I have always rather shunned the colourful, smaller cousins of the Ethiopian lily, Zantedeschia aethiopica, mainly because of their artificial looks and regular, cellophane-wrapped appearances in florists’ shops. But, as with most plants, I eventually succumbed and decided to give them a try this year.

The beauty of bulbs and rhizomes is that they can be picked up and transported home easily from shows. Many nurserymen will keep them in cold storage so that they burst quickly into growth after planting. I found my Zantedeschia ‘Picasso’ at the Chelsea Flower Show in May and planted them in a pot promptly afterwards. I was recommended to use a free draining compost and keep them in a bright, sunny position. It worked, and in just six weeks four rhizomes have produced a mass of paint-splashed leaves and a surprising number of almost perfect blooms.

Each rhizome, about half the size of my palm, has produced more than 10 flowers in the first flush

The flowers (properly ‘inflorescences’) appear as if fashioned from sugar paste – yellowish white, smudged a deep mulberry purple. When the first blooms unfurled I was not sure I would like them, but en masse they work well. Nevertheless their appearance is a little too foreign to blend in with many garden plants, so I think they work best planted in a pot alongside other exotics or ferns. Unlike their larger cousins they do not appreciate their feet in the wet, but still look great at the water’s edge.

I can’t think of easier, more trouble free bulbs to grow in pots, provided you have the right conditions and can keep them frost-free over winter. The spectrum of colours available extends from white through to yellow, orange, red, pink and inky purple. I for one will be trying more in future.

Zantedeschia ‘Picasso’ is available mail order from Brighter Blooms in Preston, Lancashire.

The elegant flowers of Zantedeschia ‘Picasso’ are perfect for cutting and last well indoors

It’s no good, I tried to hold back, but I just had to share this ravishing new dahlia which has started to bloom at The Watch House. It’s called D. ‘American Dawn’. Sight of its luminous blooms is certainly enough to get my day off to a great start. From a bud of bright peony-pink emerge petals the colour of a summer sunrise. Of all the dahlias I’ve grown this season, D. ‘American Dawn’ is by far the strongest and healthiest, with many flowers yet to come. In a garden where plants have to be robust, loud and proud to be noticed, this is the perfect early riser.

Dahlia ‘American Dawn’ is available from Sarah Raven and Crocus.co.uk in spring.

At first light, raindrops embellish the petals of Dahlia ‘American Dawn’

If ever a dahlia deserved the classification ‘waterlily’, describing the shape of the blooms, it’s Dahlia ‘Firepot’. The juicy-fruit colours might have given Monet a fright, but the lush, softly incurved petals are a gardener’s delight. They begin sulphur yellow at the centre, fading out to tangerine and then coral at the tips. In bud the flowers are shocking pink so, with blooms at different stages on the same plant, the effect is hot, hot hot. The flowers positively glow, even on dull days, as if they had their own internal flame.

Firepot’s luscious petals curve gently inwards, like a waterlily

This is the second summer for my tubers, which I overwintered in a dry cellar and am growing on in large pots (the black ones typically sold for tomato plants are ideal). D. ‘Firepot’ is the perfect subject for container culture as it’s compact and reaches only 2ft high. The only drawback is that the flower stems tend to be rather short, the smallish blooms held tightly against the foliage. If you decide to cut some for indoors they will last almost as long as they would on the plant; they will soon be replaced, as D. ‘Firepot’ is incredibly floriferous.

Firepot produces a succession of flowers about 4′ across, and is one of the earliest dahlias into bloom

Admittedly this hybrid, which was introduced in 1969, might be challenging to integrate into your garden if you have a pastel colour scheme, but amongst other hot colours, or on its own, D. ‘Firepot’ is a stunner. It’s tricky to photograph but these images are accurate for colour and a fair reflection of what you can expect should you choose to give the variety garden room. I, for one, would not be without it.

Dahlia ‘Firepot’ is widely available, mail order, in the spring.

