Original subtitles

I believe that a really good way to understand a culture

is through its gardens.

This is an extraordinary journey

to visit 80 inspiring gardens from all over the world.

Some are very well known, like the Taj Mahal or the Alhambra.

And I'm also challenging my idea of what a garden actually is.

So I'm visiting gardens that float on the Amazon,

a strange fantasy in the jungle,

As well as the private homes of great designers,

and the desert flowering in a garden.

And wherever I go, I shall be meeting people

that share my own passion for gardens,

on my epic quest to see the world

through 80 of its most fascinating and beautiful gardens.

This week, on my journey to explore the world through its gardens,

I'm visiting the place where, for us in Britain at least, it all began.

This is where East met West, Christianity met Islam,

and where Moorish and European design collided -

the Mediterranean.

This is the cradle of western civilisation,

and certainly where the most enduring influences

on all our modern gardens have evolved.

My journey begins with the gardens of the Italian Renaissance,

and of the Roman Empire that inspired it.

Crossing the Mediterranean, I will visit Islamic gardens in Morocco,

before going north over the straits of Gibraltar

to Spain, where these two great cultures co-existed

and where I will visit one of the truly great gardens of the world.

From its beginnings, 750 years before the birth of Christ,

the city of Rome grew to control a vast empire

which dominated the whole of the Mediterranean region,

not to say the rest of Europe, until the fifth century AD.

But my first two gardens are to be found

in the nearby resort of Tivoli.

Tivoli is just an hour's drive outside Rome

and a day's journey by horse.

And since classical times, this is where those wealthy enough to do so

have chosen to have their holiday homes.

This is where they retreated from the hustle and bustle of Rome.

The climate's much kinder - the air is very sweet

and also, it has an exceptionally good water supply.

And that water is harnessed to stunning effect

in my first garden -

the Renaissance masterpiece of the Villa d'Este.

This may seem like an insignificant side street,

but it is in fact the main road from Rome,

and the garden was designed to be visited

starting from here, the bottom.

The modern visitor isn't allowed to come through here

but we've got permission, so I'll take you through.

The first thing that you notice when you come in is the sound of water,

and that is a distinct clue of what's to come.

But in general, this entrance doesn't give much away.

It's beautiful, it's quite grand, but it is deliberately understated.

However, there is this big axis running down,

with a dramatic fountain at the end.

Turn aside from this central path

and you will see one of the great water features...

and another. Water is the main theme of Villa D'Este,

and it is everywhere in the garden.

The garden was built in the 16th century as a summer palace

for Cardinal Ippolito d'Este,

and its eight acres are the most perfect example

of a High Renaissance garden.

In order to really understand this High Renaissance garden,

you need to go back to a book published in 1485

by a man called Alberti, called The Books of Architecture.

It did two things.

One, it explained the rules of Roman and Greek design,

which was so influential.

And two, it made this statement -

"Everything that nature produces is regulated by the law of harmony,

"and her chief concern is that everything should be perfect."

Now, this was incredibly liberating, because instead of seeing nature

as a hostile force that you had to protect yourself against,

you could embrace it, and use that harmony and that balance

as an expression, and that is revealed in this garden everywhere.

And above all, it allows that one element

that you see in this garden, which is control.

Ippolito d'Este, the son of Lucrezia Borgia

and a bishop from the age of two,

was one of the wealthiest and most ambitious men of his age.

Between 1550 and 1565, Pirro Ligorio, the papal architect,

was hired to design and oversee the construction of his gardens.

Ligorio plundered the ruins of nearby Hadrian's Villa,

and employed the best artists and craftsmen that money could buy.

The garden was and is a combination of allegory,

learning, history and design,

and was intended to impress every visitor with its magnificence.

The Fountains of Tivoli are probably the most important in the garden,

because it's where the water comes in,

and immediately it's harnessed to create jets and sprays

and fountains. It's played with.

The nymphaeum was a watery grotto,

and a feature borrowed directly from Roman gardens.

Originally, visitors could walk behind this cascade

eas a kind of a watery game.

This is very ornate, but it is very slippery,

so I can see why the public isn't allowed in.

But it is extraordinary to feel the power of the water falling.

The people watching us filming can have no idea

of the intensity and power of this water

that's coursing through the veins of this garden.

The garden is an extraordinary feat of hydraulic pyrotechnics,

and I asked the garden's technical assistant how it all worked.

Does it need pumps to make it work, or is it...how is it fed?

TRANSLATION: There are no pumps in this garden,

as every fountain is gravity-fed.

They all function at the same time,

and the water flows at about 500 litres per second.

