Summers in Rochester haven’t changed in over a quarter century. They still carry the same vibe. I can attest to this from personal experience. When I was a child growing up in the North End of New Bedford, my father, John DeCicco, frequently took me to Snow’s Pond, where his cousin owned a cottage and we had a key that let us past a padlock-chained road to enjoy swimming and picnicking.

            Today, the roads we traveled to the cottage are still mostly pristine scenes of modest homes and open fields in shades of green and tree-bark brown. There’s still a crisp smell of pine and fresh air. Back then, “The Country Whip” near the top of Robinson Road had just opened. The same ice cream cone sign there now marked the spot (or it’s an exact replica of the original one). The only ice cream flavor choices then, though, were vanilla or coffee.

            Just past the “Entering Rochester” sign on Robinson Road, the “Ponderosa” was already open, though then my young mind wondered if it had any connection to the “Bonanza” television show. We’d pass the “Hartley Saw Mill” shack that’s still there on Hartley Road. A little farther down the road, I saw the early frame of the Rochester Memorial School.

            Then we arrived at my favorite place to swim as a child and my favorite memory of my late father. The visit to the cottage was our regular routine, Saturdays and Tuesdays in the summer (mom never liked going to the beach but also must have known that father-son time was important).

            Dad was the oven man at a baking company in New Bedford, and those two days were his only time off. His hands were rough (he was an army veteran of World War II, Pacific Theater, Philippines), but his touch was gentle when he made sure I was dry and clean after a day of swimming there, and he checked me for rashes.

            Old tire inner tubes were available at the cottage in place of the typical store-bought inflatable swimming tubes for floating in from the pond shore. They were a lot bigger, for sure. But I did end up with a red rash once or twice.

            I remember my dad’s patience on those days. Patience with my boyish energy back then. Patience as my older cousins that we sometimes brought along tried to get pop tunes from WPRO on his scratchy AM radio. The only time I ever saw him angry was when my younger cousin Jimmy spilled his ice cream (from “Country Whip”, of course) all over the back seat of his car. He stopped the car halfway down Hartley Road to tell Jimmy he was licking the cone the wrong way. I learned the right way to lick an ice cream cone that day!

            He called our “Snow’s Pond” destination, “Phil’s Cottage.” Only years later did I learn it was named after a cousin, Philomena. Maybe he didn’t want my young mind confused by his nickname for his female cousin.

            He always gave me a choice of going to “Phil’s Cottage” or “Mary’s Pond” (when it was more of a sandy beach). I always chose the cottage. I was more comfortable there. It meant more peaceful, quiet privacy.

            I dare say these attributes are more of what the summer swimming areas of Rochester and the roads that lead to them offer even today. Let it always be so. Rochester, thank you for the memories!

By Michael J. DeCicco

            Note: This is the first part of a series exploring Europe’s diverse landscapes and gardens, from formal designs to wild, natural beauty. The goal is to share my love for both cultivated and untouched nature.

            Travel, even today, is still fundamentally about exploration and discovery. When you travel for an extended period, it’s a delight for both the mind and the soul. I tend to capture these experiences mentally, as well as through my camera, and by taking detailed notes whenever I venture beyond my home. Whether it’s a visit to Walden Pond or a distant, far-flung destination, my approach is to stay open and let my senses absorb everything around me.

            Reflecting on my experiences from a month ago feels like a journey through time, especially when I think about the trees and gardens that have stood for centuries. It’s fascinating to realize how the landscapes I explored this summer are as unique as the people who created them – ranging from the Tudor monarch Henry VIII to the surrealist painter Salvador Dalí. The beauty of these gardens lies in their magical quality, born from imagination and vision.