When fully opened the blooms of Firepot display all the colours of the sunset

One of the joys of writing this blog is having the incentive to seek out and learn about new plants. Today, on a training course at our company conference centre, I took some time out to explore the grounds. In the otherwise flagging herbaceous borders I spied these curious fruits and lush leaves, which belonged to a helpfully labelled specimen of Phytolacca polyandra.

Otherwise known as Chinese pokeweed, Phytolacca polyandra is a robust perennial which first produces white or pale pink flowers in long spikes, a little like a polygonum. These develop into tiny clasps of immature green fruits. The flower stems slowly turn magenta-pink as the fruits, which are toxic, develop a glossy black sheen. How marvellous this exotic plant would look amongst deep purple and pale pink dahlias, or with Sedum ‘Purple Emperor’ and Fuchsia arboresecens. An unusual contender for the late summer border and one which has already joined my extensive wish list.

Have you grown Chinese pokeweed in your garden? If so, I’d love to know more…

Whether it’s candy floss, baby, lipstick or rose, when it comes to autumn flowering bulbs, shades of pink are decidedly de rigueur. Right now there are colchicums, schizostylis, crinums, cyclamen and nerines, all emerging blushing and bright when earlier flowers are starting to fade. Queen amongst these rubicund beauties is Amaryllis belladonna, a slightly tender bulb native to South Africa but widely naturalised in warm temperate regions of the world. Like colchicums, Amaryllis belladonna produces flowers before coming into leaf, and shares the same unflattering common name ‘naked ladies’. The large bulbs enjoy the shelter of a south or west facing wall where they will remain dry in summer and find protection for their late developing leaves. If in doubt, they make lovely subjects for an unheated greenhouse. These particular blooms were captured emerging from the earth at the foot of the curved wall in Sissinghurst’s rose garden, flattered by a backdrop of vine leaves. Pure pink perfection.

The shelter and warmth created by a south or west facing wall helps to protect Amaryllis belladonna

Begonias are such stalwarts of the summer garden that they are often overlooked, even sniffed at, by so-called fashionable gardeners. I’m not attracted by the enormous, dinner-plate sized blooms of most tuberous begonias, but find single flowered hybrids essential for colour in my partially-shaded garden. They do not demand day-long sun and look all the better for it, flowering better when the weather is warm, sulking slightly during cool spells. In my begonia armoury (or should that be ‘amoury’?) are Begonia ‘Million Kisses Devotion’, B. ‘Million Kisses Passion’ and B. ‘Firewings Orange’. But, after their flames have died down, I am always left in love with Begonia ‘Glowing Embers’. It’s a plant that positively smoulders its way through summer, in no need of re-ignition come autumn. The bronze, prettily veined foliage provides a strong backdrop for the simple tangerine flowers that rain down all summer like sparks from a welder’s gun.

Begonia ‘Glowing Embers’ flowers non-stop from June until the first frost

Few plants hold their flowers as gracefully as fuchsias. Whether large or small flowered, the blooms typically tremble at the end of fine wiry stems. How I enjoyed unceremoniously popping the balloon-like buds of the varieties we grew in our garden when I was a child. They deserved better treatment. I have always found fuchsias utterly captivating and easy to grow, although over the years my tastes have turned away from fat, ruffled doubles towards slender, elongated singles.

I have trifled with F. triphylla and F. speciosum and flirted with F. boliviana and F. arborescens, but when one encounters a well grown specimen of Fuchsia magellanica var. gracilis none of the exotics are a match for its sheer poise and elegance. A hardly species, Fuchsia magellanica var. gracilis is often overlooked because it is, in a word, common, especially so in the south and west of England near the coast. Here in moist, sunny climes, it forms floriferous hedges in gardens, occasionally making a foray into the wild. It’s a shrub that deserves more than a second glance, especially in September when the flowers, with all the poise of ballet dancer, fall so graciously from the tips of the arching branches.

