Cholmondeley Castle
An exercise in restraint
26 September 2026
By: James Lennox
Occasionally, I wonder if I've bitten off more than I can chew at La Corolla. The thought tends to occur when I'm on my hands and knees weeding around the base of every tree in the new Grove or clipping my way along the bay hedges for the second time that year.
Cholmondeley demonstrates the wisdom of knowing when to stop and the virtue of not over-extending oneself. The intensively gardened areas are kept deliberately compact; while all around, generous, looser areas provide an assured (and less physically or financially onerous) backdrop.
The gardens are largely the work of Lavinia, wife of the sixth Marquess of Cholmondeley, who arrived here in 1947. Sensibly, she decided not to have the gardens compete with the Gothic Revival castle perched on its mount. Instead, they've been developed discretely to one side, spreading through a sheltered dip in the land and taking full advantage of the water that flows through that part of the grounds.
The Temple Garden is the first port of call, enticing the visitor to enter with a handsome Metasequoia and one of its American cousins nearby. In mid-September the repeated Acer palmatum 'Sango-kaku' were lighting up the rocky bankside, with russety tones developing on the Darmera peltata ringing the water. A satisfying composition anchored by a leggy Arbutus x andrachnoides, its glossy red bark glistening after every shower.
A word of caution. I'm no fan of the flowering cherry but somebody at Cholmondeley clearly is. Fair enough, each to his own. There's nothing wrong with satisfying a personal urge but it can't be at the expense of the composition as a whole. The danger is that the new additions will, before you know it, start to dominate the whole garden and interrupt sightlines – for the briefest imaginable reward.
Already the gladiator in his temple is having to fight the darn things off. A hack here or there is no solution – it's tricky to make an amputated cherry look in any way naturalistic. One to watch.
From there the path leads to the undoubted highlight of the season: Lavinia's Walk, a relatively recent re-imaginging of the old herbaceous borders. Nothing here strains for effect. At nearly a hundred yards long, the scale is spot on for the site, generous without being too grand.
Most striking is the absence of shrubs – this is a herbaceous border, pure and simple. Instead of falling for the Christopher Lloyd way of doing things (as I myself have), this preserves something of the essence of an older tradition.
But instead of a carefully controlled gradation of colour from cool to hot and back again along the length of the border (as is the Jekyll way), here repeated groups of pink, red and orange flowers (heleniums, crocosmias, persicarias, etc.) are offset by dark-leaved dahlias providing a foliage foil.
Old school with a modern twist. The effect is subtle rather than dramatic and all the better for it. A simple idea executed with conviction.
And in another departure from the tried and tested, the borders are not backed by yew. Height is provided by ironwork frames within and a screen of Malus hupehensis behind at intervals to act as a leafy corps de ballet – decorative but definitely there in a supporting role.
The Walk delivers you to the Rose Garden, where a metalwork rotunda makes for an eye-catching full stop. And if you were wondering where the yew was, it's here in spades.
This is very much a garden of two halves. The first, older part might benefit from a refresh, although I hesitate to judge a rose garden on its appearance in September. The second, newer part, even at such an unflattering season, is a success, thanks chiefly to a smattering of well-placed statuary adding height and contrast. Views back to the castle have been opened up while at ground level the beds are edged with box to preserve the roses' modesty.
Between here and the castle, the Glade is strong on specimen trees (a fine Paulownia with some decent magnolias for company) with plenty of bamboo clumps and stalwart shrubs (doughty deutzias, camellias) to liven things up in the spring. Persian ironwoods abound – singly or in clumps – a tree very much in tune with the general tone of the garden, understated and elegant, even if their sheer quantity suggests someone, somewhere might have stumbled across a bulk buy offer that was too good to refuse.
The area around the castle itself has little to detain the garden visitor - the planting is functional and self-effacing, presumably so as not to interfere with the view from within of the action on the estate's cricket ground below. Which to my mind easily outranks a helipad in the rural bragging stakes.
The walled garden is thankfully off-limits. I've never understood the typical garden visitor's fascination with inspecting what is essentially someone else's evening meal, wandering the paths looking for leeks when outside there's bound to be another Parrotia to peer at. Full marks in this instance for not subjecting one's groceries to public scrutiny.
Linking these looser sections together are meadows, recently mown and licked back into shape. All suitably soothing but one thing did catch the eye: newish Cornus kousa dotted across the grass had clearly found the summer a bit of a challenge, with scorched leaves hanging to possibly lifeless branches. They're tough plants so might well bounce back in the spring. But it doesn't help that they were having to cope with grass growing right up to their trunks. I'll say it once again and with feeling:grass is public enemy no. 1 for young trees. You've been warned.
The Folly Garden was gearing up nicely for its own autumn moment, sweetgums colouring well over an underplanting of hydrangeas and other informal woodland favourites (Euonymus alatus, etc). Plenty of new planting again confirms this isn't a garden content to rest on its laurels. Subtle interventions and re-inventions are the name of the game.
A small arboretum nearby contains some respectable hemlocks and a golden honey locust (Gleditsia triacanthos f. inermis 'Sunburst'), which together with the plethora of Parrotias, the chorus-line of cherries and, elsewhere, the downright weirdness of a walnut grove, suggests a keen interest in all things arboreal.
Cholmondeley is the very opposite of confrontational. It doesn't seek to shock or challenge. Which is not to say that it's stuck in a rut.
There are plenty of instances of innovation, even if I don't necessarily agree with all the decisions being made. (Yes, those blasted cherries again.) There's a spaciousness, an uncluttered air that means there's room to grow and develop at an unhurried pace. It's all very gentle, deliberate and considered. And unlike a certain garden close to my heart, it certainly knows not to overplay its hand.
More information here: https://cholmondeleycastle.com