This hydraulic system is still the original one,

and although some repairs have been made in the past,

every single part is faithful to the original.

'The hundreds of water features are all fed by the local river,

'and controlled by 300 sluice gates.

'Francisco shows me how this wheel can turn off the enormous fountain

'of the organ on the lower terrace.'

- OK. - Ready. - Is it stiff?

Coming off? Right. OK.

It takes almost four minutes for the water to clear

from the tallest spouts...

and just as long to get it going again.

While most of the fountains were intended to impress,

one was designed as a Renaissance joke.

The Fountain of the Owl soaks onlookers

when they inadvertently tread upon a hidden button on the ground.

This is the Walk of a Hundred Fountains,

and it's made out of three canals tiered on top of each other,

running along a 130 metre terrace.

This is not just a horticultural masterpiece.

It is also intended to represent the canal

that flows from Tivoli to Rome,

a direct metaphor for the Cardinal's intense ambition

for the papal throne at Rome.

And I think it's one of the loveliest things

that I've ever seen in a garden, anywhere in the world.

The Renaissance drew its inspiration

from the Rome of over 1,000 years earlier,

the Rome of the classical era.

Indeed, many of Villa d'Este's statues

were looted from nearby Roman sites.

The visitor finally arrives at the top of the garden,

a little weary, and certainly overcome

with the splendour and the power expressed through this garden.

You then turn to look over it,

and what you see is not just the garden,

but the landscape stretching as far as the eye can see,

and you realise the man that has made this

has control over the whole lot.

This garden is all about power.

But it's worth remembering that the man who made it, Cardinal d'Este,

never attained the power that he craved.

He never became Pope.

But what he did do was leave a legacy through his garden

that has endured for centuries.

My next garden is only a mile or two away down the hillside,

although to get to it, I have to go back 1,500 years in time.

Villa Adriana, or Hadrian's Villa,

was built in the beginning of the second century

by the Emperor Hadrian,

when the Roman Empire was at its absolute peak,

and above all, it's an expression of imperial power.

It's also a marvellous example of classical design that's gone on

to influence gardens and buildings, right to the present day.

Hadrian ruled as emperor for 21 years, from 117 to 138 AD.

His power and wealth were unmatchable.

On a personal level, he was learned, and patronised all the arts.

He built libraries, aqueducts, baths and theatres,

and is said to have had an active role in designing this villa.

More than half his reign was spent outside Italy,

travelling through the empire.

He visited Britain and initiated the building of Hadrian's Wall.

Influences from these travels, especially from Egypt

and the cult of the god Serapis, are found running through the site.

However, there is no doubt

that it looks more like an archaeological site than a garden.

The visitor sees the bare bones of the garden,

and broken bones at that.

I confess that I'm having trouble grasping the enormity of the site.

It's apparently over 280 acres big.

And not all of it has been excavated,

but what there is is just massive.

It's wrong, really, to think of it as a villa. It's a summer palace,

built by the richest and most powerful man in the world,

at the head of the largest empire that the world had ever seen.

And Hadrian drew on all the immense practicality and expertise

that made the Roman Empire so remorselessly efficient

when he made the palace.

A complicated hydraulic system was set up to create this serapeum, which was a temple,

dedicated to the Graeco-Egyptian god of the underworld, Serapis,

and would have provided a liquid firework display

which must have resembled the nymphaeum

which it directly inspired at Villa d'Este.

Water would gush out of the sides and swirl around the diners' feet,

and then, best of all, another curtain would fall

in front of these columns.

Now, this incredibly sophisticated use of hydro-engineering

set a pattern that the Arabs picked up on 500 years later,

and Renaissance gardens used 1,500 years later.

But none of them ever surpassed it in technique or mastery.

Another common feature which the Romans adopted from the Greeks

was the peristyle garden, which featured a building

wrapping itself around an inner courtyard, usually with a pool in the centre,

and a covered, colonnaded walkway around that.

The Pecali at Hadrian's Villa was originally just such a garden.

Although this area was based upon the Athenian market place

where people could stroll and chat,

it actually was designed as an exercise yard.

All round it was this enormous high wall, which was covered over,

and then there were columns, marked by the bay trees.

In the 18th century, they discovered an inscription

which said it was exactly 429 metres around.

Multiplied by seven gave you two Roman miles,

which was the perfect amount of exercise,

as decreed by Roman doctors.

So you get an insight into the Roman mind.

Amidst the splendour of the palace is this ruthless practicality.

