beautiful, abundant, but they can also be sites of grief, broken, bare, paused.
I am writing this at the edge of the sea, looking out towards the white cliffs of Dover with France somewhere out there. Days of Dahlia feels a million miles away but also right here in my pocket with some teasel seeds and a few sprigs of curry plant.