Euonymus japonicus: evergreen spindle, Japanese spindle

On days like these, when we’d all rather be indoors, wrapped in a blanket with a glass of something red, those of us with seaside gardens are grateful for a small but indispensable cohort of tough shrubs capable of creating shelter quickly and reliably. They include tamarisk (Tamarix tetranda AGM, less good on the shallow chalk we have in Broadstairs), broadleaf (irrepressible Griselinia littoralis AGM), oleaster (elegant Elaeagnus ‘Quicksilver’ or bullet-proof Elaeagnus × ebbingei) and today’s subject, Euonymus japonicus.

Planted correctly, protected by a temporary wind-filtering screen of fine polypropylene mesh and a good thick mulch to ward off dehydration, these salt tolerant shrubs will take the brunt of winter gales, eventually helping more tender treasures to weather the storm. In common with other front-line shrubs, Euonymus japonicus has a thick, glossy, protective surface on its evergreen leaves which keeps the shrub looking fresh and healthy all year round. In hot dry summers powdery mildew can temporarily blight the foliage, but this soon disappears in cooler conditions. Avoid pruning in high summer to minimise the cosmetic damage to soft new growth. Scale insects and vine weevils can also be troublesome.

The deep green leaves of Euonymus japonicus are an excellent foil for more exciting shrubs and perennials, but if colour is what you are after E. japonicus ‘Ovatus Aureus’ AGM is a popular green and gold form which makes a rounded shrub up to 1.5 metres in height. Like the species it’s easily trimmed to make a hedge. Watch out for plain green suckers which will quickly take over if not pruned out promptly. Euonymus japonicus ‘Chollipo’ AGM, ‘Bravo’ and ‘Duc D’Anjou’ are good alternative forms if you are seeking gold highlights, whilst E. japonicus ‘Albomarginatus’ and ‘President Gaulthier’ have green leaves margined and marbled with white.

The spring flowers of Euonymus japonicus are easily overlooked but the orange fruits emerging from their rosy pink casings are a wintertime treat. Best pruned in April, you should avoid removing stems with fading flowers if you’d like a good display later on. 2015 was a vintage year for spindle berries: I photographed those below today on the cliff top at Louisa Bay, Broadstairs.

Even if you consider Euonymus japonicus a necessary evil or coastal cliché, you can’t deny its usefulness in harsh conditions. Few other shrubs will take a battering so nonchalantly. A plant for all seasons Euonymus japonicus will flourish on chalk, excel in exposed gardens and reward with dense, lustrous foliage 365 days a year.

Eranthis hyemalis: winter aconite, winter hellebore, winter wolf’s bane.

Jack Frost has arrived in the south of England, wrapping his icy arms around our London garden, petrifying bare earth with his icy breath. His late arrival has sent many optimistic plants that dared to bloom early back into hiding. The puckered, pink flowers of Magnolia x soulangeana are already tinged brown, tainted forever, whilst hellebores hang their pretty heads in shame. Yet all is not lost. Beneath the trees, shoulder-to-shoulder with shimmering snowdrops, little pools of winter sunshine are forming, quickly merging to create serpentine lakes of glowing gold. The plant responsible for this prevernal phenomenon is the winter aconite, Eranthis hyemalis.

Winter aconites live fast and die young, sprouting from frozen earth in January and disappearing underground by late spring. Flowers leap like tiny candle flames from a backswept ruff of glossy stem leaves held just a few centimetres above the ground. Despite their fleeting appearance the tubers, which should be planted about 10cm beneath the soil surface, insist on consistent moisture throughout the year – the norm in our London garden. They grow especially well on alkaline soils. Winter aconites like to be planted beneath deciduous shrubs and trees, well away from dense evergreens which might shade and hide them from view. When happy, winter aconites will spread about freely from seed dispersed in late spring.

Like snowdrops, winter aconites are not native to the British Isles, hailing from warmer areas of Europe such as the Balkans, Italy and Southern France. Nevertheless they are obliging, unfussy little visitors that never fail to open their flowers, even on the frostiest winter morning. They share with their cousins, the buttercups, that unique characteristic of being able to reflect light, even in the absence of sunshine. Pure joy. I recommend planting winter aconites beneath a yellow witch hazel or early flowering cherry such as Prunus x subhirtella ‘Autumnalis’, surrounded by snowdrops, Leucojum vernum, primulas and plumonarias that will produce enough luxuriant foliage to disguise the aconites as they turn and fade.

Vinca: periwinkle

First, a health warning: periwinkles, especially the kind that appreciate the British climate, can be complete thugs. Just this weekend I spotted a quarter-acre monoculture of Vinca major ‘Alba’ (below) covering a stretch of chalk cliff beneath Charles Dickens’ Bleak House in Broadstairs. The wandering stems formed an undulating green custard, studded with thousands of pure white flowers, smothering even the most rampant of competitors. (The latin word ‘vincire’, from which the name vinca is derived, means ‘bind’.)

Vinca major, which generally produces five-petalled, lilac-blue flowers, has its place …. somewhere around the far fringes of the garden where it can revel in dry shade or rampage down a steep bank. Here the plant’s Southern European heritage comes to the fore, rendering it tolerant of drought and summer heat, as well as deep shade. Vinca major is such a voracious visitor that in some countries it’s become a serious problem plant.

