Our flying visit to Cornwall was punctuated by heavy showers and sunny spells. Farmland around St Agnes was sodden, little tin streams swollen and beaches stripped bare by the storm tides. But where there was shelter one could still find the odd red campion (Silene dioica) in bloom and the curious vanilla scented flowers of the winter heliotrope (Petasites fragrans). The rounded leaves emerge shortly before pale pink flowers, which stand proud against the elements. Petasites fragrans is particularly easy to spot in winter, forming swathes of cool green against an otherwise dull backdrop of last year’s tired foliage and charcoal-grey hedgerows.

What is marvellous about gardening is that one is always discovering new things. Last weekend I spotted this pretty Leptospermum, flowering its socks off by the war memorial in St Ives, Cornwall. The fine foliage and delicate blossoms were a welcome sight beneath the leaden sky. The flowers of L. scoparium ‘Coral Candy’ are double, pink and heavily blushed at the edges, creating the illusion of tender cherry-blossom.

Leptospermums form woody bushes like rosemary and look as if they could be Mediterranean natives. Their origins, however, lie thousands of miles across the world in New Zealand and Australia where they flourish on poor, dry soils. Although my brushes with Leptospermum are sadly limited to florists’ shops, this much I knew already. What I hadn’t twigged is that I know this aromatic shrub by two other names. The first is mānuka, quickly confirming it as the main nectar source for the fashionable, miraculous honey of the same name. Mānuka honey is believed to have antibacterial properties, although scientists appear less convinced. Toothsome and expensive it has been recommended to me as a treatment for ailments as varied as the common cold, tonsilitis and mouth ulcers. Whether it works or not I couldn’t say, but it tastes better than any other medicine I know, with the exception of malt whiskey.

A Maori word, mānuka can be translated as tea tree, revealing L. scoparium‘s most recognised epithet. When Captain Cook reached the islands of New Zealand in 1769 he is believed to have used the bush to make a Vitamin C-rich infusion for his crew. Leptospermum is not to be confused with the plant from which tea tree oil is extracted, which is another member of the myrtle family, Melaleuca alternifolia. So, far from being just a florist’s filler flower (which is prone to dropping all its needle-like leaves in a heated room), Leptospermum scoparium is a bit of a multi-tasker. In the UK, named varieties are hardy in mild areas and are available in white and shades of pink and red. L. ‘Burgundy Queen’ bears especially ravishing double red flowers that would look great as a backdrop to late flowering tulips. For bridal white blooms another double, L. ‘Wiri Linda’, looks like a good choice. These and L.‘Coral Candy’ are available from Burncoose Nurseries.  As well as gracing your spring garden, a collection of these pretty shrubs could be the foundation for a lucrative honey empire!

Venturing out of the terrace doors this morning I am hit, full frontal, by the scent of Christmas Box, Sarcococca ruscifolia. The fragrance coming from the feathery white flowers is sweet, honeyed, almost sickly. Just one tiny sprig in the kitchen is filling the house with its delicious scent as I write this post. Unassuming and tolerant of difficult conditions, Sarcococca ruscifolia is a superb winter-flowering shrub for gardens large or small.

Easy to overlook for half the gardening year, Helleborus argutifolius, the Corsican hellebore, is coming into its own right now. From mounds of jade green serrated leaves, flowers of the lightest apple green are emerging, luminous against their dark backdrop. They make an ideal partnership with primroses, pulmonarias and narcissi in full sun or very light shade. Despite its Mediterranean origins, H. argutifolius is as tough as old boots, seeding everywhere. Young plants are easy enough to pull out or transplant as needed. The flowers will last for many months, into the early summer when smart new leaves will have replaced the old.

Like a bemused child that has awoken with a start, the blushing, innocent flowers of Schizostylis ‘Pink Princess’ have opened their eyes during the midst of our watery winter. Kaffir lilies, as they are commonly known, have normally gone to sleep by Christmas, their flowers deterred by frost. This year they have merely been snoozing, with one eye on the lengthening days that lead towards to spring.  Quite what has roused them, other than the sound of thundering rain, I don’t know, but they are sight for sore eyes. Sheltering in pots in the lee of our wall they have avoided complete saturation and perhaps been prompted into bloom by warmth from the building. With the garden as sodden as I have ever seen it, the soil drummed down and compacted by the rain, these surprisingly robust flowers are an absolute joy to behold.  More flower stalks suggest there will be further blooms to come. Long may they continue to stay awake, even if they do have to endure another drenching and battering tonight.