Fuchsia magellanica var. gracilis produces an abundance of flowers through summer and autumn

Just when you think the plant world has no more surprises in store for you (a silly thing to suppose anyway), along comes a plant which you can’t believe you’ve never encountered before. In this case it’s Grevillea victoriae, the royal grevillea, which is endemic to Australia’s New South Wales and Victoria states. It was first described by botanist Ferdinand von Mueller in 1855 and was duly named after Australia’s Empress of the day, Queen Victoria.

Grevillea victoriae appreciates a well-drained position with exposure to the sun

My first discovery of this lovely, silver-leaved shrub was yesterday at Trebah Gardens in Cornwall. Here it forms part of the planting around the restaurant area, growing in a raised bed alongside Gaura lindheimeri, Erigeron karvinskianus, Schizostylis coccinea and agapanthus. It could easily be mistaken for Elaeagnus ‘Quicksilver’, which has similar, willowy leaves and branches, but for the grevillea’s flowers which mark it out as something quite special. From pendent clusters of velvety-brown buds, resembling little bunches of rusty tacks, emerge coral-orange blooms. These are full of nectar to attract pollinating birds and insects. As you can see from my photographs, they are borne in plentiful numbers, all the better for being at different stages of development at the same time.

In Australia and North America, several bird species are known to feed on the nectar of Grevillea victoriae

Grevillea victoriae is considered to be hardy in southern parts of the UK, especially in coastal areas. Forming a shrub up to 2m high it requires a well-drained spot with plenty of exposure to the sun. The shrub’s mountain origins mean it is tolerant of frost and snow, although I suspect its hardiness is incumbent on the sharp drainage it prefers. Mature plants benefit from regular pruning to maintain a compact shape and make an excellent screen or hedge. I imagine it planted with other sun-worshippers such as rosemary, kniphofia, and salvias in a Mediterranean-style border. A happy plant in a very favoured spot may flower all year round, otherwise you can expect those fire-cracker racemes throughout the summer and autumn months.

Quite why a shrub with so many garden-worthy attributes is not better known I don’t know, but as soon as I have the space to grow it, I’ll be sending off for seeds or plants. Do let me know if you grow Grevillea victoriae in your garden and how you get on with it.

Grevillea victoriae can be purchased from Burncoose Nurseries in Cornwall.

More on Trebah Gardens coming soon.

In coastal areas of the UK, Grevillea victoriae would make a very attractive, informal hedge

Before the Second World War kniphofias, better known as red hot pokers, were one of Britain’s most popular garden plants. They sustained gardeners’ Victorian fascination with the exotic, whilst enduring our less than alluring weather. The Dig for Victory campaign saw flower gardens ploughed up from Land’s End to John o’ Groats, making way for vegetable plots. With them went many old varieties which were never returned to cultivation.

One of the most impressive red hot pokers, and one which survived the war years, is Kniphofia rooperi. Flowering through the autumn, it is much less less widely grown than common-or-garden summer flowering cultivars. This is a pity, as K. rooperi has sufficient charm, stature and staying-power to make it a garden mainstay.

To begin with K. rooperi is evergreen, with robust, arching, dark green leaves that build into a dense, architectural clump. Then there are the flowers – chunky, bottle-brushes that start out a soft tangerine and eventually fade to lemon yellow at the tips. In low autumn light they glow and fizz like Roman candles, rising 4ft or more above the ground in close succession.

A native of South Africa, K. rooperi was was once considered doubtfully hardy, however experience now reassures garderners that it can survive unscathed in pretty much any garden in the country. Of course, like most garden plants this red hot poker likes a well drained soil and consistent moisture, plus protection from the worst of the elements. Drought may inhibit flowering. These simple conditions satisfied, feel free to light the blue touch paper and stand back for an explosive autumn display.

Photographs taken at Trebah Gardens and Trengwainton, Cornwall, in mid September.