Providing you’re happy to tolerate a little bad behaviour, Vinca major will work hard for you. Named, variegated forms such as ‘Maculata’ (green leaves with gold centres), ‘Variegata’ (green edged with white) and ‘Wojo’s Gem’ (cream with green edges and pink stems, below) will spread light across a dark corner faster than you can say “Stop right there!”. Vincas root where the trailing stems touch the ground, rapidly creating enormous clumps of evergreen vegetation.

Don’t be fooled into thinking Vinca minor (lesser periwinkle) is any more polite than her big sister. Yes, she’s a lower growing plant with more delicate leaves, but her ideas about world domination are equal. There are some lovely cultivars, many with RHS Awards of Garden Merit, including ‘Azurea Flore Pleno’ AGM (sky-blue flowers), ‘Atropurpurea’ AGM (deep reddish-purple), ‘Gertrude Jekyll’ (pure white), ‘Ralph Shugert’ AGM (vivid, deep violet) and ‘Variegata’ AGM (green leaves margined cream with violet-blue flowers, below).

Somewhere in between major and minor comes Vinca difformis (imaginatively dubbed intermediate periwinkle), which is an altogether better behaved plant. It spreads slowly to about 120cm and revels in dry shade where little else will grow. Flowering begins in late summer, when the simple blooms appear white, tinged with blue. This bluishness fades to pure white through the winter, whilst the flowers keep on coming. Vinca difformis is a diamond in the rough and well worth tracking down if you are craving a little winter colour in your garden.

Major, minor or somewhere in between, there’s a vinca out there with designs on your garden. Choose the right location and vincas will do your dirty work; make one false move and your precious plants will be engulfed by a rising tide of glossy green foliage. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Ranunculus asiaticus: Persian Buttercup

I am not sure I have the patience to be a plant breeder, nor the stamina to go hunting for new species in far-flung places, but I am glad other people do. New hybrids and wild-collected rarities fuel the horticultural industry and gardeners’ imagination, a process of natural selection determining which survive in cultivation and which do not. Long years and vast sums of money are spent by professional breeders and plant hunters in pursuit of commercial success and botanical glory. Just occasionally the hybridisers go a little too far in their quest for plants which will capture our imagination, introducing faddy flowers which are too unnatural to be described as attractive. Ultimately the consumer, whether gardener, plant collector or florist, decides if a new cultivar will rise to fame or disappear without trace. The stakes are high.

Whether these exciting new ranunculus will make it onto the staging of our local garden centres I don’t know, but I do hope they’ll be arriving on your doorstep in a Valentine’s bouquet on February 14th.

Coronilla valentina: shrubby scorpion vetch, bastard senna

As winter’s end approaches our coastal garden is starting to look a little bedraggled. A mild December and January granted us a continuous display of luxuriant green, but now that same brave foliage has been torn and tattered by the wind. Beyond our garden gate there are flowers in the parks and gardens of Broadstairs, but they are pale imitations of their spring-time selves; lonely, shrunken, bleached-out little things that fail to lift my spirits.

Glowing like a candle in the dark is a plant that laughs in the face of February, Coronilla valentina subsp. glauca ‘Citrina’. Despite its unappealing common names (by rights it ought to be known as Valentine’s crown, ‘coronilla’ meaning ‘crown’), this compact, winter-flowering shrub was applauded by the great Vita Sackville-West, who praised “its persistence throughout the dreary months”, where she would find it “flowering continuously between those two great feasts of the Church – a sort of hyphen between the Birth and the Resurrection”. From November until May scorpion vetch produces little pom-poms of lemon-yellow, pea-shaped flowers atop pretty greyish-green foliage. An added bonus is the sweet scent, reminiscent of daffodils, a feature which made Coronilla valentina a popular cut flower in Victorian times. A long spell of cold may put a halt to the cheerful display, but as soon as milder weather arrives normal service is quickly resumed.

Coronilla valentina is a Mediterranean plant, common in Portugal, Malta and Croatia, although it’s been cultivated in British gardens since it was introduced to our islands in 1569. Plants are not fussy about soil type, but do demand a well-drained, sunny position in the garden. Planted in the shelter of a warm wall C. valentina will perform especially well. Like compatriots sage, lavender, cistus and rosemary, scorpion vetch does have a tendency to become woody and leggy in time. When past their best, old specimens should be replaced with vigorous new ones raised from cuttings.

The straight species Coronilla valentina has tawdry, orange-yellow flowers and is not nearly as attractive as ‘Citrina’. Those looking for something a little different might seek out the variegated form, ‘Variegata’, which is best grown in a cool greenhouse. However it’s hard to better ‘Citrina’, a plant that will transport you from autumn to spring as if winter never came between.

Coronilla valentina subsp. glauca ‘Citrina’ is available from Burncoose Nursery and Kelways.

