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Remarkable Rowans.

Thursday, July 14th, 2011

2011 is shaping up to be a bumper year for fruit and berries. All of the hot sun and near-drought conditions of Spring allowed the mass-pollination of flowers by feeding insects – unhindered, this year, by rain or heavy cloud – whilst the recent summer rains have promoted the swelling of the subsequent fruit to terrific proportions. Our hedgerows are filled with the glowing gold and scarlet of Viburnum berries along with the over-sized, ebony-black hips of wild roses, and will soon be heavily laden with what looks to be a bumper crop of blackberries too. Elsewhere Malus (Apples and Crab-Apples) are all developing nicely, but they have been well and truly eclipsed by their close relatives the Sorbus, or Rowans, whose giant clusters of bright orange-red fruit seem to be festooning their owners branches with unusual abundance this year.

Sorbus aucuparia - our native Rowan. A tree in full fruit can easily rival many exotic ornamentals.

Our native species of Rowan, also known as the Mountain Ash, is Sorbus aucuparia. This is one of nearly 100 species of Rowan within the Sorbus genus, Sorbus being an unusual genus in that it is sub-divided into two very distinct sections: the Rowans (Aucuparia section) and the Whitebeams (Aria section). As the common name “Moutain Ash” implies, the species is a specialist of uplands, and very often forms the final tree line at higher elevations, with twisted, wind-blasted specimens often found clinging on in the most improbable and inhospitable sites. Although entirely unrelated to the Ash (Fraxinus species) Rowans do share the pinnate arrangement of their foliage with that genus, and all Rowan species have leaves that are divided into feather-like or fern-like fingers – the pinnae.

A single Rowan leaf, divided into feather-like pinnae or leaflets, which are themselves toothed at the margins.

Rowans have adapted not just to exposure and high elevation, but also to extremely acid soil conditions, where few other woody plants would survive. Such conditions are typical of our moorlands, of course, but, aside from out-and-out alkaline chalk-lands, Rowans are perfectly adaptable and thrive in virtually all soils. This adaptability, along with their general toughness and lack of major pests and diseases has seen Rowans widely used as street trees and in parkland plantings, but in many ways they are also amongst the very finest possible trees for planting in gardens. In common with most Rowans, Sorbus aucuparia is a small tree, with a delicate airy habit. That divided foliage ensures that no Rowan casts heavy shade, which in turn makes them ideal for under-planting with smaller shrubs and herbaceous plants. The leaves of the Rowan are also inherently attractive throughout the growing season, but take on a particular appeal in autumn when they start to tint to shades of red-purple and bronze.

Sorbus cashmiriana has somewhat larger individual flowers than do most other Rowan species.

Back in Springtime the trees produce large, and very densely packed corymbs of tiny, cream-coloured flowers. The flowering display is not generally considered of great ornamental interest, although I think they do have a bumptious, fluffy appeal, but, in common with many other creamy spring flowers, they are hugely attractive to bees, hoverflies and other pollen and nectar feeding insects. Finally, then, the result of all that feverish insect attention are the magnificent berries, produced well in advance of many other trees and in full scarlet effect by August.

Sorbus aucuparia flowers.

Rowans would be well-loved and widely planted solely for the ornamental effects of those berries alone, notwithstanding all the many other attributes that the trees have to offer, but the fruits are equally esteemed by many species of birds who often flock to the trees throughout autumn. Thrushes, Redwings are Waxwings are all devotees, and many other species will also make a detour to a garden bearing a fruiting Rowan tree. We humans too have long harvested the fruit to produce Rowan jelly – a marvellous preserve with a sharp, marmalade-like flavour.

Sorbus aucuparia berries.

As already mentioned, our native Sorbus aucuparia is just one of a large number of species of Rowan, and many new species have recently been discovered, named and introduced into cultivation following recent plant-hunting expeditions to the mountainous regions of South-Western China. Our native tree is well up there amongst the best of the genus, ornamentally speaking, but almost all of the species and their ever-expanding collection of hybrids are highly attractive, incredibly easy to accommodate and exceedingly well-worth seeking out and growing.

In a good season some Sorbus can produce jaw-dropping leaf colour - this is Sorbus sargentiana in full autumn finery.

There are a few much larger growing species, most notably the magnificent Chinese Sorbus sargentiana, with it’s huge sticky over-wintering leaf-buds, and 30cm long leaves that turn to vivid scarlet in autumn. Mostly, though, the Rowans are small to medium sized at maturity, often with a rather slender, upright habit.

Sorbus sargentiana is well-known for it's over-sized, sticky winter buds.

I’m a huge fan of autumn foliage colour. Over half of our entire garden is given over to autumn colouring trees, and Sorbus certainly contains some of the worlds finest. S. commixta, is one such, with leaves that consistently turn to burnt orange and glowing red in autumn. That species is another Chinese native, as is S. hupehensis, whose leaves have a distinct blue-ish cast, before turning deep red at the seasons end, as do those of the larger-leafed S. esserteauana.

Sorbus commixta - in full autumn colour.

As with all trees, autumn foliage colour can be inconsistent and short lived, dependent, as it it, on the vagaries of our climate, and most Rowans are undoubtedly grown primarily for their display of fruit. S commixta, S. esserteauana and S. sargentiana all produce berries similar to our native Moutain Ash, but the fruit colours within the Rowans extend well beyond fire engine red. Many of the Chinese species, including S. hupehensis, as well as S. forrestii and S. koehneana, bear white berries. S. cashmiriana has the finest berries amongst the white-fruiting species, with very large, marble-like fruit held in drooping clusters that remain on the branches long after the autumn foliage has fallen.

Sorbus cashmiriana - the berries are so large that they often weigh down the branches of the tree.

The newly introduced and highly desirable Sorbus rosea has gorgeous, large, clear-pink berries whilst those of S. vilmorinii start out rose red, slowly changing to pink and finally maturing to white flushed with apple-blossom, all against a back-drop of ever-intensifying red-purple autumn foliage.

Sorbus vilmorinii.

It’s hybrid S. ‘Eastern Promise’ is similar but with larger berries that retain their deep-pink colouration throughout. Yellow-fruited Rowans are also available, including S. ‘Golden Wonder’ and the very famous, wild-collected S. ‘Joseph Rock’, which is a truly outstanding prospect when laden with it’s golden berries against a kaleidoscopic backdrop of red, orange and copper autumn foliage.

Sorbus 'Joseph Rock'.


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Planting for Wildlife: The Wild Roses.