These flowers may faintly resemble those of a Nymphaea, but here the resemblance of Colchicum ‘Waterlily’ to an aquatic plant ends. Like other colchicums, the flowers of C. ‘Waterlily’ emerge naked, buxom and blushing from fecund, cinnamon-coloured bulbs each autumn. They prefer a well-drained soil, which remains moist rather than wet in summer, and full sun or light shade. Introduced in 1928 C. ‘Waterlily’ is unusual in that it has fully double petals. This makes the flowers rather top-heavy, so it’s best to grow them through ground cover plants, such as vinca, so that the blooms don’t collapse onto the ground and get spoilt.

Growing Colchicum ‘Waterlily’ in pots helps to protect the blooms from slugs and rainsplashes

I like to grow these luscious beauties in a terracotta pot, which allows me to display them in a prominent position when flowering and hide them away in spring as soon as the ungainly leaves emerge. A top-dressing of horticultural grit gives a modicum of protection from slugs, and prevents any compost splashing onto the petals. Like other colchicums, a faint chequerboard pattern can be seen in the petals when the light is behind them. The freshness and vitality of C. ‘Waterlily’, at a time when all else is waning, is very welcome and provides a wonderful contrast to crisp, fallen, autumn leaves.

The generously double flowers of Colchicum ‘Waterlily’ resemble a dahlia rather than a waterlily

‘Lilies in October!?’ I hear you exclaim. Maybe in the southern hemisphere, but not in England, surely? Well yes actually, these wonderful, fragrant flowers are in full bloom in our coastal garden now. The reason? The bulbs were purchased at Hampton Court Palace Flower Show in early July and have taken until now to grow and flower. And very welcome they are too with their fabulous scent, mingling with Cestrum nocturnum (also, rather suggestively, known as ‘Lady of the night’), filling these balmy autumn evenings with a heady concoction of sweetness and spice.

Lilium ‘Kushi Maya’ is a ground-breaking hybrid created by Dutch breeders using cutting-edge embryo recovery techniques. A flower of shy but beautiful Lilium nepalense was pollinated with pollen from an Oriental hybrid and the resulting embryos nurtured in a test tube to prevent them being aborted. All a little unromantic, but what remarkable offspring. L. ‘Kushi Maya’ retains its species parent’s fabulous apple and blackberry colouring, but gains strength and stamina from its hybrid genes. Given an acidic soil (or compost) and a year or so to get going, the bulbs produce stems up to 1.5m tall, each adorned with a number of gently nodding, backswept flowers. Planted late it makes a great companion for damson-coloured dahlias such as D. ‘Arabian Night’ or Aeonium arboreum ‘Zwartkop’. Alternatively, set against a background of plummy foliage this special lily is guaranteed to create a little bit of autumn ecstasy.

Lilium ‘Kushi Maya’ is available in spring from both Harts Nursery and H. W. Hyde and Son. It is protected by Plant Breeders Rights and remains relatively uncommon.

‘Kushi Maya’, a name given to female Nepalese children, can be translated as ‘Happy Love’

Travel agents report that the second week in January is the peak week for holiday bookings. This is hardly surprising given the short days, miserable weather and deflating prospect of returning to work after the Christmas holidays. Tomorrow, January 19th, has been named ‘Blue Monday’ – officially the most depressing day of the year. To beat the blues I’ve been looking at back at last year’s travels and enjoying the photographs I took along the way. I don’t subscribe to ‘dry’ Januaries, or New Year diets, so see no reason not to present you with Echium candicans as my first Daily Flower Candy of 2015. These pictures were taken at Tresco Abbey Gardens last April, shortly before Easter.

Echium candicans was given an RHS Award of Garden Merit (AGM) in 2002

Commonly known as Pride of Madeira (now there’s a good suggestion for a holiday destination) Echium candicans is big brother to our native E. vulgare (viper’s bugloss). Both siblings share the same vivid blue flowers and attractiveness to bees, but differ greatly in stature. Echium candicans is a fast growing but short-lived subshrub which reaches 4-6ft high and the same in width, occasionally more. It quickly forms an umbrella-shaped canopy of hairy branches, each tipped with a rosette of felted, grey-green leaves. Spikes of flowers, which may vary in colour from rose pink or lavender to deep indigo blue, are blessed with prominent pinkish-red stamens. Pride of Madeira can be pruned after flowering to help maintain bushiness, but after 5-6 years it’s best to let a vital new seedling take over from its woody parent.