Thymus pulegioides: broad-leaved thyme, lemon thyme

Variegation in plants is a trait I can take or leave. I blame spireas – a shrub I find especially hideous when variegated – for my aversion, having encountered them one too many times in situations where they’ve looked truly despicable. Yet occasionally, as in hostas, variegation is one of the features that makes a plant interesting enough to build up a cult following. Defined as the appearance of different coloured zones in the leaves, stems or fruits of a plant, variegation arises for a variety of genetic reasons. Natural variegation has largely been preserved and enhanced by gardeners and nurserymen who value the ornamental and ‘lightening’ effect of paler patches, splashes and fringes on a plant’s leaves. Used judiciously, variegated plants can be a godsend, used wantonly they can give one a headache.

As I look around my gardens I find I have almost no variegated plants. Perhaps this is a mistake, as at this time of year there are few flowers to punctuate the sea of green. Whilst lovely, it is, admittedly, a tad monotonous out there. So off I traipse to Broadstairs Garden Centre to see what they have to sprinkle on my green custard. My kind of plants are not generally stocked at our local nursery, but they are a great source of ‘fillers’, herbs, composts and bedding which I rely heavily throughout the season. The first plant to catch my eye was not a variegated plant, but Euphorbia amygdaloides ‘Purpurea’, the purple-leaved wood spurge. “That would look great behind a pot of yellow daffodils” I thought, “what could I buy to go with it?”. My gaze immediately alighted on a shelf populated by seven varieties of thyme, an impressive selection for a small garden centre at this time of year. One stood out from the crowd, Thymus pulegioides ‘Foxley’, possessed of tiny leaves variously dark green, cream and white, and ivory flushed with rose-pink. The scent from the crushed foliage packed a punch even on a cold, windy winter’s day and I was immediately convinced enough to buy two plants; one for London and one for Broadstairs. They will live in pots, in full sunshine, and I shall take cuttings in due course to guarantee I am never without this pretty, ground-hugging herb.

Meanwhile I am considering whether I might track down a variegated ginger, or the beautiful cream-edged Echium candicans ‘Star of Madeira’ for Broadstairs. Maybe Fatsia japonica ‘Spider’s Web’ would light up a dark corner in our London garden? I start to wonder if the evil spirea’s spell has finally been broken…..

I’d love to hear your thoughts and opinions on variegated plants and which ones you’d recommend to other gardeners who, like me, have resisted their charms in the past.

Euphorbia mellifera: canary spurge, honey spurge

To have taken so long to feature Euphorbia mellifera in my regular Flower Candy spot is an unforgivable oversight. Perhaps it’s because the flowers produced by this statuesque Canary Islands shrub are curious rather than pretty. They emit an intense, heady, honeyed scent, which gives rise to the species name ‘mellifera‘, derived from the Latin word for honey, mellis.

Euphorbia mellifera is an adaptable, easy-going and attractive plant. I have grown it for at least 15 years in gardens in Cornwall, London and Broadstairs where in each location it has behaved differently. In Cornwall, planted in an exposed, sunny position my original, teenage plant remains waist high and perfectly domed, so neat it might have been pruned that way. The leaves are a pale, apple-green. In contrast, grown in a sheltered spot in London and bathed in sun for only a few hours each day, E. mellifera grows lush and tall, lending it an exotic air, which is how I enjoy it best. A 12″ high seedling planted three summers ago is already 8′ tall and counting (see below). The evergreen foliage is a luminous, waxy, pea-green, which alone is enough for me, but in spring appear the clusters of scented brick-red flowers that lend the plant its name. After a strong start, our garden in Broadstairs became too shady for this lovely spurge. After a ‘restorative’ prune to 6″ above the ground it never came back satisfactorily and I eventually grubbed it out, which took the best part of a day. Euphorbia mellifera makes a big plant and hates disturbance.

Alas E. mellifera is not a candidate for a pot unless, perhaps, an exceptionally large one. I have had many a seedling appear in a container but they have never prospered as they have grown on, probably because they enjoy a long root run through a well-drained soil. As with all euphorbias, this plant contains a milky-white irritant sap which oozes out of the stems when cut. This may lead to painful rashes on the skin and can be very harmful to one’s eyes. Gloves should be worn when pruning and pulling off old leaves, otherwise there should be no cause for alarm.

I’ve always been more than satisfied with E. mellifera, but this year I have planted the seed of a new introduction to gardens, Euphorbia x pasteurii. This new spurge was created by crossing E. mellifera with the incredibly rare E. stygiana which is now almost extinct in its natural habitat in the Azores, where only 50 mature plants remain. The cross has created a very fine plant with a more compact habit than E. mellifera and wider, deeper green leaves akin to a rhododendron. Flowers are produced from April to June, earlier after a mild winter, and are honey scented like both parents.

Seeds of all three species mentioned can be sown at any time of the year on a standard seed compost in a cool greenhouse. Germination may be sporadic so a little patience is required. Good things come to those who wait. Once your seedlings are big enough to fend for themselves plant them into their final position in the garden (most soils are acceptable), stand back and watch them grow into fine architectural specimens.

Seeds of E. mellifera, E. x pasteurii, E. stygiana and many other euphorbias are available from Plant World Seeds.