Thursday, June 16th, 2011

There can be few gardens across the land that don’t contain at least 1 or more roses. Whether they were planted by their current gardener or inherited along with the house and the rest of the original planting, our love affair with the rose has seen them proliferate across our gardens like few other varieties of plant. In many ways, though, they have become a victim of their own success – too ubiquitous and therefore too common to be in any way fashionable. The “modern rose” is also often a very man-made affair – all pumped-up in a powder-puff multitude of petals and a bewildering array of colour combinations – not the kind of thing that sits well with the trends for naturalistic planting and wild-looking plants.

Rosa rugosa, together with a feeding bumblebee.

The hybrid T also comes with some serious baggage – associations with disease (Blackspot in particular), aphids, annual pruning regimens and gaunt, bare, ugly looking bushes through winter. It’s fair to say that many Modern Roses cannot, in fact, be successfully cultivated without resorting to an armoury of defensive sprays and potions to fend off the worst of their many enemies. You could even say that they represent the worst excesses of old-style gardening as a kind of attack on nature, something to be tamed rather than celebrated in it’s wildness. But to tar all roses with that same brush would be a serious mistake.

Rosa canina - the small hips are both attractive and loaded with vitamins.

Rosa is a pretty large genus with over 100 species. Most of these are native to Asia, but, quite remarkably perhaps, some 20 different rose species grow wild in Britain. The majority of that number are made up of non-natives that have escaped from early attempts at cultivation and have naturalised themselves, and still others are varieties that differ only slightly from their species. We do, however, have 4 identifiably seperate native species of rose, all of which are quite charming and none of which suffer from any of the drawbacks associated with their over-blown modern hybrid relatives.

Rosa canina in flower.

Rosa canina (the Dog Rose) is probably everyone’s archetypal idea of a wild-rose. The best known of our native species, it’s a familiar sight in many hedgerows and banks where the slender stems scramble through the stronger supports of other shrubs. Like all of the wild roses the fragrant flowers are simple and single, and open flat to reveal a central boss of golden stamens surrounded by petals that vary in colour from pure white through to deep pink, but are most commonly seen in pale, apple-blossom pink. These flowers are followed by striking flask-shaped, bright vermillion-red fruits.

Rosa arvensis - smothered with summer flowers.

Rosa arvensis (the Field Rose) is a more vigorous climbing species that readily forms dense mounds of stems and foliage and is ideal for growing through a tree. In the wild the species is most usually found at woodland margins, as well as in older hedges, but it’s long been cultivated too and forms one of the essential elements of the traditional English Cottage Garden, which is never complete without it’s climbing rose around the front door. The flowers are invariably white and somewhat smaller than the Dog Rose. The fragrance is also less notable than in that species, but what they lack in individual prowess they make up for in abundance, with the plants becoming smothered in flowers throughout summer and equally numerous small, rounded, sealing-wax red fruit in autumn.

A Blue Tit samples the hips of Rosa arvenis deep in a snowbound winter.

Rosa rubiginosa (Sweet Briar) is a free-standing shrub, rather than a climber, and has thick stems clothed with a formidable armoury of thorns – hence the common name. The foliage is deliciously scented of apples and the beautifully formed flowers are clear-pink fading to a white centre and are also wonderfully, and famously fragrant. Once again, the flowering display is followed by an even brighter one as the teardrop-shaped red hips swell through the autumn. Sweet Briar makes an excellent and very dense hedge in it’s own right, and is readily grown, even in quite poor soils.

The distinctive fruit of Rosa rubiginosa.

The last of our native species, Rosa pimpinellifolia (Scotch Rose), is perhaps the least well-known, at least in it’s true, wild form, but is certainly my favourite of the four. It forms a small bush, commonly found growing wild amongst coastal sand dunes, and limestone pavements, but completely adaptable to virtually all garden conditions. The entire plant is more delicate than the preceding species; the foliage is very heavily divided giving an almost fern-like quality to the plant. The stems are extraordinarily bristly and the young foliage is bright red fading to deeper red with maturity, whilst the white flowers are small, but are borne in profusion throughout May and June when they perfume the air. The globular hips appear from mid-summer are deep purple eventually maturing to shining ebony-black.

Rosa pimpinellifolia.

Added to these four species I have to also single out one of the escapees, now very well established in the British countryside, namely Rosa rugosa, (Ramanas Rose). This is a medium-sized, free standing shrub, strong-growing and rather coarse in appearance, but invaluable in the garden in so many ways. The large flowers are typically dark pink, but the best form, ‘Alba’, has flowers of pure white with a contrasting golden centre. These are very powerfully and intoxicatingly fragrant, filling the air with a spicy warmth – truly outstanding. The plants flower continually for many months running from mid-spring right through to late autumn. As a result they never create a huge floral display but the enormously long flowering season is ready compensation. The hips mature to bright tomato-red and, indeed, are also shaped exactly like cherry tomatoes – highly decorative. Rosa rugosa makes a fantastic hedging plant either in it’s own right or mixed in with other native species.

The large, plump hips of Rosa rugosa alba.

All of these 5 roses are beloved by wildlife and make a near-essential edition to any wild or wildlife friendly garden. Those beautiful and fragrant flowers are visited by a large array of insects, butterflies, bees, moths, hoverflies, beetles and wasps. Bumble-bees in particular seem continually drawn to wild-rose flowers and readily gorge themselves on the plentiful pollen and nectar within. Rose hips are equally important sources of food, particularly since they are extremely long-lasting and often persist well into winter when many species of fruit eating birds, along with deer, rabbits, mice, squirrels and other winter foragers rely upon them for sustenance. Finally the bushy, vigorous, multi-branched and thorny nature of roses makes them perfect for nesting birds and small mammals who can readily create a secure and well-defended home in amongst the branches.

Rosa pimpinellifolia fruit, slowly ripening from deep red to black.


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Planting for Wildlife: Daisy, Daisy.

Thursday, June 9th, 2011

It’s no exaggeration to say that there is a crisis looming, or already in full swing, for many of our native insects. Something in the region of 70% of our native butterfly species are in steep decline and many of our bee species are now regarded as threatened, with the short-haired bumblebee having gone extinct in the last few years. Even one third of our native wasp species are now on the endangered list. All of these insect groups are vital for the ongoing health and well-being of the entire ecosystem of our countryside, and the reasons for their declines are not hard to pinpoint.

A Honeybee feeding upon an Ox-Eye Daisy.

