Lisa Comfort
Jazzy Rose Flowers
There’s something sacred about Lisa’s flower field. It’s not just rows of colour and scent—it’s a space of quiet healing, of meaning stitched gently into the soil. “The field feels like a service,” explains Lisa, her voice soft with reflection. “A space to soothe, to offer something deeper than flowers in a vase.”
Tucked away in Chipperfield, just beyond the steady hum of the M25, lies the two-acre flower field—wild, vibrant, and hand-built by one woman determined to rebuild her life from the roots up. This is Jazzy Rose Flowers, named after founder Lisa Comfort’s daughter. Lisa began the venture in January 2023 with no experience in farming, just a head full of dreams and a heart ready for change. “There were no flowers until May that first year,” she recalls, “just mud and blind optimism.” Now, two years later, the field blooms under her care. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but also the most beautiful.”
Before flowers, there was sewing. Lisa ran Sew Over It, a successful London-based sewing business she launched at 28. “It suited me then,” she says. “The pace, the people, the energy. During the pandemic, we had our best year yet. But then everything shifted, divorce, lockdowns and I craved something quieter. Slower. Something more rooted.”
That longing led her away from the city and toward the soil. “I needed calm,” she explains. “I needed something healing. Out here, I found it. The solitude, the seasons, the sound of seedlings waking in the cold, there’s a peace in that.”
The spark came unexpectedly during a talk by gardener and writer Sarah Raven. “She spoke about growing cut flowers for your home, all year round,” Lisa says. “I wasn’t much of a gardener, but something in me lit up.” That evening, she bought Raven’s book, built raised beds in her small Walthamstow garden, and squeezed in a tiny greenhouse. “By spring, I had armfuls of flowers. I filled every vase, gave them to neighbours, it was pure joy.”
Volunteering at a flower farm soon after became a turning point. “It was meant to fill time, but it planted something much bigger,” Lisa says. “I started dreaming. Could I actually do this?” She dove into research, books, podcasts, hands-on learning, soaking everything in. “It was like I was uncovering a part of myself I’d never met before and I discovered how to let go. How to move with change instead of resisting it.”
She believes it’s why so many women find their way to flower farming later in life. “There’s a reclaiming that happens,” she says. “A reshaping of who you are—beyond ‘mum,’ beyond the quiet sacrifices.” Though her daughter doesn’t live with her full-time, Lisa knows that mental space is never truly empty. “Creativity doesn’t bloom when you’re being pulled in every direction. But out here, I have room to breathe. To dream.”
What keeps her going through harsh winters and demanding summers? “It’s the future,” she says. “Always looking ahead. A cleared bed isn’t just mud, it’s a blank canvas. There’s always something to grow, something to improve.”
And beneath the petals and prettiness lies a grit few get to see. “People don’t realise, I dug the trenches, drove the digger, built the fences, installed the water system. It was me. Alone. Doing the groundwork,” she says. “I used to be the girl with lipstick and manicures. Now I’m weathered and barefaced and feel more myself than ever.”
Her efforts haven’t gone unnoticed. Lisa recounts one moment that stays with her: “My dad came to visit that first summer, when the field was finally in full bloom. He’d only ever seen the mud, the mess, the tiredness. But that day, with flowers swaying around us and the buzz of life in the air, he looked at me and said, ‘This is incredible, Lisa.’ And something inside me settled. Like, maybe I’d really done something meaningful.”
Lisa wakes at 4:30, always starting with a cup of tea. By six, she’s in the field with a flask in hand, walking slowly. “That’s my moment,” she says. “No emails. No questions. Just light, growth, and a day ahead.”
There’s no fixed schedule. Weather and plants dictate everything. “If rain’s coming, I work outside first. If it’s cold, I’m in the polytunnel.” Spring is a blur, sowing, planting, cutting, each task led more by feel than clock.
Tea breaks anchor the day. “It’s my reward,” she laughs. “Even if it’s just ten minutes, I always sit down for it.” Lunch comes early, and then the day splits, work, pause, then a return to the field in the golden hush of evening. “It’s like the morning again,” she says. “Softer, slower.”
In summer, she rarely watches TV. “What’s the point, when it’s so beautiful outside?” she shrugs. “That’s what winter’s for.”
And when winter comes, everything slows. The field quiets. Lisa does too. “It’s still a full day, but by four, the light’s gone and so has my energy,” she says. Winter tasks are heavier, clearing, lifting, wheelbarrows through mud. “It’s tiring. But then I get in, light candles, run a hot bath, pour a glass of wine. Bliss.”
It’s a beautiful, hopeful kind of morning, Lisa, standing at the edge of her field in mid-March. “It’s the sort or day that tricks you into thinking spring’s really here. Overhead, a distant plane hums through a sky laced with birdsong, and the air holds that crisp clarity that only comes after a long winter stretch.
Lisa and Poppy, her 14-year-old poodle, take their usual slow loop around the field. “It’s our daily reckoning,” she laughs. “By the time we’re back, the to-do list is already longer than I’d like.”
Inside the greenhouse, she checks her seedlings, affectionately calling them “my darlings.” Their leaves are still curled in sleep, but they stand upright and resilient. “This weather’s tricky,” she explains. “It’s too dry during the day and too damp at night. It’s a delicate balance.” Some seedlings are swaddled in fleece or tucked into a mini greenhouse inside the polytunnel, as they made it through the night. “That feels like a little win,” she says.
As the clock nudges toward half seven, light spills gently over the field. “The birds are full of it today,” she smiles, pausing to listen. “I often wonder how their songs change with the seasons—how spring’s chorus might differ from late summer’s hush. These are the things you start to notice when you spend your mornings alone in a field.”