*AGM denotes the RHS Award of Garden Merit which is bestowed upon only the most garden-worthy plants.

Narcissus: daffodil, daffadowndilly, jonquil, Lenten lily

Daffodils are synonymous with Easter. In England they are associated with Lent and occasionally referred to as Lenten lilies. Legend has it that the first daffodil bloomed on the night of The Last Supper in the Garden of Gethsemane to comfort Jesus in his hour of sorrow. Whether one is religious or not, there’s no question that daffodils symbolise rebirth, herald the arrival of spring and generally spread joy and hope wherever they grow. Hence I plant hundreds of them each autumn, yet always wish I had planted more.

Giving me enormous pleasure in my garden right now is a diminutive daffodil named N. ‘Elka’. She bears pearly white petals surrounding a lemon yellow trumpet on stems about 12″ tall. The trumpets fade gently as each flower matures, eventually becoming the same shade as the petals. A new daffodil variety, N. ‘Elka’ was named by Cornishman Alec Gray (also responsible for the ubiquitous N. ‘Tête à Tête’) after two lady daffodil growers called Elizabeth and Kate. They must be very proud of their namesake.

N. ‘Elka’ quickly earned an Award of Garden Merit from the Royal Horticultural Society thanks to her hardiness, early flowering and weather resistance. Such low growing varieties are best suited to sinks, pots or the front of borders, so this year I’ve planted N. ‘Elka’ in a shallow bowl on our garden table to follow the deep purple blooms of Iris histrioides ‘George’ AGM, and keep me smiling until Tulip batalinii ‘Bronze Charm’ starts producing its luminous apricot flowers in a couple of weeks’ time. All three bulbs are hardy, charming and perfect for pot culture, flowering in close succession. Put them on your list for ordering in late summer. Avon Bulbs is a one-stop-shop for this cheery little trio.

Wishing You and Yours a Very Happy Easter. TFG.

Magnolia doltsopa: Michelia doltsopa, sweet michelia

There are trees and then there are trees. Queens among their ranks are the magnolias; strong, majestic, ebullient beauties that grace our gardens with buxom, florid flowers each spring. A well-grown magnolia in full bloom is a thing of breathtaking beauty, so ravishing that one can scarcely believe such a divine creation actually exists. Set against a clear blue sky the flowers appear like tender water lilies floating on a pond. On stormy days the petals flutter and flap like white doves flying towards the heavens.

In case I have not made myself clear, I have quite a “thing” for magnolias. In common with unicorns and rainbows they possess an ethereal, fantastical, other-worldly quality which appeals to the escapist in me. The difference is they really exist (sorry to disappoint any readers who believe in unicorns), which is a good thing for us gardeners. But what is yet rarer and perhaps more mythical than a magnolia? Well, a michelia. These beautiful evergreen trees were, until recently, classed as distinct from magnolias, but are now part of the same, ancient family. Most of us would find it hard to tell a michelia flower apart from a magnolia, but the leaves of a michelia are typically everygreen and the flower buds tend to form in clusters rather than singly at the tips of the branches. Michelia blooms are delicately infused with a scent reminiscent of freesias.

A few years ago I was fortunate enough to see forests of Magnolia doltsopa growing on the mountainsides of Bhutan (see below). Here, in the most gentle of Himalayan nations, this tree was once over-harvested for its precious wood, so to see it growing in the wild was very special. Happily one doesn’t have to venture to the other side of the globe to see Magnolia doltsopa. My first two photographs were taken this March in the woodland garden at Burncoose in Cornwall. The nursery on the same site offers no fewer than eleven different michelias (Burncoose still use the old name in their catalogues), including Michelia laevifolia, Michelia maudiae and pink Michelia “Fairy Magnolia Blush”, which will sound faintly ridiculous when it’s re-labelled Magnolia “Fairy Magnolia Blush”. Still, I can’t enough of magnolias, so the more the better.

Gracious, evergreen, floriferous and compact when young, Magnolia doltsopa deserves to be better known and more widely grown. Plants can be clipped to create topiary or a hedge, and specimens will grow very happily in a large container. Planted in rich, well-drained soil where the tree will catch the morning sun, Magnolia doltsopa will only take 2-3 years to reach full potential and after that flower profusely every spring. They are hardy in much of the UK although, inevitably, late frosts may damage a few blooms. You may not be able to catch a unicorn, or find the end of a rainbow, but you can grow Magnolia doltsopa, so put your order in for one this spring.

Burncoose Nurseries have 2-3 litre potted plants available for delivery from May 2016 priced at £25. Magnolia doltsopa and its cultivars are also widely available in New Zealand.

Caltha palustris ssp. polypetala:  giant marsh marigold, kingcup

Forsythia, crocus, narcissus, mahonia, acacia, kerria: have you ever pondered why so many early flowering plants have predominantly yellow flowers? It’s because the colour yellow, whether it be primrose, golden, saffron or lemon, is highly effective in attracting pollinating insects, especially in the low light levels we experience at the beginning and end of each year. (Birds’ vision is also particularly sensitive to yellow, which may be why the sparrows nip all the flower buds off my Rosa banksiae “Lutea”). The number of flying insects is particularly low during the colder months, so early flowering plants have developed boldly-coloured, weather-resistant flowers to increase their chances of attracting insects.