At Tresco Abbey Gardens Echium candicans forms the understorey beneath stately palms

To understand Pride of Madeira’s preferred garden conditions you simply needs to understand its natural habitat – the rocky cliffs and plateaus of Madeira’s central mountain range. Here the plants get plenty of exposure to sun but have to endure occasional freezing temperatures in winter. The ground is well drained and droughts are frequent. In the UK Echium candicans is especially happy in mild coastal gardens, tolerating windy sites and nutrient poor, sandy soils. On the island of Tresco it has naturalised itself in garden walls and where sand dunes meet cultivated land.

Echium flowers are a magnet for honey bees

If you fancy giving Pride of Madeira a whirl in your own garden, seeds and plants are quite easy to track down in the UK, but named varieties such as ‘San Bruno Pink’ and ‘Rincon Blue’ must be propagated from cuttings and are only available in the USA (as far as a I am aware). There is even a variegated form with blue flowers called ‘Star of Madeira’ – oh how I would love to get my green fingers on one of those!

Credit for this image of E. candicans ‘Star of Madeira’ goes to Danger Garden blog

Echium candicans may be blue, but it’s about as far from depressing as a plant can get. Just 3 more months and the flowers will be starting to emerge again, a beacon for bees from miles around.

I hope you enjoyed this year’s first sweet treat – there will be more candy to come as 2015 unfolds….

I wished for snow, and it came, although not the right kind of snow. It began promisingly, fine and dusty, but rapidly transformed itself into fat, soggy clumps and then plonky rain. Nothing settled. Hey ho. Now that the garden is no longer full of defunct kitchen appliances and builders’ debris I am able to scour my terracotta pots for signs of life.

The first bulb to emerge from its winter slumber is Crocus chrysanthus ‘Herald’, a dramatically bi-coloured crocus with buds striped aubergine and gold, like a wasp. They fade a little to primrose and purple as they open (which requires sunshine), but are still joyous to behold as they leap like little flames from the ground. The tiny blooms of C. ‘Herald’ truly are harbingers of spring and aptly named. Every year a handful of my spring bulbs remain unplanted, and I regret now that the half of these cheery crocuses remain sequestered in a paper bag somewhere. The next bulb to bloom will be Iris reticulata ‘Spot On’, which is a new hybrid developed by Canadian breeder Alan McMurtie. It promises extravagantly purple-splashed, white falls. I hope it might be in bloom by next weekend. Also up and about is Tropaeolum tricolor, which has already scrambled well above the top of the sticks I put in to support its twining shoots.

The snow has already passed and the sun is making vain attempts to come out. If it does, I might get a fleeting glimpse of C. ‘Herald”s petals opening broadly to embrace the welcome warmth.

Planted in October, Crocus ‘Herald’ enjoyed only the briefest period of winter dormancy

As I predicted exactly two weeks ago, the latest bulb to start flowering in our coastal garden is Iris reticulata  ‘Spot On’, a new hybrid developed by Canadian breeder Alan McMurtie. It’s a tiny little thing by reticulata standards, a cross between Iris reticulata ‘Purple Gem’ and Iris reticulata var. bakeriana from Turkey. Each bulb carries pretty flowers of the most wonderfully rich purple. The falls are feathered brilliant white and splashed lemon yellow, creating a dazzling contrast. I particularly like Spot On’s tightly furled buds, faintly speckled and striped with purple, each with a dark tip as if they had just been dipped in ink.