            My adventure started in England and ended in southern Spain, with France and the Costa Brava in northern Spain in between. The purpose of the journey was my daughter’s wedding in the south of France, and around that the itinerary was shaped. We touched down in late June to London’s welcoming weather. A full-blown English summer is rare, but our three-day stint exceeded all expectations: dry, sunny, 80-ish temperatures; summer as good as it gets anywhere! After an extensive walk through Hyde and Kensington Parks, the heat moved us to remove our footwear and paddle in the Princess of Wales Memorial Fountain while children did the same. Hey, when in Rome (er London)!

            As always, part of my personal agenda would be looking at gardens and hoping to learn something new. As in my past travels here, my overwhelming realization was that England is one big, well-tended garden! In the height of summer this was peak floral season with explosions of growth of classic flowers that define English gardens: delphinium, roses, hardy geraniums, foxglove, poppies, hollyhock, and sundry tropicals. The flush of leaf growth on the trees that canopy meadows, roads and London’s lovely parks showed the mastery of planning such plantings.

            The London plane tree, impervious to pollution and known for its flaky, camouflage bark, caught my eye as it framed views of such architectural wonders as the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey are as ubiquitous as red telephone booths and double-decker buses here. Walking the banks of the Thames in Richmond, I marveled at the age of the trees, imagining how it might have looked as Henry VIII sailed past on his barge headed home to Hampton Court. Talk about aging gracefully (the trees, not the king!).

            After touring Hampton Court Palace absorbing its storied past, we wandered its vast grounds. Just a few acres of its 60 acres are dedicated to assorted gardens. I’d had a glimpse of the grounds from inside and was utterly amazed at the green architecture that met me in the sunny outdoors: ancient trees sculpted to perfection. “How do they do it?” I wondered.

            I paused at the sight of the yew trees that fanned out in avenues in the great fountain garden. These ancient yews grew to their present height (between 33 and 66 feet) when Lancelot “Capability” Brown, known for his naturalistic landscaping, allowed them to grow more freely in the 18th century – resulting in gigantic topiaries.

            Formerly part of the monarch’s hunting park, this area is what you think of when you imagine palace gardens: rows upon rows of perennial borders flanking the outer walls of the castle, like foundation plantings on a grand scale. This area became more colorful with the introduction of seasonal and flamboyant bedding displays under Queen Victoria when the gardens were opened to the public in 1838.

            Over time and under different monarchs, the gardens have undergone alterations as with the transformation of the Pond Gardens. These sunken compartments of Henry’s ponds were stocked with fish for the palace kitchens but by 1690 the ponds had been drained. Queen Mary II thought it an ideal site to house the collection of ‘exotic’ plants she brought with her from the Netherlands… today these gardens are famed for their dazzling array of spring and summer flowers.

            Looking at the map given to me on the tour, I noted how the various compartments of garden space served the palace. From the Privy Garden with its hornbeam bower and cut parterres of pyramid yews and round-headed holly trees interspersed with summer annuals to the exotic Orangery Garden to the Rose Garden (with statues of Flora, Adonis, and Abundance within a fragrant cloud of scented roses) to the Wilderness Maze not to mention the Long Water and Tennis Courts, there seemed to be a garden for every sort of purpose. The Home Park, once part of Henry’s hunting ground, has today become a Site of Special Scientific Interest: its acid grassland and ancient oak and lime trees providing habitat for a variety of rare insects and other wildlife including a 300-strong herd of fallow deer derived from the king’s original stock.

            I would be remiss not to mention the Great Vine, located in the lower Orangerie in a sheltering glasshouse, planted by “Capability” Brown in 1768. After 250 years, the vine is still going strong, producing an average of 500 pounds of fine dessert grapes each year. The Great Vine came as a cutting from the Black Hamburg Vine in Essex, which no longer survives.

            As with all travel, we were momentarily transported to another time and space, but only temporarily. New adventures beckoned as we boarded the Eurostar to Paris, the train sweeping past vast, rolling landscapes that revealed the agricultural heart of Northern France. I couldn’t help but feel as though I was collecting a gallery of images: rich fields, quaint villages, and open skies – to fuel my imagination long after the journey had ended.

The Seaside Gardener

By Laura McLean