Lighting up the corner of the pond in our London garden is Caltha palustris spp. polypetala, a large-flowered variation on the common marsh marigold. Every year it increases in size, blessing us with tens of large, glossy, reflective flowers. Understandably bees adore the single blooms, their golden stamens lagged in pollen. I love them too, set against the dark garden wall, viewed from the kitchen worktop where I write this blog.

Despite appearances the giant marsh marigold is not native to the UK, hailing from the mountainous regions of Turkey. Our plant grows in semi-shade in shallow water, but would be equally happy at the waters’ edge. It is one of the first plants to bloom each spring, alongside the magnolia, kerria and Narcissus “Jack Snipe”. If cut back hard after flowering there will be more flowers in autumn. Provided one has a good patch of continually damp soil Caltha palustris spp. polypetala will grow without intervention, spreading to create luscious mounds of emerald-green foliage studded with flowers. Pure gold.

The star turns in our London garden are performed by those plants that can survive with their heads in semi-shade and their roots in dense, damp, unctuous clay. Some plants give stardom a shot, only to find the going tough after a season: these one-hit wonders fade away and are quickly forgotten. But a few enjoy the challenge, thrive on it even, returning year after year to delight with a virtuoso performance. One such star, or perhaps I should stay starlet, is Omphalodes cappadocica ‘Cherry Ingram’ AGM.

Akin to the biennial forget-me-not, this neat, well-behaved perennial produces masses of vivid indigo-blue flowers in spring, hence the common name ‘blue-eyed Mary‘. This year my clump, which has developed from a single plant acquired some years ago from Sissinghurst, has flowered before nary a leaf has unfurled. I can only think this might be a consequence of the very cold nights we’ve been experiencing. The lack of foliage matters not. In fact it means the vibrancy of the flowers is highlighted all the more by a backdrop of manure and magnolia petals. Oh the glamour of it all!

To grow Omphalodes cappadocica ‘Cherry Ingram’ successfully, all that’s needed is a rich soil (clearly texture is not an issue) and cool shade. The blue flowers are fabulous on their own, planted beneath a host of golden daffodils or amongst a carpet of sulphurous primroses: yellows, creams and whites are great friends to blue at this time of the year. Like Ol’ Blue Eyes himself, blue-eyed Mary has staying power, delivering a command performance every time.

Omphalodes cappadocica ‘Cherry Ingram’ is available from Dorset Perennials, Great Dixter Gardens and Bluebell Cottage Gardens.

pelargonium papilionaceum: geranium papilionaceum, butterfly geranium, Rambossie

Geranium as a perfume and flavouring is very much in vogue. Its complex, warming, astringent notes are being employed by enlightened artisans to infuse everything from chocolate to gin. My favourite summer scent, “Geranium pour Monsieur” by Frederick Malle, combines the eponymous ingredient with cloves, cinnamon, white musk, mint and sandalwood. To spray it on in the morning is like stepping into a humid greenhouse early on a midsummer’s day. It’s the perfect pick-me-up and never fails to get people asking what I’m wearing.

Naturally, the first plant I wanted for my own greenhouse was a scented-leaf geranium. As luck would have it, I found a small cutting of Pelargonium papilionaceum, a South African native, for sale at Marwood Hill last spring. I mistakenly thought it would enjoy a sunny windowsill in the house whilst I refurbished the greenhouse at Polegate Cottage. This quickly dried out the compost and browned the edges of the enormous, rough leaves. I then did what I should have done in the first instance and looked it up on the Internet, only to discover Pelargonium papilionaceum is a plant of forest fringes and cool stream banks. Moved into a shady but warm position it has grown vigorously, throwing fragrant leaves into the greenhouse’s central path for me to brush against.

I find the scent heavenly, others find it harsh. In Afrikaans the common name is “rambossie” referring to the smell of the leaves which some describe as similar to the scent of a he-goat. Oh dear. Now I wonder if people ask what I am wearing for all the wrong reasons! No matter, it pleases me and I still have some friends. And the flowers, which are being produced for the first time this spring, suggest to me little pink fairies with oversized wings. The scent is the main event, but the flowers are a great bonus. In summer I plan to stand my plant outside somewhere shady before I retire it to our new garden room where our guests can comment, favourably or not, on the extraordinary, tangy, dry, spicy, masculine fragrance.

Pelargonium papilionaceum is available from geranium and fern specialist Fibrex Nursery.

Some of you were not enamoured of the buds of Tulipa ‘Rococo’ when I featured them in a post three weeks ago. The gnarled, contorted points were variously described as ‘prehistoric’, ‘like warts growing on smooth skin’ and ‘not looking very healthy’. Such comments were completely accurate and caused no offence. But I knew that those ugly ducklings would turn not into swans, but into glorious, colourful, flamboyant parrots. Of all the new tulips I tried and tested this year, Tulipa ‘Rococo’ was the most sensational, proving its garden-worthiness with a long display of dragon-red and emerald-green flowers flushed with gold and burgundy. I challenge you, Dear Readers, to be repulsed by them now.