Read another post about Schizostylis coccinea

Not many plants break the rules when it comes to flower colour.  Fewer still manage to do it successfully:’ blue’ roses for example.  Just occasionally one stumbles upon a flower which does things differently and succeeds; let me introduce you to Iris reticulata ‘Katherine Hodgkin’.  To begin with, the background of her petals are an unusual acidic primrose, more green than yellow.  Then come flashes of saffron yellow and delft blue, layered on in painterly strokes.  These petals are known as the ‘falls’ and the area of deepest colouring as the ‘signal patch’.  Each bloom has raised central petals, or ‘style arms’, which are a delicately veined powder blue.  The whole flower has an alluring air of antiquity, as if it had started to fade from an earlier brilliance.  To my mind the combination is utterly unique, very beautiful and best appreciated in isolation from other flowers; then, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  What do you make of Miss Hodgkin?

More images of Iris reticulata ‘Katherine Hodgkin’.

The problem with crocuses is that no sun + strong winds = flattened blooms that never progress beyond promising buds. Hailing from central Europe and Mediterranean regions, crocuses are bulbs for open spaces with good drainage. Soggy, shady positions render them leggy and liable to flopping over.  2014 has not been their year.

So this morning I moved a pot of 50 Crocus ‘Snow Bunting’ onto the garden table to expose them that bright, mostly absent thing in the sky that we call the sun.  Within minutes the creamy white, delicately striated flowers had started to open. The pack of bulbs cost just £8; worth every penny, even if it was only for a fleeting performance.

More about Crocus ‘Snow Bunting’ AGM on the RHS website

One might consider it wise to steer well clear of any plant with a latin name ending foetidus or foetidissima. After all the epithet means bad-smelling, or having a fetid odour; something most of us could live without in our gardens. Anyone with dry shade should think again, as this would exclude two terrific plants which offer year-round interest, if not excitement, Helleborus foetidus and Iris foetidissima. Helleborus foetidus, pictured above, is otherwise known as the stinking hellebore; a tough, architectural plant that produces flowers from the depths of winter until early spring. Iris foetidissima, better known as stinking gladwin, has a peculiar scent when crushed, described as ‘beefy’. Track down the unusual pale-gold form, Iris foetidissima var. citrina. In winter you’ll also be rewarded with bright capsules of plump, scarlet seeds. Left undisturbed neither plant will offend your nostrils, but will repay with evergreen foliage and plentiful seedlings for sharing with friends ….. and enemies!

Many of us will be familiar with diminutive Crocus tomassinianus, which pops up through lawns and borders in early spring, leaping from the sward like flames from a gas hob. The species seeds itself freely, but is easily trounced by heavy weather. This weekend I’ve been introduced to a more robust pink form, Crocus tomassinianus ‘Roseus’. The flower buds emerge pale and cadaverous from clumps of needle-like leaves. They open a tingling rose-pink, contrasted by saffron-orange stamens and white stems. Delicate petals are rendered translucent by the winter sun, as here at Bosvigo. The effect en masse is sensational. Combine with burgundy-red hellebores or black-leaved Ophiopogon planiscapus ‘Nigrescens’ for high drama.

Euphorbia characias subsp. wulfenii has featured once already in Daily Flower Candy, but I couldn’t resist including a photograph taken this weekend in our local park, where it has formed rolling mounds of acid-green flowers almost as tall as I am. In bright sunlight the effect is dazzling; brighter and zestier than any host of golden daffodils.

My adoration of this Mediterranean marvel was swiftly curtailed by Him Indoors, who described it as triffid-like. At first I failed to appreciate the similarity to John Wyndham’s vegetative villain, but on closer inspection the flowers and bracts do have a slightly alien look. I’d liken them more, especially the twin green ‘buds’, to sinister Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors. Either way, I think I’ll give this Euphorbia a slightly wider berth in future. One can never be too careful.