Climate change is certainly a factor, as the seasons that species have evolved to exploit change their nature or become more unpredictable, but of far greater significance is the rise of intensive agriculture and the fragmentation or loss of wild habitats that has resulted. To put that in perspective, 97% of Britain’s wild-flower meadows have disappeared in the space of the last 70 years. When viewed from that stand-point it’s surprising that more of our native insects haven’t succumbed altogether, but part of the reason for their continued survival, and that of much of the rest of our native wildlife, is that many species have managed to transplant themselves into our gardens and the margins of habitats that might otherwise be thought of as wasteland.

One of my favourites - the Spotted Longhorn Beetle, a guaranteed visitor to a flowering patch of Ox-Eyes.

The enormous economic importance of pollinating insects is only just being appreciated. Without them virtually all of our arable agriculture would, overnight, simply cease to exist. The very nature of our landscape is also inexorably linked to the fate of it’s pollinating bees, butterflies, hoverflies, moths, beetles and wasps, and their continued survival is very much in our own hands.

The Buff-tailed Bumblebee is our most widespread species.

Alerted, as never before, to the alarming declines of insect species and their populations conservationists are becoming evangelical in their calls for us to plant more wildflowers. Food sources and living spaces are the two key areas that we, as gardeners, can readily provide for our our invertebrate neighbours, and both are served by planting wildflowers. Attempting to reverse that fragmentation of habitats, that I mentioned,  is particularly important, as insect populations can all too easily become trapped in an ever dwindling micro-niche that is both genetically unstable and highly vulnerable to climate or other physical changes.

A Heath Fritillary feeding on nectar.

The goal is to provide a network of linked wildlife corridors through which species can move and slowly expand their numbers and their range, and these corridors are created and defined by the planting of native wildflowers. Road verges, car-parks and railway tracks can all be pressed into valuable use, but the largest green area outside of farmland, and the one over which we collectively have the most control, of course, is that contained within our gardens. Each of our gardens can be thought of as a cell of the environment, and by keeping the habitat of our own “cell” happy and healthy then the whole organism will thrive, along with all of it’s wildlife diversity.

The Ox-Eye is unpretentious and naturally charming.

A good emblem for this wildflower resurgence must be the Ox-Eye Daisy - Leucanthemum vulgare. The specific name “vulgare” means common, and there’s something pleasingly unsophisticated and fundamentally natural about the look of this native wildflower that sums up the whole ethos pretty well, I think. The Ox-Eye thrives on roadside verges, poor soils and neglect. It’s the antithesis of formality, with it’s cheerful, but raggedy appearance, as the stems tumble over one another and present their flowers to the sun. Traditionally the species was a stalwart of natural wildflower meadows, and, where allowed, it is an early coloniser of meadow grassland and newly disturbed ground. The plants do equally well in a traditional English border, and can easily be incorporated into a wide variety of schemes and designs.

One of the many species of hoverfly that frequent the flowers.

Flowering more or less continuously from May through to early September the Ox-Eye is one of the quintessential British summer wildflowers. You can grow them in turf, and indeed it’s possibly to buy-in turf which already contains growing plants, and these will happily survive being mown along with the grasses, but to properly benefit your wildlife, they must be allowed to grow to their full size (around 60cm) and to flower, which they do prodigiously. You can readily raise your own Ox-Eyes from seed, which will generally flower the same year it’s sown, and is entirely undemanding in it’s requirements. The plants are perennial, but often rather short-lived, thriving best in sunny situations, which is also where they will be of most benefit to your insect population.

Common Malachite beetle, feeding on and smothered in pollen.

Ox-Eyes are adored and relied upon by a wide array of insects. Flower Beetles of many species, such as the jewel-like Malachite Beetle, will be attracted and nourished by the pollen the flowers produce, whilst the nectar is a guaranteed draw for a constellation of butterfly, day-flying moth, bee and hoverfly species. Where space and your garden conditions allow the plants will very readily self-seed, but if you need to limit their ambitions it’s easy enough to remove the spent flower heads and prevent them from multiplying.

A Green-Veined White Butterfly pays a visit.

So this is one area where we really can all make a difference, and we really can all do our bit –  sow some wildflower seed or plant some plugs, and bring swathes of meadow flowers back to life in our own back yard. In so doing we’ll be helping to maintain the health of our own garden, and that of it’s wildlife inhabitants, as well as contributing to the whole network of wildflower habitats throughout the land.

The magnificent Emerald Flower Scarab seated on his pollen meal.


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Planting for Wildlife: The Guelder Rose.

Thursday, June 2nd, 2011

Wandering through the garden recently on a hot, sunny morning I was drawn to one shrub because of the sound emanating from it…once I arrived I found the entire plant was covered with bees – wild honeybees, masonry bees, leaf-cutter bees and other solitary species – together with hoverflies of half-a-dozen different species. Even some pollen-eating horned-beetles had flown in to join the scrum, and there must have been getting on for a thousand individual insects all feeding together on one plant.

The shrub in question was a Viburnum dentatum, and the big draw for all the many insects were the flowers, many hundreds of which were covering the plant, each one laden with pollen. Our garden teems with wildlife at most times, but I was particularly pleased to think that just one individual plant was providing to much sustenance to so many wonderful insects and their various hungry broods back in their respective nests.

Viburnum dentatum is a North American species, and not necessarily one of the most ornamental of this strikingly handsome genus. Over in our hedgerows, though, both of the native species of Viburnum – V. lantana – aka the Wayfaring Tree – and V. opulus, the Guelder Rose – are doing their thing. The plants of Viburnum opulus that grow wild around the margins of the garden are all interwoven into the hedgerows and so get cut back pretty hard every couple of years, which certainly doesn’t do much for their flowering display, but where they do flower these too are smothered with feeding insects feasting on the bounty of pollen.

Viburnum opulus in full flower - a major insect magnet.

Viburnum opulus is one of our most attractive and versatile native shrubs. Not fussy as to soil type, the plants tolerate dry, infertile soils but particularly thrive in wet or boggy soils where, aside from huge trees, relatively few other native woody plants will succeed. Our largest pond is bordered by soil that was, at least in part, formed by the spoil from its excavation – rich but very heavy clay. The area also periodically floods from the river and is subject to continual leaching of water from the body of the pond.

We originally planted this mini-zone with a variety of selections of Acer palmatum, with their traditional association with water, but the continually wet soil has proven too much for these Maples, all of which failed to thrive and were moved to another part of the garden this last winter.  This pond-margin has now been replanted with a group of different cultivars of Viburnum opulus which have already produced great growth and seem to be positively relishing their semi-boggy new homes. The future display of flowers, all interweaving from the different varieties, should prove to be an even bigger insect magnet than their American cousin Viburnum detatum over on the other side of the garden.

Viburnum opulus - the wild form.