Outside, trays of seedlings sway in the breeze. “They’re hardening off,” she explains. “I stroke them every morning - helps strengthen the stems, but also... it just feels right. Like sending them out into the world with love.”
The field is stirring. Geums unfurl with flashes of tangerine, wallflowers blush with early colour, and honesty glimmers silver. “Some I’ll dry, others I’ll cut while the field’s still lean,” she says. The daffodils and tulips have faded. “Too warm, not enough chill” - but the ranunculus are glowing. “They love the edges of the polytunnel where water gathers. They’re thriving.”
There’s plenty of work: seedlings to prick out, beds to mulch. “But this is also when it all feels worth it,” Lisa says. “Every green shoot is a promise kept.”
In the seedling tunnel, rows of new life stretch upward. “It’s just a small space - two and a half metres wide, maybe six long - but to me, it’s a cathedral of beginnings,” she says. Warm and humid, it cradles the early stages. She brushes her hand gently over a tray. “Hope you slept well,” she whispers. Some seedlings are ready to move on to bigger trays. “I just need ten of me to do it all.”
She’s pricking out phlox, soft, romantic shades named crème brûlée, cherry caramel, blushing bride. “They’re perfect for weddings,” she says. “Not for gifts, really, but florists adore them. And they grow best in the tunnel.”
As she works, she reflects. “People talk about a ‘labour of love.’ I used to say that about my old job - but now I get it. This is hard work, but it’s also joy. I live here. The field is home.”
Even in the heat, she wouldn’t be anywhere else. “I can’t imagine life without this. It’s changed me completely. I used to get bored so easily, but now I’ve learned to move with the seasons. It’s transformed how I see the world.” Surprise sunny days once thrilled her, but now they make her nervous.
Next up: punching holes in Mypex fabric to help lock in moisture for bronze and regular fennel, maybe some dill too. “It’s slow work,” she nods, “but it’s the rhythm of the field. And I’ve come to love that.
Then she heads to the main flower field to harvest for orders. The ranunculus from the tunnel catch her eye first - vibrant, bursting with colour. “Next, I’m cutting lovage,” she adds, describing it as an elegant cousin of parsley with big, graceful petals. Then there’s the Ami, a tall beauty reaching almost three meters. “I’m hoping for three successions in the tunnel by season’s end.” The clary sage is almost ready too, though she won’t cut it yet. “Purple, pink, white - stunning,” she smiles. “I can’t wait to see how it sells.”
She picked her first sweet pea this morning. “The scent - there’s nothing like it,” she breathes. Not quite ready to sell, but soon. She moves on to the biennials, checking the sweet rocket. “It’s just starting to bloom. I’m deciding if it’s ready to harvest or needs a few more days.” The honesty seed is early this year. “I’ll leave it to set seed, then cut it dry, perfect for Christmas sales.”
The sweet rocket stems are already a meter long and looking strong. The geum flowers - especially tangerine and Mai Tai - are growing beautifully. “The Mai Tai stems are much longer than when I first planted them,” she notes. “Watching them grow never gets old. It’s a joy that’s hard to put into words.”
She tends to dahlias, though germination hasn’t gone well this season. “The conditions just haven’t been right—too hot, too dry.” She shakes her head but stays determined. Next are snapdragons, strawflowers, scabious, and malope. “There’s a lot to do, but I’m loving every moment.”
Lisa tucks herself inside the flower house, carefully prepping stems for a local florist’s bouquets. “First, I lay everything out and condition the flowers, makes them fresh and easier to work with,” she says. Today’s palette is bright: ranunculus in fiery oranges and soft pinks, Sweet Williams just beginning to bloom, and clary sage with its tall, spiky purple flowers. Apple mint adds a fresh green scent, while Diablo physocarpus brings deep maroon foliage into the mix. Vibrant tangerine geums, white viburnum pom-poms, and purple and white sweet rocket complete the gathering.
With Poppy padding alongside, Lisa wanders to the field’s edge where grasses sway softly in shades of pink. “I cut a generous handful, these will add just the right magic to the bouquets.” Passing the peonies, tucked in a quiet patch away from deer, who, she notes, won’t eat them. “These were planted two years ago,” she explains. “We’ll cut most of the buds this year - just leave two per plant. They need strength, not show.” It’s tough, especially with the May Gap - the awkward pause between spring bulbs and summer annuals. “Peonies fill that gap. But not this year.”
Back inside, she begins building the bouquet. “I start with viburnum for structure,”then geums, just a little taller, and a few Guelder Rose blooms.” She folds in ranunculus - pink, orange, and a single deep magenta for contrast - twisting stems carefully to create a rounded hand-tied bunch. Mint circles the edges last, lending its unmistakable fragrance. “I can almost see someone picking this up and being hit by that fresh scent,” she smiles.
Each bouquet feels like a personal gift. “Every time I make one, I think, ‘This would be perfect in my home.’ But then I remind myself, ‘No, it’s for someone else to enjoy.’”
And her flowers are enjoyed not just for their beauty, but for the solace they offer. She recalls a quiet moment shared by a father, daughter, and granddaughter—three generations walking slowly among the blooms, remembering a recent and personal loss. “There was something cathartic in that moment,” she says. “It’s not like choosing flowers from a sterile brochure. It’s coming to the place your loved one walked, loved, lived.” Here, flowers aren’t simply bought, they’re part of a lived experience, grown with intention and witnessed in real time. “That’s the power of seeing things grow,” she reflects. “You’ve lost someone, but life continues. The flower keeps growing. The world keeps turning. And somehow, that helps us keep going too.”