It is testament to Alan’s patience that this new variety finally reached the market almost 20 years after first flowering. I picked my bulbs up from Living Colour without knowing anything of their history or provenance, but will treasure them all the more now I know how special they are. These are the first pictures I have taken using my new Canon 60mm macro lens. I haven’t a clue how to get the best out of it yet, and of course I haven’t read the instructions, so I’m afraid these test shots are far from brilliant. I hope practice gets me closer to spot on – it will certainly be fun trying.

I adore irises. Their blooms recall the style and elegance of days gone by and appear throughout the spring and summer, starting in early February. After last year’s RHS London Plant and Design Show I vowed to try out some of the new introductions of spring-flowering Iris reticulata shown there by Jacques Amand. My decision is now being richly rewarded with a succession of chic flowers in shades ranging from bleached denim to deepest indigo. The darkest flowers of all those I chose belong to Iris reticulata ‘Blue Note’. Saturated violet petals graduate into midnight blue falls, as if someone had spattered ink on a sheet of brilliant white writing paper.

Iris reticulata cultivars are extremely easy to grow, but I have found them difficult to sustain in open ground. Neither of our gardens offer the kind of sunny, well drained, sheltered conditions these little flowers prefer, which is why I grow them in clay pots. Far from being a nuisance, this allows me to admire the flowers up close, and to enjoy their delicate perfume. If pots are to be left standing outside, a top dressing of grit will prevent any compost splashing up onto the petals, but moss would look prettier for an indoor display. Rarely do I bother to keep my iris bulbs from one year to the next, but treasures like I. ‘Blue Note’ deserve to be nurtured. After a summer rest, they will be replanted in fresh compost next autumn.

Iris reticulata ‘Blue Note’, like I. ‘Spot On’, is an introduction from Canada, where enthusiast and breeder Alan McMurtie has spent many years hybridising and selecting the very best cultivars. I particularly admire the slender, V-shaped petals of ‘Blue Note’ and their yellow-freckled undersides. Oddly, they remind me of the markings on a great crested newt’s tummy. Photographed yesterday, against a backdrop of Narcissus ‘Tete-a-Tete’, the velvety texture of the iris’ falls sparkles in the sunlight. Pure joy, and a reminder that spring is just around the corner.

I do so love it when a plant utterly defies the wrong situation and flourishes, when really it should turn and fail. In our London garden we count on such miracles, as the conditions we can offer are far from ideal. Last spring I purchased three pots of Primula vulgaris ‘Taigetos’ from Christine Skelmersdale of Broadleigh Gardens, and was advised by the great lady herself to plant them somewhere that would be dry in summer. This reflects the prevailing conditions in the mountain ranges of the Greek Peloponnese from whence these delicate little flowers originally came.

In our dank, sun-deprived London garden dry-anything is a big ask, so I planted my charges beneath a magnolia tree with minimal hopes for their future. Not once did the ground dry out last summer and I fully expected my primroses to slowly rot away, as so many other plants do in our poorly drained soil. But no, Primula vulgaris ‘Taigetos’ is a survivor, tougher than its Mediterranean origins might suggest. Delicate, milky-white flowers started to appear at the end of January and are now covering each plant, lighting up a very gloomy corner of the garden. Soon the blooms will completely swamp the plants, mingling with yellow epimediums and narcissi to create a pretty spring tapestry. They make look frail and vulnerable, but the flowers of Primula vulgaris ‘Taigetos’ are a lot tougher than they look.

Plants are available from Broadleigh Gardens priced at £4.50 each or £12 for 3. They are completely sterile so there’s no risk of polluting any native primrose populations you may have nearby.

Spring arrived in earnest today, with temperatures reaching a balmy 16 degrees in the sunshine. The mercury has not been that high since October and one could almost hear the sap starting to rise through each branch, stem and leaf. It was a day firsts: the first day that we enjoyed lunch in the garden (fish-finger sandwiches – naughty but nice); the first day I gardened in a t-shirt (hence I now look like I’ve been in a fight with a farm cat) and the first day that Iris histrioides ‘Lady Beatrix Stanley’ graced us with her presence.