Viburnum are closely related to Hydrangea, and the flowers of V. opulus are amongst the finest in the whole genus, closely resembling those of a Lacecap Hydrangea. The common name ‘Guelder Rose’ is one of those widespread, but not very useful or accurate labels that sometimes get attached to plants, this time stemming from the introduction of one very well known form of the species – V. opulus ‘Roseum’, widely known as the Snowball Tree. This very popular cultivar was believed to have been found in the Dutch region of Guelderland, hence the name, but, from a wildlife perspective, the Snowball tree should be avoided entirely. Those large balls of flowers are completely sterile – so no pollen is produced at all, not much good for hungry bees and hoverflies.

The flowers of Viburnum opulus 'Roseum' are big and blowsy, but not much good for hungry wildlife.

Being sterile ‘Roseum’ also fails to set fruit, which brings me to another great attribute of the species. Once the flowers have fallen away the plants produce heavy clusters of cranberry-like, glistening bright-red fruits. These are absolutely beautiful to behold, particularly on the varieties with contrasting leaf colour (more of which in a moment…) but, as might be imagined, they are also highly valuable to birds busily feeding-up for the coming winter. The Thrush family are particularly fond of these fruits, and blackbirds, mistle thrushes, fieldfares and redwings will all go out of their way to visit and feed upon a fruiting bush. Woodmice and field mice are also fans of the fruit and have been known to scale the shrubs in search of a meal.

Big clusters of fruit bring in the birds (and the mice).

From an ornamental perspective – pretty important for any large shrub if it’s is going to deserve a space in most gardens, after all – the flower and the fruit are followed by another top feature, namely autumn colour. The foliage of most varieties turns to a range of colours from deep purple-burgundy to bright crimson and orange, depending on the temperatures, and is especially vivid when the plants are grown in full sun. A plant of Viburnum opulus in full autumn colour, and at the same time laden with it’s bright fruits, is pretty hard to top when it comes to seasonal finery, and all this from a common and easily grown British native.

Viburnum opulus, in autumn foliage.

Besides the aforementioned ‘Roseum’ there are surprisingly few named forms of the species, but those that do exist are generally all well worth growing. ‘Aureum’ is an old, golden-leafed cultivar that tends to burn when grown in full sun. It’s now been superseded by the much more weather-proof ‘Park Harvest’ which, come early autumn, combines it’s intensely yellow leaves with vivid red fruit – quite a spectacle.

Viburnum opulus 'Park Harvest' - the new golden foliage lined with red.

‘Xanthocarpum’ and the newly selected ‘Apricot’ have yellow and pink-ish gold fruit respectively, whilst ‘Notcutt’s Variety’ has larger flowers and fruits. Perhaps most useful of all is ‘Compactum’, a very free-flowering and strong fruiting cultivar that forms a dense and compact shrub, ultimately much smaller than the wild form, and so more readily accommodated in smaller gardens.

Viburnum opulus 'Xanthocarpum'.


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Planting for Wildlife: Honeysuckle.

Thursday, May 26th, 2011

As late Spring merges into Summer many of the hedges that border our garden here in North Devon are festooned with the most beautifully scented pink & yellow Honeysuckle. This is not something that we have planted, but instead forms a natural part of the woven fabric of the ancient hedges – our native species of this glamorous clan, Lonicera periclymenum, a plant without equal in terms of floral perfume, and also an essential element in the composition of any wildlife-friendly garden.

Lonicera 'Sweet Sue'.

L. periclymenum is a vigorous, scrambling climber, native to woodland margins and hedgerows throughout the land. The species bears large, open clusters of flowers, each comprised of greatly elongated tubes, typically red or pink on their exterior and creamy yellow within. These flower tubes flare open and re-curve back onto themselves, lending the flowers their highly exotic and intricately beautiful appearance. In truth, though, the Honeysuckle is another of those near bomb-proof native plants that will thrive in a range of garden situations without a great deal of attention or fuss. They can readily be trained over a fence or through a tree or companion shrub, and of course can easily be planted and left to develop in their natural habitat of the hedgerow.

Lonicera 'Munster'.

The species will grow in shade, although it certainly flowers better with at least a few hours of sun, but it is also highly tolerant of dry, and nutrient poor soils. The plant climbs not with arial roots or tendrils, but merely by the actions of the growing stems that have a powerfully twining, circular, clockwise momentum. This habit produced the old common English name for the plant: Woodbine – a reference to the “binding” effect that the twining stems can have on their tree hosts. A stroll through Honeysuckle woodlands will quickly reveal an array of curiously twisted and contorted tree branches, all of which will have been moulded and sculpted over time by their Honeysuckle neighbours.

The twining stems of a Honeysuckle, clambering above and below the now twisted branch of it's host tree.

Those wonderfully scented flowers first appear in late May but the season continues throughout summer, with the perfume intensifying greatly in the evening, a clue to the intended audience for the flowers. Honeysuckle blossoms are visited by bees and hoverflies, but their greatly elongated flowers are difficult for these insects to access and the nectar tubes have instead evolved to benefit an entirely different group of pollinators – the moths.  Many species of moth will visit a flowering Honeysuckle over the course of a night, feeding upon the copious nectar, and pollinating the flowers as they go. The spectacular Hawk-moths, in particular, with their greatly elongated tongues, have just the right feeding apparatus to get to the base of the flowers. All of the moth action in turn attracts bats, and an entire nocturnal mini food-chain in born.

An Elephant Hawk Moth pays a night visit to a Honeysuckle flower.

Honeysuckle flowers are only one of the many assets that the plants provide to wildlife.  The leaves are the larval foodplant for an array of Lepidoptera, most famously the majestic and all-too rare White Admiral Butterfly, but also many smaller moth species too.  In early autumn the flowers give way to bright scarlet, waxy berries, and these are a favourite of bullfinches, thrushes and a variety of  species of warbler. Honeysuckle bark is also targeted, both by birds, including Sparrows, blackbirds and pied flycatchers, as well as by dormice, all of whom use the soft, flaking, peeling bark strips to line their respective nests.

Lonicera berries.

On top of that the plant itself, once mature, creates a very dense tangle of often impenetrable, inter-woven stems which make the perfect, fully protected nesting site for an array of small birds. Sparrows, robins, blackbirds and all manner of tits will invariably make use of a Honeysuckle plant in the garden, and even outside of the breeding season the dense cover the plants provide will make a ideal sheltered roost for many of the same species. Periodic hard pruning will encourage the plants to become extra bushy and maximise the protection that they can offer to garden birds.

Those delicate, flaring, nectar-bearing flower tubes, in close-up.