Responding to images of the tulip’s flowers in bud, a positive voice belonged to Cathy, who writes the charming blog Garden Dreaming at Châtillon. She told me that a friend had photographed ‘Rococo’ petals after they had dropped onto a piece of coloured card, making the resultant images into greetings cards.

A lot can happen in the garden during a week in May, and my tulips went from boom to bust in fewer than 5 days. As I swept still perky petals into a zinc bucket, away from snails’ slimy jaws, I was reminded of Cathy’s friend’s idea and arranged a handful of the fiery flotsam across a slab of slate. Placed on their fronts the backs of the petals (actually a mix of sepals and petals) are relatively muted, revealing bruised shades reminiscent of those human muscle charts that used to hang in school biology labs. Arranged on their backs, the strength of the flower’s pigment is so strong that even digital technology struggles to capture its brilliance. The colours are operatically intense.

Cathy said that she kept her friend’s card for two years. I am not remotely surprised. Who would not be beguiled by the transformation of these extraordinary flowers?

Bulbs of Tulipa ‘Rococo’ will be available from Sarah Raven in autumn and should be planted in November.

Iris confusa: bamboo iris, 扁竹蘭

As the fig, olive and bay have matured, our seaside garden has become partly shaded. Where once plants basked in full sun, there are now spots that remain in cool shadow for most of the day. Having fought against the prevailing conditions for a few seasons, I have seen sense and sought out plants that will conjure up an exotic feel without needing a daily roasting. I have found that many plants, namely Isoplexis canariensis, Geranium maderense and Solanum laciniatum do just as well in dappled shade, producing bigger, lusher leaves. Light levels in Thanet are typically high, giving us a long growing season and, whilst Him Indoors bemoans the lack of sunbathing opportunities, the offending trees are responsible for keeping the garden frost-free in winter.

In my search for flamboyant shade lovers I’ve discovered an unusual iris from Asia, the bamboo iris, Iris confusa. I purchased three plants last autumn from the gardens at The Salutation and bedded them out in November rather than keep them in pots over winter. In the space of six months they have already made handsome, healthy clumps. The iris’ common name is apt as the plants produce pale green “hands” of foliage from short dark canes, strongly resembling the young shoots of a dwarf bamboo. (The Latin epithet “confusa” is applied to plants which appear to be something they are not.) The picture created by the splayed fans, arching gracefully outwards from the centre of each clump, reminds me of the vegetation I’ve seen growing along roadsides throughout Thailand, Malaysia and Vietnam. The bamboo iris itself is from Western China.

In northern counties of the U.K. Iris confusa might be considered tender, but a good winter mulch should be enough to protect against fatal damage. Given shelter from strong winds, the foliage is a year-round pleasure and reward enough for one’s time and trouble. Then in spring the bamboo iris produces fine, arching sprays of orchid-like blooms – the stuff that floral artists’ dreams are made of. A single spray displayed in a slender bud vase would be elegant enough, but mixed with larger flowers and cascading foliage, or in a wedding bouquet, they could look sensational. The blooms of Iris confusa can be any shade from pure white to Wedgwood blue, each time emblazoned with golden signals. My plants all bear white flowers with a tender flush of violet. Their flattened countenance is unusual when compared to the extravagant falls and standards of bearded irises and the individual blooms are small, measuring only 6 or 7cm across.

Although I grow Iris confusa in a shaded spot, it is an unfussy plant, demanding nothing more than reasonable drainage and shelter enough to prevent the leaves being torn or desiccated. It is a spreader, but not outrageously so, and you will not be without friends willing to take a “hand” or two from you. Cuttings root easily in a glass of tap water. As a relatively drought tolerant shade plant the bamboo iris really comes into its own, spreading slowly, providing a nice contrast to more conventional leaf shapes and producing flowers that some might mistake for something far trickier to grow. The ideal planting companions are other oriental treasures; hostas, bamboos, astilbes, acers, ferns and mosses. Named varieties exist if you want to be sure of flower colour, although they are not widely available: I. confusa ‘Martyn Rix’ bears clear blue flowers and ‘Chengdu’ has prettily frilled edges to its light blue petals. My recommendation would be to grab a handful of rhizomes from a friend with a generous clump and simply get going as soon as you can.

For more on this lovely perennial, I enjoyed this blog post on The Creative Flux which provides lots more detail and beautiful photographs.

I like to experiment and try new things in my two tiny gardens; hence I rarely grow the same summer annuals twice. I make a few exceptions, and they are all white-flowered: Begonia semperflorens, bog-standard busy lizzies and Nemesia “Wisley Vanilla”. Asked which of these I would take to my desert island I would answer, without hesitation, the latter.

Nemesias are brilliant bedding plants, but N. “Wisley Vanilla” has star quality. The plants are so hardy (they are technically tender perennials) that they normally come through winter completely unscathed both in London and Broadstairs. During a mild winter they may barely cease flowering. And then the flowers come so early and so prolifically that the plants require a haircut and short siesta mid-season. Cool summers seem to suit N. “Wisley Vanilla” perfectly, making it a great choice for UK gardens.