Lady Beatrix is a petite little thing, beautifully dressed in light cornflower blue. Her petals are feathered with demure white lace and finished with a daring flash of gold. I did not invite her, she was a substitute for another iris with a name I have long forgotten, such is her allure. In contrast to the reticulata irises I’ve written about recently, I. ‘Lady Beatrix Stanley’ has ample, rounded petals and a softer, more feminine profile. She stands a mere 10cm tall and smells delicately of violets, transported by the warmth of the sun.

Naturally I was interested to discover who Lady Beatrix Stanley was. It transpires that she lived at Sibbertoft Manor in Leicestershire (disappointingly now a residential home) with her husband, George, brother of the Earl of Derby. Whilst George was Governor of Madras, Lady Beatrix developed the gardens around their official residency in Ootacamund (Ooty) and sent her drawings of the province’s plants back to the RHS in London. When she and George returned to England, Lady Beatrix took to propagating bulbous plants, particularly snowdrops, hence Galanthus ‘Lady Beatrix Stanley’, a delightful double, was named after her in 1981.

I can’t help but imagine that Lady Beatrix would have relished a day like today, striding out into her garden to examine her prized spring flowers. To have survived Southern India in the closing years of the British Empire she must have been made of reasonably stern stuff, and I picture her as one of those ladies, like Rhoda Birley and Vita Sackville-West, who never picked up a trowel unless jauntily attired in tweeds and a hat. As for her namesake iris, she can hold her own amongst the new cultivars that have come on the scene: good breeding always shines through.

Just occasionally, well, maybe a little more often than that, I buy a plant for all the wrong reasons. Invariably my foolishness leads to failure, followed by guilt. I hate to see a plant die, especially when it’s through no fault of its own. I tell myself I should know better than to waste my money on a fragile life I cannot guarantee, before commiting the same crime again. Just occasionally the story ends happily, as is the case with Ypsilandra thibetica.

My first reason for picking this unusual plant (which, as far as I am aware, has no common name in English), was its copper-coloured flowers, protruding like dirty bottle brushes from a rosette of grassy leaves. It was May and I was attempting to create a small border with flowers in shades of rust and orange. I was soon to learn that these were in fact the long-faded tresses of a plant which carries fragrant lilac-white flowers in March. The second and more stupid reason for selecting this plant was that its name was so fabulously silly. I felt sure any perennial with such a bonkers name must be interesting (in the way that Liberace eltonjohnii might be, if it existed). Almost a year on, I am pleased to report that Ypsilandra thibetica appears to possess many virtues, not least the ability to withstand our soggy London clay and to flourish in a completely sunless spot behind the tank which feeds our pond. (Regrettably Ypsilandra cannot play the piano or throw booze-fuelled tantrums, which it really ought to be able to do with a name like that.)

The rosette of leaves is lush and brightly evergreen, making it perfect groundcover material, and the white flowers smell intensely of vanilla. Each wand of blossom unfurls quickly from the centre of the plant as soon as the days begin to lengthen, creating a dramatic impact amongst last year’s decaying foliage. Native to the Himalayas, Ypsilandra thibetica remains so rare in cultivation that you may struggle to get your hands on it. I purchased mine from Madrona Nursery in Kent, which might be a good place to start. I’d recommend giving the plants a moist, shady spot with lots of organic matter added. Placed close to the front of a border it makes a great edging plant and is more easily admired.

So you see, this is why gardening is not for those who don’t like to take a risk. For every improbable, impulsive, ill-informed choice there is a chance that your foolishness will pay off. As follies go, Ypsilandra thibetica is a damn fine one.

The groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould,

Fair Spring slides hither o’er the Southern sea,

Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold

That trembles not to kisses of the bee:

Come Spring, for now from all the dripping eaves

The spear of ice has wept itself away,

And hour by hour unfolding woodbine leaves

O’er his uncertain shadow droops the day.