With its integration of interior and exterior spaces,

architecture, the use of water,

and of classical mythology and symbolism in buildings and statues,

Hadrian's villa provided a model for Renaissance gardens

that drew heavily upon ancient Rome for its sources and influences.

But after the fall of the Roman Empire,

Villa Adriana was left to crumble

as Europe descended into the Dark Ages,

and it was plundered down the centuries

for its statues and stones.

But even though it's a ruin now, there is a lingering essence

that transforms it into an unlikely, but truly magical garden.

Before I leave Tivoli and its two huge, magnificent gardens,

I've noticed what look like allotments

at the bottom of the hill.

I can't resist a quick detour to visit them.

'This is Elio Bernarelli, who has been gardening on this plot

'at the foot of the Tivoli waterfall for 25 years,

'and it's where he grows all his fruit and veg.

'Elio grows everything organically,

'and it all looks lustrously appetising.'

There are grapes and poultry on his plot too,

and since my Italian is limited to ordering a cappucino,

we communicate through the language of vegetables.

- Aubergine. - Si.

And what sort of tomato is that?

- Un pantano. - Un pantano. - Pantano.

- And this? - Sanmanzano.

Sanmanzano. I grow sanmanzano too.

But mine are smaller, much smaller. Oh, well!

- Verza. - See, that is superb.

- Parsley. - Prezzemolo. - We say "parsley." Say "parsley."

- Parsley. - Parsley. There you are, you see, you're a star.

TRANSLATION: We manage to grow almost everything we need for the family.

Instead of going to the pub, I prefer to come here for fun.

When I'm here, I feel like a king.

Elio's vineyard is about three quarters of an acre,

and it's planted with two types of grapes,

one of which I'd never seen before.

TRANSLATION: These are pizzutello grapes,

that were brought here by Villa d'Este

as an ornamental plant. And it's good to eat as well.

Elio also grows grapes for wine making.

From a single row, he can produce enough fruit

to make up to 500 litres of home-made wine.

He was very keen for me to try some of last year's vintage

with some of his friends, back at his shed.

- Chin chin... - Salute!

'As the sun set, we ate local cheese,

'and tomatoes still warm from the sun that ripened them,

'all washed down with lots of Elio's wine.'

Fantastic!

No emperor or cardinal ever feasted better.

The next day, I drive on up to Bagnaia,

an impossibly picturesque medieval town north of Rome.

On a bright summer's day, the streets are flawlessly beautiful,

and decked with carefully tended flowers.

Although it's tempting to spend the day mooching about,

I am visiting for a specific reason.

I'm here in Bagnaia, for my next garden.

Not just because it is exquisitely beautiful

and worth the trip to Italy just to see this alone,

but also because for me, this is the perfect Renaissance garden.

During the Italian Renaissance,

a beautiful country villa was not just a retreat,

but also a potent expression of status.

And like Villa d'Este, this garden was created

by an ambitious cardinal, Cardinal Gambara,

who was granted the villa in 1560 by Pope Pius V.

Gambara then commissioned one of the great architects of the 16th century,

Giacomo Vignola, to redesign his summer retreat.

Nowadays, we often rather glibly refer to a "Renaissance Man",

but Vignola was the real thing,

and could just as readily carve a marble statue

as draw up the plans for a building or a garden.

As you come in, you are met with the very dramatic Fountain of Pegasus,

and this sets the tone for the whole of the garden.

You've got massive use of stonework,

really playful, inventive handling of water.

It's set in a woodland background. And there's one other crucial thing

that runs right through the rest of the garden,

and that's the classical allegory.

Pegasus, the winged horse, comes down to the ground.

And where its hoof touches the rock, there is a spark of creativity.

Heading up the hill, you go through a wooded parkland,

where the public can stroll and play.

This is the Bosco, an area that represents wild nature,

albeit still carefully controlled.

Many scholars believe that the Bosco

was a direct influence and predecessor

of the English landscape movement, 200 years later.

From the Fountain of Pegasus, the path takes you up through the wood

to the top of the garden, and it's important to see the garden

from the top, working down. It's a journey.

The combination of classical building,

a loggia with its columns and woodland,

is not so strange if you consider the Renaissance mind,

where it absorbs the wild, natural world

into philosophy and art, and design and literature,

and feels that it can control it.

It can rationalise it into something safe and beautiful.

If you think of Britain at that time,

when Shakespeare wrote A Midsummer Night's Dream,

the wood is dangerous and magical, and potentially really scary.

But here, you go from woodland and using classical imagery,

and make a garden.

Fantastic.

This is the Fountain of the Deluge.

And it refers both to rain, which is the source of all water,

and also the Flood, in the Bible.