Not surprisingly for such a widely cultivated and much loved native plant, a variety of forms have been selected and named over the years. The habit, foliage and vigour is pretty consistent throughout the cultivars that are available for the gardener, but the flower colours and sizes do offer a subtle range of options. The best known, and certainly the longest established are ‘Belgica’, an old Dutch selection that has been grown since the 17th Century that has red-purple flowers that fade to yellow-cream, produced early in the season, and ‘Serotina’, a much more recent selection that extends the flowering season into October.

Lonicera periclymenum 'Serotina'.

L. periclymenum ‘Graham Thomas’ is another very widely grown cultivar, this time originating in Warwickshire where the original plant was found growing wild in the 1960′s. It produces flowers that are nearly pure white in bud, opening to butter yellow. ‘Munster’ goes in the other direction, with rose pink buds that open to white with pink streaks on the tube and the reverse of the flower lobes.

Lonicera 'Graham Thomas'.

Two of the very best forms are also amongst the most recently introduced. ‘Sweet Sue’, was found and named by the famous plantsman Roy Lancaster to honour his wife; the plant has exceptionally fragrant and very large flowers of creamy white, ageing to soft yellow, whilst ‘Heaven Scent’ has equally large and equally fragrant flowers of deep cream that open to pale gold.

Lonicera 'Heaven Scent'.


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Summer Flowering Magnolias.

Thursday, May 5th, 2011

Magnolias hold a very special place in my heart. It was the fluttering Lotus-like petals of my parents Magnolia stellata that were partly responsible for my fascination with plants in the first place. Their shape, size and clean simplicity seemed somehow more extraordinary than most other garden plants. This introduction to the genus – at the tender age of maybe 6-ish – was the jumping off point for a lifelong relationship with these most magnificent of temperate flowering trees.

Magnolia sieboldii - pink stamen form.

I have blogged before about some of the newer hybrids and colour forms of Magnolia, but this is a huge and diverse genus and there is another, very different sub-section of Magnolias that opens the plants up to more gardens and gardeners than might traditionally be imagined. Magnolias, as a whole, are quite rightly thought of as large, and generally tree-like in size. Even the smallest of the well known species (such as good old M. stellata) eventually become quite enormous in girth, if not in height. Magnolias are also known for preferring acid soil. This is not entirely accurate, and almost all will do perfectly well on a neutral soil, particularly one that is nutrient rich, as is the case with most clay-based soils, for instance, but alkaline soils are generally seen as a no-go area for the plants.

The group that I want to highlight don’t conform to either of those stereotypes, however. They are most definitely shrubby and rarely if ever grow on a single trunk, which in turn makes them much easier to accommodate in smaller gardens. What’s more they are known to be highly tolerant of even quite alkaline, chalky soils, and are amongst the best of all shrubs for use in such gardens where other luxuriant Himalayan/Chinese shrubs can often be all but impossible to grow.

Magnolia wilsonii.

Another handy thing about these plants is that they flower well after the “normal” Magnolia season. Strictly speaking there is no one Magnolia season, and, in fact the genus contains species, that together, can be in flower pretty much 365 days of the year. Still, it’s fair to say that most gardeners associate Magnolias with Spring…and with Spring come frosts, and with frosts come mushy flowers and disappointed gardeners. These summer flowering species completely bypass all of that potential heartbreak and their flowers are never affected by frosts in any way.

The horizontal flowers of Magnolia sieboldii.

The most primitive of all Magnolias – and indeed the most ancient of all flowering plants alive today – are summer bloomers too. Species including Magnolia obovata, M. fraseri, M. officinalis, M. macrophylla and M. tripetala are all spectacular and wonderfully Jurassic in appearance when their gigantic flowers open, but these are huge trees, and completely unsuitable for all but the most park-like of gardens.

Super-primitive, the giant blooms of Magnolia obovata.

Flowering along side them, from early May through to mid summer, are a small gaggle of 4 species, all of which are closely related to one another. Magnolia sieboldii is the best known, and perhaps the template for these shrubby, summer-flowering species.  A native of Japan, Korea and China it slowly grows to form a large bush that flowers from a very young age and small size….and what flowers they are too! Cup-shaped, horizontal or gently nodding, around 15cm (6 inches) in size, and pure white with a central boss of stamens in a contrasting colour – typically pinkish red, but deep burgundy in the best forms. Lacking the blowsy-showiness of the more familiar Spring flowering Magnolias these are a different proposition, and, together with their gentle fragrance their blooms are, with good reason, regarded amongst the most perfectly formed of all flowers.

Magnolia sieboldii

The Chinese native Magnolia sinensis is the closest relative to M. sieboldii, indeed some botanists lump the two together into the same species, but it is distinct in habit at least, and stands as the largest growing of the four. The flowers are also fully pendulous – wonderful viewed from below and perfect for planting on a steep slope. M. sinensis regularly sets seed in this country too, and this adds a whole further ornamental aspect to the plants, since the seed is held in dangling, bright scarlet seedpods that look extra vivid contrasted against the deep green foliage.

Those burgundy stamens in close-up.

Magnolia wilsonii seedpod.

Magnolia wilsonii is another Chinese species. In my experience it’s the best of the group for the production of seed pods, and each year the plants are fully laden with the fat, cone-like red pods. M. wilsonii also regularly re-flowers throughout summer and even into autumn, and tops all of this off with a decent display of autumn leaf colour when the foliage turns to butter yellow – one of the few Magnolias to do so.

The last of the small group is also the rarest both in cultivation and in the wild. Magnolia globosa is native to Yunnan, in South-West China, and also to Nepal. This Nepalese population has produced the best, and hardiest plants for the garden, and grows without any problems in our rather exposed and frost-prone garden. The flowers of this species don’t open fully, which lends the plant it’s specific name “globosa” as well as it’s Nepalese common name of “Hen Magnolia”, after the very egg-like buds that adorn the branches from May through June to July.

A brand new, as yet un-named hybrid of M. sieboldii and the pink-flowered M. insignis.

Although they are not pollen-compatible with most of the other Magnolias these four species have been used in hybridisation programmes with a few of the larger Asian species, and the gorgeous naturally occurring hybrid Magnolia x wieseneri is by far the best known, and most readily available of the their offspring. This has flowers that resemble it’s parent M. sieboldii, but they are larger, more widely opening, and much more intensely fragrant. This fragrance caused a complete sensation when the plant was first exhibited at the Paris Exposition of 1889, and continues to cause devotees to froth at the mouth at the mere mention of it’s name to this day.