She comes! The loosen’d rivulets run;

The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair;

Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun,

Now wraps her close, now arching leaves her bare

To breaths of balmier air;

 

From ‘The Progress of Spring’, Alfred Lord Tennyson

1809-1892

If flowers were sweets then Dutch crocuses would be Quality Street – bright, inexpensive and hard to resist. As spring bulbs go they are not the most refined flowers, shunned by the same breed of gardeners that turn their noses up at dahlias, chrysanthemums and petunias. But what Dutch crocuses lack in delicacy they make up for in sheer presence, multiplying vigorously and forming dense clumps in borders and lawns. For me they are forever connected to my childhood, when my mother would tell me a story involving three different coloured crocuses, one purple, one white and one yellow. It was not quite Tennyson, but held me in rapt attention every time it was told.

That tale, long forgotten, was accurate in so far as Dutch crocuses come in a limited number of shades. For royal-purple flowers, Crocus vernus ‘Flower Record’ and ‘Remembrance’ are good choices, carrying large, lustrous, chalice-shaped blooms. A handful of these planted in amongst Narcissus ‘Tete-a-Tete’ or N. ‘Jetfire’ make both flowers shine like sweet wrappers. A subtler creature altogether is C. vernus ‘Vanguard’, which flowers particularly early and produces flowers of gentle mauve-grey. For later, lavender-blue flowers you could try C. vernus ‘Grand Maitre’, which like many Dutch crocus cultivars has endured for 90 years or more. At the other end of the blue spectrum, C. vernus ‘Twilight’ has incredible midnight-blue petals, contrasting dramatically with startling orange stamens. C. vernus ‘Pickwick’ possesses sparkling white petals deeply veined and feathered with purple, whilst C. vernus ‘Jeanne d’Arc’ is pure white except for the odd violet streak. This just leaves yellow, of which C. vernus ‘Yellow Mammoth’ is one of the best-known cultivars. Its glossy flowers and stamens are the colour of free-range egg-yolks.

Dutch crocuses are great bulbs for naturalising in grass. They should be planted at a depth two or three times the height of the bulb in September, deeper if you have problems with mice or squirrels. Once the bulbs have flowered, leave the grass uncut for six weeks to encourage self-seeding. C. vernus will put up with poor soil as long as it’s well drained and the position is sunny. If you don’t have a suitable area of sward, just a few bulbs planted in a terracotta pot will provide early flowers and a magnet for bumble bees. They may be a little coarse compared to the species, but what Dutch crocuses lack in finesse they make up for in sheer flower-power.

Photographs taken on location at Blynfield, Stour Row, Dorset, with special thanks to Sam.

For two years in a row I have waxed lyrical about Iris ‘Katherine Hodgkin’, a reticulated hybrid with bleached denim-blue flowers that remind me of the ghastly jeans I cherished in the 80s. This year, for a change, I thought I would try out a sister cultivar, Iris ‘Sheila Ann Germaney’, to see if I could spot the difference. As it happens it wasn’t that difficult. I. ‘Katherine Hodgkin’ (pictured below) has a pronounced primrose-yellow flush to the reverse of the falls. This unusual colouring is the result of hybridisation between Iris winogradowii (with pale yellow flowers) and Iris histrioides (with pale blue flowers). The result is what one might call ‘pale and interesting’.

Iris ‘Katherine Hodgkin’

I. ‘Sheila Ann Germaney’ is the progeny of the same parents, but bears flowers of a much truer Delft blue. Only in photographing them did I really appreciate the boldly streaked standards, which appear as if someone had confidently taken a fountain pen to them.

Iris ‘Sheila Ann Germaney’

Both are very pretty flowers and I wouldn’t like to choose between them. It seems that I. ‘Katherine Hodgkin’ flowers earlier by about a month, but that could well be influenced by the season. Next year I will grow both side-by-side for good measure. 

I love to hear which sister you prefer…..

Iris ‘Sheila Ann Germaney’