And the water itself just looks stunning.

The design is organised along a central axis,

which is emphasised by the fountains and water courses

arranged in perfect symmetry.

And the garden only has one route down.

Follow the water.

Flowing down the middle of a flight of steps is the Water Chain,

a cascade that runs down in a series of swirling stone arabesques

before it tumbles out over a massive carved head of a crayfish,

the emblem of Cardinal Gambara.

The water then pours into the large basin of the Fountain of Giants,

where two huge stone figures recline,

representing the two great rivers of the Tiber and the Arno,

which in turn symbolise the friendship

between the Papacy in Rome and the Medici family in Florence.

And this is a symbolic reference that any educated Renaissance visitor

would have immediately spotted.

'The water then continues, amazingly,

'down the centre of this huge stone table, which is over 50ft long

'and designed specifically for al fresco entertainment.'

This dining table is the most fantastic object here in the whole garden.

Over 50ft long, could have had hundreds of guests here of the Cardinal.

And in the middle of it is this canal,

and it's icy cold. Now this is a hot July afternoon here,

it's a really warm day, and yet it's cool water.

The wine could be kept cool there, dishes would float and keep cool on the water.

And at the feet is another canal running,

and that would give the air coolness and moisture

and you could dibble your toes in there if you so wished.

Finally, the garden arrives at this.

From the wildness of the wood, we have complete formality.

Man is finally in control of nature.

Vignola created an untroubled transition

from the informality of the Bosco

to the perfect geometry of the formal parterre,

which consists of 16 squares of clipped box and yew

with coloured gravel, centred around the final large fountain,

the Fountain of the Moors,

which is in the middle of a large, square pool.

This parterre might seem like many others that can be seen attached

to grand buildings across Europe,

but in fact, it is amongst the first ever made,

and is the balanced, harmonious culmination of the garden,

with the town butting up to the wall at its edge,

ready to receive the water, now that the garden has finished with it.

Villa Lante is a masterpiece, setting the tone for almost all

that has followed in Northern European gardens,

right up to the present day.

But now it's time to leave it and continue my journey.

From Italy, my next destination is Marrakech, in Morocco,

to visit the gardens of another great Mediterranean civilisation

that has also had a fundamental influence

on the way that we still garden in the western world.

In the foothills of the Atlas mountains,

and fully 100 miles from the coast,

Marrakech might seem an odd destination

for an exploration of Mediterranean gardens.

But Islam had a huge influence on the gardens of the rest of Europe,

especially those of Spain.

The city was founded in 1062 by the Almoravid dynasty

that came from the Middle East to conquer the native Berbers.

From its inception, Marrakech was a city of gardens,

and today, on the edge of the modern city, remains an immense orchard

of nearly 1,000 acres, which can reasonably claim

to be one of the oldest intact gardens of the world.

This is the Aguedal, the royal garden here in Marrakech,

and it's one of the main reasons that I've come to Morocco.

It's the oldest untouched Arab garden in the entire world, and it's immense -

a huge garden.

And the gardeners go about their business riding bicycles.

So, I've taken a leaf out of that book, and that's how I'll get about.

I have privileged access to explore the Aguedal,

which is owned by the King of Morocco.

It was created in the 12th century and has hardly changed since.

It is composed of a series of orchards, producing figs,

citrus, dates, pomegranates, almonds, apricots, and olives.

The first thing you see about this garden

is it challenges your whole conception of what a garden is,

when a garden is a farm or a garden is a bit of landscape.

But even that is trying to fit it into a sort of westernised slot.

The fact is, this is a garden, so one has to get used to that idea.

You have to abandon the European concept

of what a garden should or should not be.

Here, function has beauty.

Water has intrinsic beauty, but even more so as it nurtures growth.

Blossom is beautiful in itself, but also as the precursor of fruit.

Everything in the garden has a usefulness

that enhances its aesthetic attraction.

These oranges, which would have been here in some form or other

for 1,000 years - not the same trees but definitely citrus here -

will have flowers that smell fantastic as you pass.

But they'll also be gathered to be used in cooking,

and also preparing your hands to wash before you eat.

So this boundary between what's useful

and what is simply delightful, just doesn't exist.

Whoops!

To tell me the story of this garden, I wanted to speak to someone

who is an expert on the gardening culture of Morocco's Islamic past.

TRANSLATION: From Spain to India, from the Alhambra to the Taj Mahal,

this is the oldest unrestored 12th century garden in existence.

Of course, the garden has changed over time -

the trees and vegetation are different.

You can't expect to have eighth or ninth century plants today.

But it is interesting that its style, design and irrigation system are all original.

