09/05/2026
Looking back at what we’ve built at Bundarra over the years, the garden feels like one of the most honest records of time spent here.
When I arrived, there was almost nothing — a handful of bottlebrushes, a few paperbarks standing quietly at the edges. Everything growing here now has come through deliberate effort, a fair amount of grief, and the kind of slow attention that only land can ask of you. I’ve lost plenty of plants along the way, but loss is part of the process — it teaches you what belongs, and what was never really yours to keep.
A few years ago, .p_gardens brought real structure and vision to the space — a planting plan that gave me both a blueprint and a language for what I was trying to create. Not everything has gone exactly to plan. Nature rarely cooperates with drawings, and I’ve come to love that about it. I work through it section by section, plant by plant, letting the site speak back to me.
What’s emerged is something that feels genuinely alive in the truest sense. Small birds move through the branches. Lizards warm themselves on the stones. Frogs appear after rain as if from nowhere, and snakes trace their quiet paths through the understorey. All of it held by the red gums — old, unhurried, reminding you exactly where you are.
A garden like this is never finished. It will forever evolve with its custodian.