The plant’s outstanding quality is its scent, which I am enveloped by as I sit in the garden writing this post. It’s a light, sweet and unmistakable vanilla fragrance; not cloying or overpowering, just lovely. When the air is still (which is not often in Broadstairs) the flowers’ summertime scent permeates every corner of the garden. Breathing it in never fails to make me feel happy and content. The flowers themselves are small (about the size of a penny) and exquisitely ruffled: not too much, just enough, like a Spencer sweet pea. The lower petal is pure white, whilst the upper is flushed pink, more so when planted in sunshine. A lemon yellow eye completes the simple composition.

Personally I prefer to grow Nemesia “Wisley Vanilla” on its own, en-masse, often as cover beneath potted shrubs. The bigger plants provide a little protection from cold and wet in winter and the nemesias don’t seem to mid being lightly shaded. This year I have gone to town and planted several more plants in pots dotted around our seaside garden to spread a comforting scent wherever I might be working. Cuttings root easily if taken in spring or autumn and plants are readily found in the “basket plant” section of nurseries. Don’t be ripped off by the large, expensive pot fulls touted by big garden centre chains, there’s no need for these unless you’ve left it very late to get your garden ready for summer.

I sit here now with all my senses satisfied: a gin and tonic in one hand, the sound of collared doves cooing above, evening sun on my face and the scent of a thousand ice creams drifting up my nostrils. What could be more perfect?

Crinodendron hookerianum: Chilean lantern tree, Tricuspidaria lanceolata

There are some trees that you don’t come across very often, but when you do they are guaranteed to blow you away. Crinodendron hookerianum, the Chilean lantern tree is one of them. Like all good plants it was introduced to the UK by a Cornishman, William Lobb, in 1848. The species name hookerianum honors Sir William Jackson Hooker, an English botanist who studied many Chilean plants.

A slow-growing tree, C. hookerianum needs shelter and a partially shaded spot, but most importantly it demands humus-rich, acidic soil, just like rhododendrons. In its natural habitat trees tend to grow near streams or in damp, humid places: hence they fare well in western parts of the UK and Ireland.

The leaves of Crinodendron hookerianum put me in mind of Phillyrea latifolia, which grows so well in our seaside garden, but it’s the carmine-pink flowers, suspended in long rows beneath the branches, that this tree is admired for. The pendent, bell-shaped corollas are made up of five petals, each with a finely toothed edge. They feel waxy and look thoroughly oriental. If you have the right conditions you’d be a fool not to find a home for this wonderful tree. Not only will you be dazzled by its late spring / early summer display, but so will your family, friends and neighbours.

Crinodendron hookerianum is available from Crocus.co.uk and Burncoose Nurseries.

I am deep into writing two or three lengthy posts, each of which is defying me when it comes to crafting a satisfactory ending. Rather than torture myself, experience tells me to write about something else, perhaps a light-hearted subject, before returning to the serious stuff. So, as an interlude, let me present you with one of nature’s most fanciful, fabulous trees, the golden Indian bean tree, Catalpa bignonioides “Aurea” AGM.

Before anyone over excites themselves this unusual tree, precious though it is, does not produce beans made of gold. If it did I have a feeling you may have heard of it before. En masse Catalpa bignonioides “Aurea” would certainly enrich our troubled world, not to mention giving us good reason to wear sun glasses more often. From late spring the trees produce huge, heart-shaped leaves of the most radiant, effervescent acid yellow. They remain just as vibrant through the summer and autumn. What’s more, the youngest leaves emerge neatly in threes, infused with the colour of ox blood before fading to gold.

The golden Indian bean tree is a short, wide, low growing tree, rarely taller than 20ft at maturity. This makes it a perfect choice for small gardens or the back of a tropical border. If pollarded, the tree can be kept even more compact, producing leaves that are bigger and more dazzling. The foliage doesn’t emerge until late May or early June which is perfect for areas where spring bulbs are grown. The pictures in this post were taken in the Exotic Garden at Great Dixter earlier this week. The beds had just been planted out to create one of the garden’s most exciting and talked about features, with the catalpa surrounded by bronze leaved cannas. This tree has clearly been pollarded, which has produced some wonderfully exuberant new growth. Despite the torrential rain and glowering sky, look at how the whole plant glows and tell me it’s not remarkable.

Having vowed not to plant any trees in our new garden, I am now sorely tempted, not just by the golden Indian bean tree, but by Tetrapanax papyrifer “Rex” (not technically a tree, but a suckering shrub) and Paulownia tomentosa, the foxglove tree. All three are blessed with extravagant leaves and can be kept under control with careful pruning, so will be ideal for a small space.

Whether or not this has helped free my mind to think of endings for my backlog of posts I don’t know, but my retinas are certainly refreshed! I’d love to hear what you think of this unusual tree. Perhaps you’ve grown one and can share your experiences?

Catalpa bignonioides “Aurea” is available from Chew Valley Trees, Burncoose Nurseries and Crocus.co.uk. Genuinely slow-growing, it is best to buy a decent specimen unless you have all the time in the world.