Good news! Our Clematis armandii is back from its travels. Last May I reported its escape from our garden, but the adventurous vine has now scrambled so high into our neighbour’s trees that we can appreciate the deliciously scented white flowers again. A mild winter suited this slightly tender clematis; the flowers are the most abundant I can recall. The same goes for those I have seen scrambling over walls and up houses around Hampstead and Highgate.

At the weekend I picked a couple of generous sprigs to bring inside. They looked wonderful in a simple ceramic vase but, alas, only lasted a day. The single, pure-white blooms remind me of wind turbine propellers – simple, elegant and beautiful from afar.

Sparkling like diamonds in the sward of St James’ Park, as the morning sun rises over London, this is Narcissus actaea. It’s an old fashioned variety, introduced in 1919, that’s sometimes referred to as a Pheasant’s Eye or Poet’s Daffodil. However these names truly belong to a much older member of the poeticus group, Narcissus poeticus var. recurvus, which is smaller and typically flowers a month later.

Both narcissi have long been in cultivation and earn the Award of Garden Merit (AGM) from the RHS for their staying power. The flowers vary from traditional daffodils, having a ruff of gleaming white outer petals and a small yellow trumpet fringed with bright orange. The blooms have an exquisite scent, which is used in many a fine fragrance. Both varieties make a great choice for lawns and meadows as they are robust enough to compete with grasses and are said to be ignored by deer and other grazing animals. Left undisturbed they will quickly naturalise.

To witness broad swathes of Narcissus actaea, just yards away from Buckingham Palace and the bustle of Victoria, is a genuine sight for sore eyes.

I’ve been to Sissinghurst today, so am spoilt for choice when it comes to spring sweeties to feature as flower candy. Sorry to disappoint, but I am going to resist temptation and save Sissinghurst’s treats for another occasion. Instead let me introduce you to Tulipa ‘Czar Peter’, a gregii tulip that’s currently flowering in our coastal garden. The gregiis originate from Central Asia where they grow on mountain slopes, hence they are hardy, naturally compact and well suited to cultivation in containers. Mine are densely planted in a large, glazed stoneware bowl that sits in the middle of our garden table. Here’s how they started life in October:

The Czar, so far, is proving a little schizophrenic. His buds emerged pale and bosomy (please excuse my choice of adjective, but it’s an apt one), sitting proudly above the red striped foliage that all gregiis share. Given a spell in the sun the flowers have opened buttermilk yellow with painterly scarlet markings. The contrast is dramatic, highlighting the poor choice I made in matchmaking the Czar with ice white cyclamen, which have suddenly decided to turn candy pink. No matter, the Czar is definitely the star.

Tulipa ‘Czar Peter’ is available from Avon Bulbs from September.

The last time I had a full week away from work was last August, so I am, in a word, exhausted. Our forthcoming break in Cornwall is so keenly anticipated that I am afraid it may have rather too much to live up to. At least the inevitable dose of tonsillitis, which normally afflicts me the moment I start to wind down, has had the good grace to arrive early, so I can be shot of it before we go.

Meanwhile, I am preparing our London garden for a week without daily tending. It doesn’t take long for pots to dry out, so I’ve been watering like billyo and getting as many plants in the ground as I can. Keeping me going each morning are clumps of glittering white Anemone apennina which open their silky petals at the command of the rising sun. This spreading, rhizomatous plant arrived in Britain from Italy’s Appenine mountains centuries ago and has made itself very much at home. At this time of year the feathery foliage is topped with white, ice blue or lavender coloured flowers. The rhizomes increase in size every year and can be divided, although they don’t form offsets as bulbs do. When happy Anemone apennina will produce abundant seedlings, eventually creating undulating carpets of foliage and flower each spring. Even The Frustrated Gardener’s tired, jaded eyes can’t fail to find refreshment in such sparkling simplicity.

When it comes to magnolias, rhododendrons and camellias there is nowhere in Britain quite like Cornwall. It’s to our most south-westerly county that many of the great plant hunters sent their discoveries from the forests of India, China, Burma and the Himalayas. The young plants revelled in the damp, mild climate which resembled their mountain homes, slowly growing into mature specimens. The gardens of Heligan, Trengwainton, Trewithen, Trellisick, Caerhays, Carclew and countless others now house peerless collections of these magnificent shrubs and trees, all in their prime during spring.

