One can only sigh with pleasure and excitement. Standing before the natural splendour of a garden whose caretaker loves both cultivated plants, those that come originally from faroff points of the compass, and yet has a passion for native plants, coddling and taking joy in seeing that no orphan plants are made to feel out of place in his garden.

On Saturday I met a master gardener. I'd known natural gardeners before in my life. I had an uncle who was such a gardener. My mother-in-law discovered herself to love gardening and it was clear as her love evolved that she too was one such. And then, wonder of wonders, my daughter revealed herself to be a natural gardener, and from her I learned much.

But this man, originally from the Netherlands, obviously inherited some special gardening traits in his genes; there are such people and I believe them to be rare. I had no idea. I had just been introduced to him, as we had driven to his rural property an hour's drive or so from our urban home, for an entirely different matter between him and my husband.

Once there, however, he was welcoming, friendly and so courteous that he invited me and our two little dogs to exit the vehicle we were prepared to remain in while my husband conducted his business, and to make ourselves comfortable on his property, under gloomy skies that had momentarily relented. As I followed this straight-backed elderly man with his confident gait, his full head of pure white hair, I realized quickly that we were walking toward a special garden.

Back in early 1970, this property, he told us, had been abandoned, the farmhouse unlived in for many years. He took possession of 50 acres with his wife and they embarked on a new life in Canada. As he walked me through his extensive garden, with its fish pond, its carefully-raked pea-gravel garden, its perennials and its wonderful ornamental trees I discovered one surprise after another, moving from one micro-landscape to another.

I felt as though I was in a magic place. I hardly knew where to look first. I asked permission to take photographs of this marvellous garden, and he kindly assented. My husband and the gardener left me to my own devices as they proceeded into the house to conduct their business. The skies opened up again and a downpour ensued, so I put our little dogs back in the truck, and retrieved my camera and proceeded to take photographs. In the rain, of course.

Reviewing those photographs later with huge anticipation I was disappointed. None of them gave any visual validation of what I had seen. The garden was just too difficult to capture in photographs. In contrast, my own little garden on a city plot appears vibrant and attractive. I am in awe of the garden I saw on Saturday, and of the gardener whose work it represented.

Still, I am extremely attached to our own garden surrounding our home, and take huge pleasure in viewing it constantly; each time I glance out one of our windows, or walk into the garden I am surprised anew at the beauty I behold. Not as profound as the beauty of the garden I walked through on Saturday, but enough to satisfy me nonetheless. So it's photographs of our own garden that I post here.