Magnolia x wieseneri, with it's large, upwards facing and intensely perfumed flowers.


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The Bluebells Tale.

Thursday, April 28th, 2011

There can be few sights more evocative of the English countryside than a Bluebell wood in full flower. Late April and early May see large numbers of worshippers flock to key sites when entire acreages turn to azure, the colour all the more striking for the contrast that it makes with the apple-green of the newly emerging woodland foliage above.

Sunlight filtered through the woodland canopy onto a carpet of Blue.

The Bluebell is a perennial herbaceous plant whose new shoots, in common with many denizens of the woodland floor, emerge from their over-wintering bulbs at the tail end of winter, before the overhead canopy robs the floor of light. The species sets profuse seed and also multiplies rapidly at the bulb, with nemerous new bulbils being produced in a good year.  The combined efforts of these two reproductive strategies can see the species dominate over extensive areas that provide the right conditions.

The nodding, bell-shaped flowers, unfurl from mid April to early June, depending on the seasonal temperatures and the location. Not surprisingly, given the widespread affection in which the plant is held, a variety of other common and local names abound besides the familiar one. These include Auld Man’s Bell, Calverkeys, Jacinth, Granfer Giggles, Wild Hyacinth and Wood Bells – all of which refer to the flowers. Although Bluebells are, of course, prominently blue in colour white flowered plants are quite frequent, and can form small stands in amongst the blue. Much rarer are the pink flowered forms, although these too do occasionally occur amongst wild populations.

White flowered bluebells are not uncommon.

Botanically speaking, the species has previously been given it’s own genus, as Endymion non-scriptum as well as being  included within the closely related Scillas (Squills) as Scilla non-scripta. These days most botanists accept the scientific name Hyacinthoides non-scripta, which identifies the species as a close relative of the Hyacinths – Hyacinthoides literally meaning ‘Hyacinth-like’. As for the specific name, ‘non-scripta’ this translates as ‘unlettered’, which might appear rather odd as a plant name, but relates to the ancestor of cultivated hyacinths Hyacinthus orientalis. In Greek mythology the Hyacinth was believed to have ererged from the blood of the prince Hyacinthus as he lay dying. In response to this tragedy Apollo wrote ‘AI AI’, meaning ‘alas’, on the petals of the Hyacinth flower in order to express his grief. These wild Hyacinths, thus being the ‘lettered’ flowers, as opposed to the unlettered Bluebell flowers.

In close-up - the nodding, reflexed flower bells.

Aside from their visual appeal, Bluebells have been widely turned to various utilitarian purposes too. The sap is extremely rich in starch and was widely used as a glue for bookbinding – the toxins in the sap handily also discouraging nibbles from silverfish –  as well as for attaching feathers to arrows. That same starch also provided the stiffening properties in Victorian ruffs and collars.

The Bluebell is also rich in folklore and associations, both good and ill. The plants undoubted toxicity may also be the origin of the belief that anyone who wanders into a ring of bluebells will soon fall under fairy enchantment and be lost or even die. The fairy connection is repeated in other myths too, all of which stem from a time when the countryside was considerably more densely forested, and potentially hazardous. In particular the bells of the Bluebell flowers were believed to ring to summon fairies to their gatherings, and any unfortunate human who heard the ringing would soon die.  A counter belief was that when wearing a Bluebell wreath the wearer would be compelled to speak only the truth, whilst if anyone succeeded in turning one of the individual flowers inside out without tearing it, they would win the one whom they loved.

Bumblebees are key pollinators.

Bluebells are denizens of deciduous woodlands, and have also adapted to their changing and reduced habitats by taking up residence in hedgerows, meadows, cliffs and shady gardens. Their ideal environment, perhaps, is actually man-made – the coppiced woodland, where reasonable light levels reach the floor and regular management keeps the environment optimum for growth. These are the sort of conditions that allow the species to dominate, and vigorously out-compete all other flora that attempts to grow and blooms in the same season.

Although they do have a reputation for being hugely invasive in shady gardens (due largely to the lack of natural competition) Bluebells actually need a fairly specific environment to really thrive and are intolerant of trampling, heavy grazing, water logging & permanent deep shade. They are able to grow happily in sunlight, but can’t compete with carpet-forming grasses, so are rarely present in open sites. Where remnant Bluebell populations are found in hedgerows and pastures it’s a good indicator that that the land was once wooded.

Bluebells in a relatively open location, beneath an orchard.

Bluebells are native only to Europe, and whilst the species is still common in Britain and Ireland, it is rare or endangeres throughout the rest of the continent with about one third of the worlds wild population endemic to the UK. The species has greatly declined over the past 50 years and is considered to be globally threatened as a result of habitat loss and over-collection for use in gardens. Legislation introduced in an attempt to halt this decline means that it is now illegal to collect seed or bulbs from any wild populations.

The typical heavily arched flowering stem of the Common Bluebell.

A further and on-going threat to the Bluebell comes in the form of it’s close relative, the non-native Spanish Bluebell, Hyacinthiodes hispanica. This larger, more vigorous species has for many years been widely grown in British gardens, from where it has escaped to both out-compete and hybridize with our native species.

The Spanish Bluebell - with the bells evenly distributed around the stem, which is held upright.

The English Bluebell has fragrant flowers held only on one side of the stem and always in a distinctive, nodding arrangement. The Spanish Bluebell, by contrast, has unscented flowers produced on on all sides of the stem and in a fully upright pose, much more like a wild Hyacinth, in fact. Hybrids between the two species are now widespread in the countryside due to pollination by bees and the discarding of the over-vigorous, unwanted bulbs in hedges and road verges. Both methods of introduction represent a serious threat to the long-term survival of our native species, and the very real possibility of the eradication of the one of our most cherished wild-flowers. What a tragedy that would be.


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Lilac Time.

Thursday, April 21st, 2011

Amongst of the most evocative, popular and widely planted of all late Spring flowering shrubs, Lilacs - Syringa species – seem to be having something of a boom season this year. The exceptionally warm and dry April weather has pushed forward the flowering time for many specimens of the common Lilac – Syringa vulgaris – in particular, and gardens near us here in Devon are flowing over with the bumptious, highly fragrant blossoms that wouldn’t normally be putting in an appearance for another few weeks at least.

The Lilacs are a small genus of around 20 species that, in the wild, range from South-Eastern Europe to China and Japan. They are, rather surprisingly perhaps, members of the Olive family – Oleaceae - and, like most members of that clan, they gravitate towards sunny, well drained habitats in the wild.

Syringa vulgaris 'Andenken an Ludwig Spath'.

