25/08/2026
There is something gloriously absurd and absurdly glorious about Tresco Abbey Garden. Tresco Island | Isles of Scilly
In 1834, Augustus Smith began making a garden on a rocky Atlantic island, around the ruins of an old Benedictine priory. He wanted to grow plants that, by any sensible reckoning, had no business being there.
The solution was not to temper the ambition, but to alter the conditions.
Walls were built against the gales. Terraces were cut into the granite. Monterey pines and cypresses were planted in such numbers that they eventually formed great shelterbelts — in effect, a landscape planted to protect another landscape within it.
Then came the plants: South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, Chile, Mexico, the Canary Islands. Specimens gathered and transported across the world, assembled on seventeen acres off the Cornish coast.
It is wonderfully unreasonable.
What struck me most was not the exoticism, impressive though it is, but the conviction behind it. Most gardens begin by asking what the conditions will allow. Tresco seems to have asked what the garden wanted to become — and then set about changing the conditions accordingly.
The Abbey ruins make the whole thing stranger still: medieval stone disappearing beneath palms, succulents and great improbable foliage. History hasn't been politely preserved at arm's length; another history has simply grown through it.
Nearly two centuries later, the experiment has become its own ecosystem.
A reminder that some of the most interesting gardens begin with an idea that really ought not to work — and somebody brave enough to see it through.