At the Cornwall Spring Flower Show, held annually at Boconnoc near Lostwithiel, some of these great gardens continue to showcase the best of their blooms. Caerhays Castle gave visitors a real treat with bountiful displays of Magnolia ‘Apollo’, a hybrid between Magnolia campbellii subsp. mollicomata ’Lanarth’ and Magnolia liliiflora ‘Nigra’. M ‘Apollo’ is a free-flowering tree, up to 4m tall, with large, cyclamen-pink flowers. The energy invested in flowers means it takes longer for M. ‘Apollo’ to develop into a big tree; it flowers over a long period in spring and then again in summer. If that were not enough, the flowers are also delicately scented, making M. ‘Apollo’ a great all-rounder for small gardens as well as great country estates.

Magnolia ‘Apollo’ is available from Burncoose Nurseries (part of the Caerhays Estate) at £55 or £75 depending on the pot size.

Nestled deep in the Ashdown Forest, East Sussex, was the location for one of our Christmas photo shoots. It may sound strange, but I live and breath Christmas all year round; it’s my job. Somehow I’ve become immune to the absurdity of untangling fairy lights in warm spring sunshine and to trimming trees in sweltering heat. Fortunately it doesn’t tarnish the genuine article when it comes around; I can separate the reality from the insanity.

The property where we did our shoot, complete with snow machine, was situated in an idyllic forest glade. The gardens were cursorily contemporary and I wasn’t sure I liked them especially much. As usual my gaze was caught by the plants the landscapers had chosen; lots of predictable box, birch and miscanthus. Rather incongruous in this naturalistic setting was a slightly unkempt bush covered in small, scorching pink daisies. After a bit of research I discovered this to be Olearia phloggopappa ‘Combers Pink’, all the way from Tasmania. Quite what, apart from its amazing flower power, lead to the choice of this sun loving antipodean beauty I will never know, but it lent character to an otherwise photo-fit, low-maintenance scheme.

Olearia phloggopappa ‘Combers Pink’ is available in a 3L pot from Burncoose Nurseries at £13.50. Order online or risk having to pronounce it over the phone – hard to do without unnecessary phlegm being involved. Go on, I dare you!

Three cheers for the May Day Bank Holiday. Hip hip, hooray! A Sunday night free of work worries, an extra day in the garden and then just four days until the next weekend. What could be wrong with that?

Yesterday we walked miles through the East Kent countryside, bounded all the way by high hedgerows frothing with white flowers; cow parsley, the first elderflowers, sickly-sweet bird cherry (Prunus padus) and of course may blossom. The flowers of Crataegus monogyna, the common hawthorn or ‘may’, are synonymous with the month bearing the same name. This year it has been flowering abundantly since mid April, but in other years its blossoming heralds the start of my favourite month of all.

The may’s tiny white flowers, with their disproportionately long stamens, are produced in such profusion that mature trees can appear as if temporarily dusted in snow. They are offset by new foliage of the most vivid lime-green.

We are most accustomed to seeing may growing as part of a country hedge, but given space it will form a very handsome small tree, like the one below growing in the village of Reading Street near Broadstairs. May trees are famously long-lived. One of the oldest trees in the UK can be found in the churchyard of Hethel, Norfolk and is reputed to be over 700 years old. Over the years hybrids have been created, including the double pink Crataegus laevigata ‘Paul’s Scarlet’, but none really compare to the original when witnessed in its natural setting.

I hope the may is flowering where you are and that you have a wonderful day gardening or just soaking up the spring sunshine.

In case you haven’t noticed I am a sucker for anything colourful, exotic and expensive looking. This goes for food, cocktails, shirts, wallpaper and yes, plants too. I am a dreadful magpie, unable to resist the lure of anything bright or shiny. Hence it’s no wonder that the flame-like flowers of Lotus berthelotii, otherwise known as parrot’s beak, caught my attention when I last visited Sissinghurst. Here it cascaded nonchalantly from a tall terracotta pot, its cool silver-grey foliage set alight by hundreds of orange and red ‘flames’.