Around the Aguedal is a beautiful wall of peach-coloured mud

that runs for almost eight miles.

This is typically Islamic in that, although fortified,

it is modest and plain, and doesn't hint

at the richness of fruit and water within.

Ah yes, water - for in the centre of the orchard is a vast expanse

of the most valued element of all Islamic gardens - water.

Mohammed, this is...staggering!

TRANSLATION: The lake has many functions -

primarily, it irrigates the garden's 500 hectares.

Secondly, it provided drinking water for Marrakech in the 12th century.

The water was really clear then.

But it was also used by the ruler's troops, to learn how to swim.

At that time, the Almohad Empire straddled Morocco and Andalusia,

and the soldiers had to cross the Mediterranean Sea to get to Spain,

so it would have been very dangerous not to know how to swim.

The water for it, in this parched desert country,

is bought in via subterranean canals

from the Atlas mountains, 15 miles away.

These canals were made nearly 1,000 years ago,

and still work, unchanged, exactly as built.

I think this is one of the great gardens of the world.

It's partly because it blows apart my conceptions

of what a garden should or could be. And that takes me into the heart

of the Islamic and Arabic view of the world and gardens,

and that's fascinating. Also because the engineering,

the feat of just making it 1,000 years ago, is mind-boggling.

And, after 1,000 years, it's simply just beautiful.

I go back to the centre of Marrakech and to a new hotel,

which is a riad in the heart of the Medina,

the old city of Marrakech. These can be a bit tricky to find,

but many of the riads of the Medina still have a garden.

What's fantastic about Marrakech

is that if your boundaries were really Calais

and a few points south, you're suddenly confronted with real foreignness.

All the faces and the smells and the life on the street

and people making things and fixing them

in a way that is challenging at every turn, and beautiful.

Then the streets get too narrow and my taxi can go no further,

so my luggage and I continue on foot.

I don't know where we're going!

Welcome to Marrakech!

A riad is a traditional Arabic house,

closed off from the street and built round a garden.

Bonjour. Bonjour. Ca va tres bien.

'Today, many in Marrakesh have been converted into boutique hotels.'

A-ha! This is very beautiful. This is lovely.

Yes. It's a small paradise.

It's...it's quite a big paradise! Or at least, paradise big enough.

They're known as the secret gardens of Marrakech,

because they're invariably concealed from the outside gaze

behind modest entrances.

In Islam, any display of opulence or wealth

wouldn't only be arrogant, but might also diminish your neighbour,

so the exteriors are always low-key, and the interiors private.

It's always...shocking is what I was going to say, but it's not unpleasant, it's wonderful.

It's astonishing that you come out of these little streets,

which are thronged with people and noise and strangeness,

into this calm greenness. And listen...

BIRDS CHIRP

You could be in the middle of the English countryside.

Islamic houses are built back to back,

with thick walls and few windows.

This keeps them cool, with the light coming from the cloistered garden,

which is the real focus of the Moroccan domestic life,

where the family gathers, eats, cooks, and of course, grows food.

The courtyards are enclosed,

but the roof provides a private space

with a public view over the Medina.

As the sun sets, the call to prayer echoes round the city.

The baking heat of the day cools, and I go for a walk

out onto the streets, to the Djemaa el Fna,

the city's main square.

Inevitably, tourists like myself are obvious targets for locals

touting their various wares.

A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice is refreshing, nonetheless.

Very good.

Next morning, I'm up and out bright and early.

From when Marrakech was founded in the 11th century,

right up until the 1920s,

two thirds of the Medina was given over to orchards and gardens.

But in 1912, Morocco became a protectorate of France,

and the orchard gardens rapidly declined

as the green spaces were built on.

However, there were new gardens made, and none more famously

than this one, which was created by the painter, Jacques Majorelle.

He came to Morocco in 1917 for his health,

and over the course of the next couple of decades,

made this completely unique garden.

The Majorelle Garden is a relic from the 1920s and '30s,

when the French influence was at its peak in Marrakech.

Wealthy, liberal bohemians came to the city

for its sun, culture and frankly relaxed attitude to sexual behaviour.

Many Europeans settled here and built themselves villas,

often combining local Berber and contemporary European art deco design.

Here at Majorelle, this was not so much a meeting of two cultures,

as a collision.

And out of it was created a work of art unique in Morocco,

and possibly in the whole world.

And it completely revolutionised the way that we think about using colour in gardens.

Majorelle had one extraordinary dramatic idea.

He took this blue, which he found on Moroccan tiles and on Berber houses,

and then applied it in the most dramatic way possible,

so that it dominates the garden.

