When the meadow falls quiet

The Quiet Thread
Issue No. 04 – When the meadow falls quiet
Stories from our home at 682.5 metres above sea level

Click here for our knit and crochet patterns inspired by our meadow.

A meadow is never truly finished — only resting until the next season. Ours has taught us patience, rhythm, and the quiet joy of trying again.

Rocks, bricks, and exhaustion

The story of our flower meadow really began on the other side of the house, with a very different project. For ten years we built a stone garden. There were the enormous rocks from the forest that absolutely had to be rolled home, no matter how far or how heavy, and the endless piles of recycled bricks collected from all over the county because paving seemed like such a good idea at the time. By the end of it we were proud, sore, and completely exhausted.

So we thought: now let’s make it easy. A flower meadow. Just scatter some seeds, sit back, and enjoy. How hard could it be?

The begining of the rock garden, in 2002.

Arne’s childhood meadows

Arne remembers summers at Mjødoksetra in Vestfjell, where he stayed with his siblings and grandparents. There was a perfect flower meadow there that seemed to come entirely by itself. In autumn the grass was cut, and if not, the cows grazed it down. Their hooves pressed the seeds into the soil, and the flowers returned the following summer without fail. That effortless cycle was, for him, the picture of what a meadow should be.

Inspired by a king

Later we saw King Charles’ meadow at Highgrove — a glorious, painterly field of wildflowers buzzing with life. It looked simple, achievable, something we could surely copy. Four bags of seed came home with us from the gift shop, scattered straight onto the grass with all the confidence in the world. By next summer, we imagined, we would be sitting in our own sea of flowers.

Failure and research

Next summer came, and not a single flower appeared. Not one. All we had was grass, thick and healthy, smothering every chance of bloom. That was the moment we discovered that a flower meadow is not the easy option after all.

So began our research phase — which for us meant ordering every book we could find. Page after page we underlined and puzzled over. A meadow is not just a field of flowers. It is a finely tuned ecosystem. You need poor soil, not rich. Timing. Patience. Cutting, leaving, raking, shaking, removing. We were in far deeper than we had ever expected.

We even went back to Highgrove, this time through the online shop. When the package arrived, it included a printed note from the Prince of Wales thanking us for supporting his foundation. Carlos joked that Charles and Camilla must be in the warehouse themselves, packing up orders: “Right, Camilla, here’s one for Arne and Carlos, let’s get it packed and sent off.” Of course the letter wasn’t personal, but it felt almost as if it were — and that was funny enough.

We are not quite there yet, but the meadow is getting better every year.

Lessons from yellow rattle

Along the way we discovered one of the secrets of the meadow: yellow rattle (Rhinanthus minor). A modest little flower, parasitic on grass roots, that clears space for other wildflowers to grow. Without it, the grass wins every time. With it, the meadow has a chance. Ever since, we’ve been trying to establish it here, scattering and hoping.

Our patches today

Now we are working on two patches of meadow: one by the old storehouse that will one day be our studio, and another that slopes gently down towards the water. The patch by the water has come furthest; the one by the wall is still stubborn. Every summer means clearing shrubs and raspberry canes, pulling out saplings, cutting with the scythe, digging with the spade and crowbar. We rake, we stamp, we sow. Slowly, slowly, things improve. Not perfect — not even close — but better than before.

We have started to cut the meadow. Now, where do we find a couple of sheep?

Talking with the royal gardeners

Each summer, when we return to Highgrove or visit other English gardens like Great Dixter, we look at their meadows and realise just how out of our depth we are. At Highgrove, the gardeners explained their method: let the flowers bloom, cut them down at the end of the season, leave the cuttings to dry and shed their seeds, then finally clear them away. After that, in come the sheep. They graze, they trample, they press the seeds into the soil. It is, apparently, the proper way to do it. Which means that one day, if we are serious, we may also need to add a couple of sheep to our household.

Joy in imperfection

For now, though, we make do with our imperfect version. Even if it is far from perfect, it is wild. Flowers do appear — not in great abundance, but enough to make us smile. And that is something. We have learned that perfection is not the point. The joy is in watching what comes, in seeing the bees and butterflies, in noticing a flower appear in a place where yesterday there was none.

Perhaps one day we will manage the meadow of our dreams. Until then, we take delight in the imperfect one we have — and in the fact that even mistakes can be beautiful. And as with everything else in our lives, the meadow has found its way into our work. We are already sketching and knitting, letting ourselves be inspired by the shapes and colours of wildflowers. Not necessarily from our own meadow, but from meadows in general — that sense of abundance and surprise, of life springing up where it will.

So don’t be surprised if one day you find yourself knitting flowers that were first imagined in a very imperfect meadow, halfway up a mountain, where two people are still learning, still laughing, and still dreaming of getting it right.

Click here for our knit and crochet patterns inspired by our meadow.

Gunnhild, our first project inspired by a flower meadow. Designed in 2012.