The cultivated history of the common Lilac is extensive and ancient. The plant is native to the mountainous regions of the Balkans and was widely grown for millennia in the Ottoman gardens of what is now modern day Turkey. By the 1500′s specimens of these cultivated plants found their way into British gardens for the first time, where they quickly became essential ingredients in the newly burgeoning English Gardening scene.  Initially a great rarity, prized above all for their fragrance,  the ease with which S. vulgaris can be propagated from cuttings, as well as it’s handy habit of self-seeding, meant that the newly fashionable plant soon took root in all the best gardens across Europe, and from there the USA too.

Syringa vulgaris 'Primrose' - the closest approach to a yellow flowered Lilac.

Today there are many hundreds – conservative estimates suggest at least 500 - of selected forms and hybrids of S. vulgaris from which the gardener can choose. In almost all cases the plants themselves are identical in habit, size, leaf etc., and have been selected and named purely for their different flower colours and forms. It’s fair to say that a huge number of these are nearly identical to one another, and their existence perhaps says more about the desire of gardeners & nurserymen to name their own form, rather than any special qualities that they posses. On the plus side, it’s almost impossible to find a bad form, so the excessive abundance of varieties at least have quality control going for them.

Syringa vulgaris 'Madame Charles Souchet'.

When left to it’s own devices Syringa vulgaris forms a very large, multi-stemmed shrub. If carefully pruned and shaped the plants can be formed into small, single-stemmed trees and often look highly attractive when grown in this way. The individual flowers are small and tubular, with flaring petals, but they are produced in huge numbers in very densely packed, upright panicles.

Flower colour varies from white through every permutation of blue-purple, to magenta pink. There are also a small number of varieties with a hint of yellow pigment in the flower, giving an overall creamy impression. Many double flowered forms have been selected, in which each individual flower is expanded and/or flattened  and the petals multiplied. These double forms are often referred to as “French Lilac”, a name that has arisen because, like very many of the best single flowered forms, they were raised by Victor Lemoine and his son Emile at their nursery in Nancy, France. Lemoine was also the first to extensively hybridize between the Lilac species, generally using S. vulgaris as one parent and S. x persica, (the so-called Persian Lilac), S. x hyacinthiflora, and x S. chinensis are amongst the now well-known offspring that resulted from his experiments.

Syringa vulgaris 'Madame Lemoine' one of the double-flowered forms developed at Lemoine's nursery

It’s not all plain sailing in the Lilac world, however, since the flowers are also considered to be extremely bad luck, or even harbingers of doom if brought inside the house. This strange reputation stems from the time when highly fragrant flowers were used indoors to cover the smell of putrification that resulted from a death. Being so widely grown, and abundant in flower, Lilac was very frequently employed in this way, and as a result became associated with death itself - ironic really, considering that the flowers were used to combat the signs of death. It’s an idea that has persisted, though, and even to this day the flowers are not supplied by florists.

Syringa vulgaris 'Sensation' - one of the very few Lilacs with truly bi-coloured flowers.

Aside from the ubiquitous S. vulgaris and it’s many forms and hybrids, there are several other highly ornamental members of the genus that are well worth investigation.

Syringa pubescens subsp. microphylla ‘is distinctive and now widely available. It forms a pretty shrub that rarely reaches more than 2 metres in height or width and contrasts it’s open, fragrant flower panicles with delicate and very small leaves. The form ‘Superba’ was selected for it’s very free-flowering habit, with blooms being produced intermittently from May through to the first frosts.

Syringa pubescens subsp. microphylla 'Superba'.

The Chinese native Syringa pinnatifolia is definitely the most unusual, or at least the most un-lilac like of the genus, looking much more like a Daphne at first glance. It’s flowers are held in small, nodding panicles, far smaller than those of the common Lilac, but are very charming nonetheless. The foliage is equally attractive, being divided into multiple small leaf-lets that give the whole plant an airy, but also exotic appearance.

Syringa pinnatifolia.

The king of the Lilacs has to be another Chinese species, the magnificent Syringa reflexa. This absolutely gorgeous plant bears large, elongated, cascading flower panicles of deep, pure pink, with each individual flower have a contrasting white throat. I will always remember my first encounter with a flowering plant of this species. It completely revolutionised the way that I saw the Lilacs and I vowed to track down a specimen ASAP!

Syringa reflexa.

The rather clunkily-named Syringa sweginzowii is another, extremely similar Chinese species, and a hybrid between this and S. reflexa, was raised in Germany in the 1930′s and named S. x swegiflexa. Happily I now grow all three of these and can testify to their enormous appeal for both eyes and nose alike.

Syringa sweginzowii


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The forecast: Snow in March (and throughout April).

Wednesday, March 30th, 2011

Hmm…sounds improbable perhaps? But then, what are those delicate white flakes drifting and fluttering on the lightest breeze?

The answer is petals….and the original owner of those petals is the Snowy Mespilus, or Amelanchier.

One of the finest and least demanding of small trees for the garden, whose virtues I’ve already hinted at previously, as March gives way to April and the countless thousands of poised Amelanchier flower buds open, I thought it high time to give these plants centre stage for a while.

Members of the Rose family – like so many other of the finest Spring-flowering woody plants – Amelanchier is a small and rather confused genus of trees and shrubs. There are anywhere between 6 and 35 species, depending on whose definition you believe. They are all, essentially, identical in their ornamental features, and what’s more the species have interbred with abandon to the point that definitive identification of many plants is all but impossible.

One species, A. lamarckii, is a good example. Considered to be a naturalised British plant, where colonies have spread thanks to the assistance of birds, this plant is, like all but two of the Amelanchiers, a native of North America, but “our” Amelanchier is not the same as the species that grows in the USA, and could be a different species, such as A. canadensis or A. laevis, or a hybrid of one or more of these species, or a hybrid with one of the indigenous Euro-Asian species. The truth is that the differences between all of the species are so small, and variable, that the best anyone can say is that an individual plant is closest to, say A. lamarckii…well, maybe.

Amelanchier x grandiflora 'Ballerina'.

But enough of that confusion, let’s focus instead on the many good points of these delightful trees. Their common names give a few hints of their attractions and also the considerable importance that the plants played in the lives of Native American and European settlers alike. Snowy Mespilus, as already noted, refers to the wonderful blizzard of innumerable tiny petals that grace the trees and then the ground beneath the trees as Spring progresses. “Mespilus” are the Medlars, further members of the Rose family, and ones to which the Amelachiers bore a resemblance in the eyes of the first Europeans to document the new North American flora. The names “shadbush”,” shadwood” or “shadblow” are also references to the flowering season, which coincides with the arrival of the Shad – a fish that formed a staple food for many of those same early settlers.