Everything else, all the planting, is set against this blue backdrop.

And it is for this idea above all

that the Majorelle has a place in garden design history.

Now, this garden is not just an explosion of blue,

it's full of the most extraordinary plants,

combining colours and textures and forms,

that just are riveting.

Especially these extraordinary palms, that just soar up to the sky.

And this is because Majorelle was a fanatical plantsman.

He was an obsessive plant collector, specialising in cacti and succulents and palms,

all of which still dominate the garden.

At one point, the garden covered ten acres

with more than 1,800 varieties of plants,

including 400 varieties of palms.

I confess that the two words "plant" and "collection" usually fill me with dread.

They rarely make good gardens.

But Majorelle is the exception that proves that rule.

When Majorelle died in 1962, the garden was more or less abandoned.

But In 1981, the French fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent and his partner Pierre Berge

bought the garden and restored a good chunk of it to its original condition,

to immortalise Majorelle's creation.

This is his masterpiece and he has a painterly eye everywhere.

Nothing's natural.

Every detail is contrived, but it feels exactly right.

It's time to leave Marrakech

and head for my next destination in southern Spain.

Travelling in French colonial style,

I catch a night ride on the Marrakech Express to Tangiers.

It was built in the 1920s, to transport the French Foreign Legion,

but these days, it carries an eclectic mix of travellers.

Six... Right. Cosy.

As I sleep, surprisingly soundly,

the train takes me north to the port of Tangiers,

where I'll cross the Mediterranean to Spain,

heading first to Granada and the fabulous garden of the Alhambra.

By daybreak, we've reached Tangiers,

where I catch the hydrofoil across the straits of Gibraltar

linking Africa and Europe.

At this point, there was supposed to be a shot

where I was to tell you the significance

of this brief 45 minute trip between the two continents.

But the straits are famous for being choppy,

and I'm a landlubber through and through,

and the reality was that I spent most of the trip

with my head over the rail, donating my breakfast to the fishes

and quite unable to do more than stare silently at the horizon.

The Moors, so-called because they came from Mauritania,

the name the Romans gave to modern Morocco,

took the same route that I've just endured and invaded Spain in 711,

and the whole of Spain and modern Portugal was under Muslim rule

by the 10th century.

Islam dominated Spain for nearly 700 years,

which is longer than Christianity has done since.

It was a highly tolerant, civilised society,

where Muslim, Jewish and Christian communities peacefully co-existed

and gardens were an important part of the culture.

I'm here to visit the last great surviving garden of that period, The Alhambra.

This plain, fortified, rather austere gateway

is typical of the Islamic approach to palaces and gardens,

but doesn't even hint at the treasures inside.

The Alhambra is truly one of the great gardens of the world.

It's one I know a little bit - I once spent four days and nights within its walls,

and yet I haven't exhausted its treasures.

You can see - there are thousands, millions of people who visit here every year.

And certainly, if you want to understand how the Islamic mind

has changed the whole way that Europeans garden,

then you have to come here.

The Alhambra is the oldest extant Arabian palace garden in the world.

Rather than one coherent garden,

it is an integrated complex of palace buildings and gardens,

perched on top of 35 acres of hillside.

It was originally built during the Nasrid dynasty by Sultan Mohammed,

who ruled Granada from 1238.

What we now see in the Alhambra

consolidates 600 years of Islamic-European culture.

In traditional Islamic style,

it was intended to be an earthly paradise,

a mirror of heaven, based upon ancient Persian gardening principles

of water, symmetry and enclosed spaces.

Water, either gently moving or in reflective pools,

is always the core of any Islamic garden.

The surface mirrors the perfect poise and symmetry of the buildings

and planting, as well as catching light and throwing it up

into the cool but dark courtyards.

Inside the dark buildings, the ornate richness is staggering.

Outside, the luxury is one of coolness, privacy, light and water.

This is the Court of the Myrtles,

where the only plant is myrtle in long hedges,

cut at the perfect height to brush your hands along

and so be trailed by its deliciously musky scent.

And if you can imagine, from these windows you would have, maybe, tapestries hanging, carpets.

This very clean and simple space would have also had silks

and cushions, and gorgeously dressed people.

And this was a court in the true sense.

The timing of the buildings,

mainly from the middle of the 13th century to the middle of the 14th,

coincides with the development of irrigation,

and are an expression of the way that water,

in this harshly arid region, can be harnessed for pleasure.

The water here, in all its guises, is a display of wealth

that couldn't be more impressive had it been molten gold.