Save

Save

It’s been a vintage year for clematis, in our London garden especially. Plants that have previously performed well but never shone have been turbo-charged by a cool, damp start to the year. They have veritably raced up columns, walls and trees, treating us to lush, unblemished displays of colourful flowers. Non climbing Clematis heracleifolia has almost taken over the entire bog garden that separates our pond from the vegetable garden. In late summer its hyacinth-like, blue flowers will give us weeks of pleasure.

Cream of this year’s crop is Clematis ‘Madame Julia Correvon’, which I planted several years ago in the shelter of the Victorian school building where we live. Here the plant’s roots enjoy a cool, moist root-run, thickly mulched with pea gravel and shaded by surrounding pots and planters. Clematis dislike having their lower portions exposed to the sun so it’s a good idea to underplant or protect the first foot or so of growth with an old roof tile.

Raised in France in 1900, Clematis ‘Madame Julia Correvon’ was believed to have been lost in cultivation until it was rediscovered by esteemed plantsman Christopher Lloyd. The Lady, as I refer to her, produces rich, magenta-red flowers from long, pointed buds in mid summer and a second flush in early autumn. Her petals are as heavily rouged and puckered as a dowager’s lips. Whilst Madame Julia is resistant to clematis wilt she is prone to mildew which has, on occasion blighted the leaves and stems so badly that I’ve cut the whole plant back mid season. Regardless of her susceptibility, the RHS saw fit to bestow an Award of Garden Merit in 1993.

If I had choices I might grow Madame Julia through a purple-leaved shrub such as Sambucus nigra ‘Black Lace’ or Cotinus coggygria ‘Royal Purple’, or train her up a obelisk in a border planted with Rosa ‘Charles de Mills’, Cirsium rivulare ‘Atropurpureum’, Ammi majus and magenta Lychnis coronaria. Provided the compost can be kept evenly moist, this versatile, free-flowering clematis will also do perfectly well in a pot.

Clematis ‘Madame Julia Correvon’ is available from Taylor’s Clematis and other reputable nurseries.

Alright, enough now, all this wet stuff has been marvellous but where’s the sun? This time last year it was scorching – so scorching in fact that my day at Hampton Court Palace Flower Show was made bearable only by copious ice-cold Laurent Perrier and the good humour of my heat-hardened Aussie friend Helen. Happily, tomorrow’s temperature is going to be more Margate than Melbourne, but please, no more rain. It hasn’t stopped since Chelsea, so let this be the end of our damp squib summer and the start of a long-awaited heat wave.

Among the plants that haven’t been complaining about the deluge are our hostas. Where they haven’t been nibbled, chomped or shredded by slugs and snails they are looking superb, especially Hosta “Halcyon”, quite simply one of the best blue-leaved hostas out there. If I could take only one Hosta to my desert island, it would be this one, although it wouldn’t last long in the heat. Halcyon’s not too big, not too small, ace-of-spades-shaped leaves are covered with a smoky bloom which causes raindrops to bead and bounce from their surface. It never wears off and helps the relatively tough leaves to repel slugs and snails as well as water. Clumps of Hosta “Halcyon” take a little while to build up, but once mature make incredible patio pot plants or front-of-border fillers for semi shade. Lavender-blue flowers, which are a nice bonus, appear in July.

Off now to perform a little sun dance ahead of visiting Hampton Court Flower Show tomorrow. Fingers crossed it works – I don’t do plastic ponchos!

The only plant of any value that came with the purchase of Polegate Cottage was a clematis. Squeezed into an impossibly tight gap between paving slabs it scrambles over a wrought iron arch above the garden gate. It has withstood all the builders’ toings and froings and is now covered in a rude quantity of rich, velvety flowers. The clematis in question, like C. “Madame Julia Correvon”, is a viticella type with an RHS Awards of Garden Merit, and is called C. “Étoile Violette”. Both clematis were bred by Francisque Morel of Lyon in the early 1900s and remain amongst the most popular varieties in cultivation today.

Contrary to my photographs, the flowers of C. “Étoile Violette” are a particularly dark, inky purple and not flushed with magenta. Their true, regal colour is just about visible in the flowers at the very top of the image below. The dark flowers with their pale yellow stamens contrast wonderfully with excellent, blemish-free foliage. It may be the sea air, but I have never experienced powdery mildew with this particular variety, which is also resistant to clematis wilt. C. “Étoile Violette” flowers from July to September on the current season’s growth, which means it needs pruning hard to 8″ – 10″ above ground at the end of winter. Apart from providing a climbing frame, no other maintenance is needed. The flowers are on the small side compared to some earlier flowering clematis, but are borne in such profusion that very little foliage is visible during the first flush. A well established plant might climb to a height of 10′ – 12′ but will never become rampant as some clematis can.

Plant C. “Étoile Violette” where it can scramble through shrubs that flower in early summer (philadelphus for example) to prolong the season, through a hedge, or up a well-lit wall amongst yellow, pink or white-flowered roses. This versatile climber is worthy of the recommendation that if you only have space for one clematis, C. “Étoile Violette” could be your very best choice.

Clematis “Étoile Violette” is available from Taylor’s Clematis , Crocus.co.uk and good garden centres nationwide.

Save