Alan Titchmarsh: I'm always asked about 'creating a sensory garden', and my answer is always the same

'We want to make a sensory garden.’ I’ve lost count of the times I have been asked to advise on such a request. I try to be patient, to smile and present what I hope is an accommodating expression.

The thing is that every garden is a sensory garden; it simply requires awareness in terms of observation, tactility and well-developed olfactory, nasal and aural sensibilities in order to be appreciated to the full. Who would not want a garden that looked beautiful and offered fragrance, flavours and floral variety in terms of touch, taste and smell? These things are all present in a well-tempered garden, but how often do we overlook the joy of sound, apart from birdsong?

True enough, the avian population is the prime source of our aural pleasure: the twittering of sparrows in our huge bay tree always makes me smile. They foregather in late afternoon to regale each other with the events of their day, or so I imagine. Why else would they chatter for so long, unless they had enjoyed an eventful few hours foraging hither and yon?

I love the elaborate high-pitched complexity of the wren’s vocalising deep within the box and the yew, the fussy blethering of the bluetit and the eventide coloratura of the blackbird perched upon our chimney. When the air is still at the end of a summer’s day, no pleasure can compare with sitting on a garden bench, glass in hand, listening to that elaborate a cappella. Does he make up a new song every evening? Who is it for? Is it territorial or simply a way of expressing joy? Who knows for sure?

Edward Thomas summed up that often unexpected feeling of oneness with Nature in Adelstrop, about the station where the steam train drew up ‘unwontedly’. ‘Someone cleared his throat’ and, as the train sighed and steamed alongside the platform, Thomas was entranced:

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

That poem, written in 1915 and reflecting on a day he experienced in June 1914, is a reminder of the power not only of one of our greatest poets, but also of the rich and varied sounds of the countryside — and the garden.

A gently trickling stream is relaxing, provided the flow is gentle and not a raging torrent, although even swift-moving water, tumbling and splashing over boulders, is wonderfully effective at masking the sound of traffic. (I am told there are waterfall tuners in Japan whose sole aim is to encourage a watercourse to create a pleasing sound and eliminate any suggestion of a horse relieving itself. Nice to know...)

The sound of the breeze rustling the leaves of trees assures us that not all winds are gales that need to be named with irritating regularity. Words such as ‘susurration’ and ‘psithurism’ (the ‘p’ is silent), from the Greek psithuras — whispering — remind us that a gentle zephyr can be a friendly companion on an otherwise sultry day.

Rosamunde Pilcher, who wrote The Shell Seekers, is fond of wind ‘soughing in the branches of the trees’. It’s not a word you hear much nowadays, soughing, but that gentle moaning of branches at the mercy of a strong breeze is likely to awaken in us more unease than the gentle susurration of bamboo foliage when caught by a sudden gust.

Listen out for the thrush cracking open a snail shell using a paving stone or boulder as an anvil and rest assured that there will be one less mollusc foraging among your hostas tonight.

True enough, not all garden sounds are pleasing: the roaring leaf blower, the rasping chainsaw, the clattering hedge trimmer, the whining strimmer or the deafening engine of the rotary mower can send you into an apoplectic rage as they rend the air. Then there is the creaking gate: handy at letting you know that someone is on their way up the garden path, but still profoundly irritating. Do locate that oil can...

None of these sounds is as likely to soothe as the swish of a sharp scythe through the long summer grass. Neither will the hiss of a pressure washer ever give you as much pleasure as the rhythmic sound of a broom clearing the terrace of fallen leaves. It is the gentle and the comforting sounds in the garden that please us the most. Do not underestimate their ability to settle the nerves and calm the soul.

'Chatsworth: The gardens and the people who made them' by Alan Titchmarsh (Ebury, £35) is out now

This feature originally appeared in the January 21, 2026 issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.