The highest point of the Alhambra is the Generalife,

the summer hunting lodge where the Sultan could escape

the intrigue of court.

This is the Patio of the Canals.

Ironically, the avenue of water spouts,

probably the most famous feature of the entire Alhambra,

is unlikely to be an original Moorish feature,

because it would have been too noisy,

and competed with the gentle music playing for the Sultan's pleasure.

But the water stairway on the steps up to the mosque is original,

and is unchanged since it was built in the 14th century.

The water runs down the banisters along these steps.

Originally, it would have run down the middle too.

And instantly, you're in a sort of cool, slightly damp, green tunnel.

It's lovely. It feels really refreshing after the baking heat.

It actually had a more serious purpose,

because these steps led to the oratory,

and the idea was, you would wash yourself

and prepare yourself before prayer.

And it's so typical that you get this combination

of the sacred and the sensuous, all in a garden.

The whole of Spain was gradually reclaimed

by Christian crusaders, until, in 1492,

the Alhambra was the last Islamic outpost to fall

and the last of the Moorish rulers, Boabdil, was driven out of Spain.

But it survives as a glorious monument

to one of Europe's greatest, and perhaps least appreciated, cultural heritages.

Another Spanish city founded deep in Moorish culture

is Cordoba, 60 miles north of Grenada.

I've timed my visit here

to coincide with the annual festival of patio gardens.

In 1236, Cordoba was recaptured by the Catholics.

The remaining Arab population fled to the Moorish stronghold of Granada,

ruled from the Alhambra.

There are reports from the 10th century Moorish Cordoba

of thousands of gardens in and around the city.

There are still many there today, and the chief feature of them

is that they are patio or courtyard gardens.

For two weeks every May,

the city celebrates the Festival of the Patios,

where hundreds of people open up their homes

to show off their gardens.

The idea is for people to walk around the city,

visiting as many patios as possible.

Houses marked with two cypress trees

indicate that anyone can walk in and take a look.

Some of the patios are small and intimate, others are grand.

All are decked out in floral finery,

with the plants almost entirely in pots.

In the sweltering heat, these need watering at least twice a day,

and every patio has a well that supplies water for the plants,

which is good enough to drink.

That is, if first you can get it in your mouth.

OK...OK.

Now, you know I'm about to put water over most of my front. OK?

WOMAN LAUGHS

Very good!

Classic Cordoba pot.

It's got the flat back. It's fantastic.

Cordoba was an industrial city,

and as people came from the countryside looking for work,

families would occupy a room or two of the large, square buildings

built around courtyards on three or four floors.

The patios became communal living spaces, where people washed, ate and entertained each other.

They also became communal gardens

with a few plants, nearly always in pots.

In the late 20th century, these communal buildings became rarer

as Spain became more affluent,

and more people could afford to live in self-contained homes.

But many still treat the courtyard as their garden,

and spend an important part of their lives in there.

I've been invited to visit a group of people

who still share their communal living space.

- Hola! - Hello! - Hello.

Come in.

Bueno. Este es el patio.

It's beautiful! It's extraordinary, and it's beautiful.

- You're drinking, eating, having a nice time. - That's right.

- Yeah. - Sit down. - OK. Yeah, I'm very happy to join you.

So, who does the work?

- Who looks after it? - Well, I think, everybody.

You're retaining the traditions of communal living,

of sharing the space.

We met, you know, in a renting place, in a...in a block of flats.

Five people decided to buy a place, you know,

where they can be together. So we meet, we cook, we drink.

So we have fun.

Everyone looks after their own doorstep

and their own bit of wall, but each year, they communally agree

on a scheme to give the patio one cohesive design.

How do you decide the sort of artistic decisions?

- I mean, for example, who decided to put that rose up the tree? - You have to negotiate a little bit.

But it works, doesn't it?

And it's a very nice feeling, sitting here.

It feels like a good space to be in.

We don't plan to...to make up, you know, a paradise,

but, in the end, you know, it is.

MUSIC AND SINGING

We eat and drink very well, but this is Spain,

and by midnight, the night is just beginning.

The streets are full of people looking for a party

and, amazingly, still looking for gardens to visit.

Having spent all day visiting patios here in Cordoba,

I have no hesitation in thinking

that they are one of the great gardens of the world,

gardens where people live and eat and work,

and of seeing where they party and party really well.

That seems to me a complete celebration of gardening.

These are special.

PEOPLE SING

After a few hours' sleep,

I'm up to catch the eight o'clock train to Madrid.

It's near the end of my journey,

but for my last visit, I'm off to meet someone

whose work I admire almost more than any other living garden designer.