 Parrot’s beak (left of the door) blends in with the other hot colours in Sissinghurst’s Cottage Garden.

In common with several plants that grace our coastal garden, Lotus berthelotii is a perennial endemic to the Canary Islands. In its native habitat it has been considered extinct for around 130 years, yet it persists in horticulture because of its dazzling looks and relative ease of cultivation. Sissinghurst’s cottage garden offers Lotus berthelotii the perfect conditions – bright sunlight, sharp drainage and an opportunity to trail; it will traverse a couple of metres if given the opportunity. Despite its name it has absolutely no relationship with the tropical, water-dwelling lotuses. Nor is it attractive to parrots, although it was pollinated by sunbirds before they were also erradicated from the Canaries.

Over the years my garden has lost most of the sun-drenched spots it began with, but having reacquainted myself with Lotus berthelotii I am tempted to find it a home, perhaps in a pot or tumbling from the shelves of our outdoor kitchen. There I can appreciate its colourful, exotic and expensive looking flowers whilst sipping a Mai Tai and wearing a floral shirt. There’s no cure for this particular magpie.

Lotus berthelotii is widely available from garden centres as a hanging basket or container plant in spring and summer.

I have a new favourite lily and it’s called ‘Pink Flavour’. The bulbs were an impulse, end of season purchase from Sarah Raven and I didn’t have a place for them, so into a pot they went.  Within weeks the flower spikes emerged, growing nice and evenly, the foliage subtly tinted bronze. Arriving home late last night the flowers had opened so I was excited to see what they looked like in daylight. The colour is hard to describe; a burnished, sophisticated coral-pink rather than the candy shade the name suggests.

An Asiatic type lily, ‘Pink Flavour’ has elegantly placed, downward facing flowers

I am pleasantly surprised how well the flowers tone with the deep purple foliage of Eucomis ‘Sparkling Burgundy’ and Aeonium ‘Zwartkop’, picking up reddish tones in the stems of gingers and begonias too. For those who detest the scent of lilies (how could you?) ‘Pink Flavour’ is a great choice; the blooms have only the faintest fragrance. L. ‘Pink Flavour’ is one of the first lilies to open in the garden this year, offering a welcome taste of summer. I think this one will be a keeper.

Lilium ‘Pink Flavour’ is available mail order from Sarah Raven (in season) and Hart’s Nursery, Cheshire.

A taste of summer, Lilium ‘Pink Flavour’

I have been a little quiet of late and that’s for three reasons. The first is work, which has been abnormally busy.  The second and third are garden related. In London we have been building raised beds in which we intend to cultivate vegetables. I am ridiculously excited at the prospect of growing my own, having not had the opportunity since being a teenager. I will not be revealing how long ago that was, but sufficient to forget everything but the basics. The construction part was quick and easy; the filling with soil and compost has been a labour of love and is still ongoing. In Broadstairs we are preparing for our NGS open day (more on which tomorrow), which is going well, apart from the excessive amount of watering needed to keep everything from withering.

The Latin epithet ‘lactiflora‘ means milk-white flowers, but the variety available today includes white, blue and pale pink

Neither of our gardens is capacious enough for leggy lovelies such as Campanula lactiflora, but it doesn’t stop me admiring them in other people’s gardens. Campanula lactiflora is a lax, romantic perennial designed for life on the big stage. It is happiest rampaging among roses and darting around delphiniums, a shining star in the early summer show. The profusion of flowers in blue, white or pale pink is simply beautiful swaying in a summer breeze, but may require surreptitious support. Grow in fertile, moist, neutral or alkaline soil for best results and cut back after flowering to encourage a second flush of bloom.

Varieties with the Royal Horticultural Society Award of Garden Merit (AGM)

• Campanula lactiflora ‘Alba’ – pure white flowers
• Campanula lactiflora ‘Prichard’s Variety’ – violet blue flowers
• Campanula lactiflora ‘Loddon Anna’ – soft, rose-pink flowers

Campanula lactiflora ‘Loddon Anna’ combined with a delphinium of the same shade at Old Bladbean Stud