He's someone who seems to have distilled all the different strands

of Mediterranean culture -

classical, through Islamic and modern Christian influences

into one coherent style, combining a feeling for landscape, gardens,

spirituality and philosophy that I find thrilling.

This is a new phase in the journey,

because we're off to see Mr Caruncho.

Now, Caruncho is in my opinion, without doubt,

one of the great garden designers.

We've got the opportunity to meet him in his own home.

Now, for me that's fantastic - I go as a fan.

And I really want to find out how all this weight of history

and cultural depth is reflected in his work in modern-day Spain.

As befits a former student of philosophy,

Fernando Caruncho's work reflects his knowledge of both classical antiquity,

and Spain's Moorish history.

He's fascinated by the deep relationship that man has with the landscape,

and has experimented with agricultural crops

as materials for his gardens, like his spectacular wheat garden

at the Mas de les Voltes on Spain's Costa Brava,

which brought him international recognition.

This is very beautiful, Senor Caruncho. How nice to see you.

'Senor Caruncho's home is just outside Madrid.

'As I arrive, he greets me with his son, Pedro.'

- How do you do? - Er...Peter. - Hello, Peter.

This is fantastic. It is wonderful.

It's fantastic to... for you to be in our garden.

This is our dog. He is old. Yes, he's very old. He's very old.

- This is very beautiful. - Ah! Thank you, Monty.

And this is the garden, you know, in reality, like a cloister.

It's a cloister, open in one part from the nature.

Although completely modern,

evidence of Spain's Islamic heritage is clear to see.

The exterior of the house is almost windowless.

It's warm, strong, but closed,

balanced between modesty and privacy.

The large pond dominates what Caruncho calls the central cloister

at the back of the building,

and seems to come right up and almost into to the house.

And the water reflects the buildings,

the clipped contours of the escallonia on the opposite bank,

and above all, the light.

To me, the central idea is to control the light.

The cloister in the middle is to control the light,

because it's very, very strong.

This is this idea of the box,

to do the contrast between the shadow and light, empty and full space,

mineral and vegetable, and in the middle, the water.

All the wall of the garden is reflecting in the water.

And these reflections of the light produce a vibration of light.

Very characteristic of the Islamic gardens.

In reality, it's a sacred space.

So do you think that this attitude is common

in the ordinary Spanish gardener?

Yes. Yes, because, the Spanish people have the garden inside absolutely.

Inside us.

Because it's a very strong memory.

- May I see round your garden? - Oh, thank you, thank you, Monty.

I'd like to...to show you with Peter, eh? Con Pedro.

Everything in Fernando Caruncho's garden is very simple,

strong and poised.

The columns and colonnades reflect the classical orders

that are so evident in Renaissance gardens,

but there are none of the surface embellishments of Islamic art.

His planting is restrained, but very subtly and skillfully clipped

to weave a contour to mimic an entire hillside

within the small space.

In many gardens, there would be the temptation

to embellish and add, and...

- and have many different plants. - Mmm-hmm. I like it to be simple,

like a natural. The nature don't have a lot of things,

and the majority of our gardens have three, four species of trees...

three or more species of shrubs...

- Two, three species of, erm, plants to... Climb. - Climbers. Yes.

And the flower is just to give colour and smell.

The splendour of one moment of the garden.

At the centre of this garden, as with all Caruncho's work,

is a profound connection with the spirit of the place.

It has an almost mystical relationship

with the essence of the landscape.

His real genius is to express this with the material resources

available to every gardener.

When you go in the stairs and you... you are in the...

in the high part of the garden, you arrive in this church,

And when you are up in this church,

you discover the character and the landscape,

and you are...immediately out of you.

This...this is really... it's like a little pilgrimage.

I understand completely.

You don't need to read a book to understand a garden.

You are inside the garden.

You are in the middle.

And in this moment, you're beginning to be transformed.

My brief jaunt round the gardens of the Mediterranean

has revealed how they reflect the strength

of two very different cultures - the Classical and Islamic.

It's also shown me how both have enriched

and informed each other from very earliest times.

So it feels fitting to finish here,

in Fernando Caruncho's thoroughly modern garden,

that synthesises not just the physical,

but the spiritual elements of both cultures.

That was one of the best meetings of my life.

I knew I loved his gardens, but I tell you, I love the man.

He's completely in tune with the way that I see the world,

and what he's done is to refresh me and inspire me.

I want to go and look at gardens completely differently now.

Join me next time,

as I visit a country with amazing indigenous flora.

A nation that is forging a new identity for itself

through appreciation of its environmental wonders -

South Africa.

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