The flowers are only one of the appeals of the Amelanchiers, however and “serviceberry” and “juneberry” are further much-used common names. These, of course, refer to the fruit – a red-purple berry that eventually matures to black which was considered to resemble the berries of the wild European Service Tree – Sorbus domestica. The fruit are edible, and in the best varieties, quite delicious, which characteristic gives rise to yet more common names including “sugarplum”,”wild-plum”, and “Indian pear”, again, all hinting at the importance of the plant in the lives of the early populations of  North America.

The fully ripe fruit of Amelanchier alnifolia.

To the Cree Native Americans the plant was “misâskwatômina”, a name that was Europeanised into “saskatoon”, after which the town of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, was named. Finally, while we’re talking names here, Amelanchier itself is derived from “amalenquièr” the Provençal name for the European species: Amelanchier ovalis, and, despite some sources that might state otherwise, the name is pronounced:  amma-LANK-ee-er, with a hard “K” sound, which perhaps becomes more obvious when seen against it’s French language counterpart.

Amelanchier x grandiflora 'Robin Hill'.

Amelanchiers produce an abundance of flowers from a very young age, and even the tiniest specimen will pop out a handful of blooms. Within a few years all of the branches of that plant will be fully laden with blossom each Spring. Once opened the flowers are joined by the new foliage which is often flushed with bronze or copper, making for a magnificent contrast and highlighting those dazzling white flowers all the more.

Amelanchier lamarckii with deep red/bronze new foliage.

So we have a tremendous Spring display followed by branches smothered by small, but highly decorative, edible fruit, but these trees have one final trick up their sleeves as the foliage can turn to glorious shades of orange and red in a good, crisp Autumn.  Amelanchiers display their autumn finery with great gusto and reliability in North America, although the colour can be patchy of even absent here in the UK, but that is entirely to do with our erratic, maritime climate rather than any failing on the part of the plants.

Virtually all Amelanchiers are capable of producing fiery autumn foliage under the right conditions.

Despite the presence of numerous selections in cultivation – the RHS Plantfinder currently lists 44 named forms – Amelanchiers are a pretty homogeneous lot, and really there is very little to choose between them. A. x grandiflora ‘Ballerina’ was selected for it’s larger flowers and is now very widely distributed. It’s a lovely plant, but we have it growing amidst 10 or so other named forms, and frankly I’m hard pushed to tell them apart from one another.  There are a few genuinely different selections however. The lovely pale-pink flowered form A. x grandiflora ‘Rubescens’, and pink-fading-to-white-flowered ‘Robin Hill’; the slender, upright growing A. alnifolia ‘Obelisk’ & similar A. canadensis ‘Rainbow Pillar’ and the much smaller growing A. rotundifolia ‘Helvetia’ and equally compact species A. stolonifera are all distinctive.

Amelanchier 'Obelisk' - not exactly fastigiate, but the closest to an upright form the genus has to offer.

Aside from these last two, all Amelanchiers are vigorous, as well as undemanding and easy to grow in many garden situations. Depending on how they are treated and grew as young plants they can form graceful, slender trees or multi-stemmed, more-or-less globular large shrubs. The plants can eventually get quite substantial, but they retain an airy, light quality to them and the slender leaves don’t cast a great deal of shade, even in mid summer. Plants may also be pruned after flowering to retain a desired shape or keep them to a fixed size. Amelachier are tolerant of a wide range of soils, including heavy clay and even water-logging, although young plants should be mound-planted if soil is permanently wet to allow the roots to find their own way through rather than simply plunged into a soggy hole.

Amelanchier canadensis in full autumn colour in the UK.

All parts of the plants are edible and are evidently quite appealing to a variety of browsing animals, from harmless leaf-cutter bees through to more potentially damaging rabbits and deer, so young Amelanchiers should be given some protection where appropriate. They are generally very healthy plants too, although they can suffer from fungal leaf spot, particularly if grown in sheltered areas with limited air movement. Treatment of the newly emerging foliage, together with collection of fallen leaves in autumn will keep this problem in check should it appear, and an opening up of the canopy of more congested plants will help prevent it’s re-occurrence.

Amelanchier stolonifera - the smallest growing of the species.

If sheer flower power in early to mid Spring is your thing, then, whichever form, species, or selection you choose, you won’t find a better small tree than the Snowy Mespilus, and adding one to your garden will ensure that you’ll always have at least a little of the right kind of snow, right where you want it every March and April.


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Welcome the Wood Anemone.

Sunday, March 20th, 2011

Some plants are just full of contradictions and surprises, and our British native Anemone nemorosa – the Wood Anemone – is one such case in point. The most ephemeral and delicate of our British Spring wildflowers, these little beauties are at the very peak in late March and early April. They look for all the world as if the  next heavy downpour or strong gust of wind will flatten their foliage and shred their flowers. They can sometimes be quite tricky to establish in some gardens, only truly thriving in particular habitats. And yet if you visit any number of British woods, or even drop in on the most unpromising, shady and dark chunk of undisturbed waste land you may be greeted with the sight of a vast carpet of these little gems, covereing every nook and cranny, moulding around the rocks, logs and contours of the earth.

Wood Anemones forming a flowering carpet in typical shady, woodland habitat

Another surprising aspect of the plants is the way they just seem to suddenly appear, their ferny, heavily divided foliage springing from bare earth during March, the flowers a week or two later, and then, just as suddenly, they are gone for another year. All woodland-floor perennials have a short season of growth, timing their appearance to miss the deep frosts of winter and peaking as the overhead canopy leafs out, but Wood Anemones take this to extremes and cram all their above ground activity into just a few short months.

Growth starts earlier than most other spring flowering plants, and it is this habit that gave the Genus it’s name, deriving, as it does, from the Greek legend in which Anemos, the wind, sends his namesakes the anemones, in the earliest spring days, to herald his arrival. This is also the origin of the common name for all Anemones: “windflower”.

Anemone growth emerges from small and highly unassuming rhizomes that look for all the world like tiny lumps of aged wood. These increase and creep around just beneath the surface of the leaf-litter, successfully colonising suitable sites. The beautiful, star-like flowers are faintly fragrant, yet contain no nectar, and, despite appearances, have no petals either – two further contradictions.  The flowers are instead formed by six modified sepals, predominant coloured white, with a delicate pink tinge, although some forms and occasionally entire colonies have flowers heavily streaked with purple, most particularly on the outside surface.

Up close and personal with an individual flower.

One of the most delightful attributes of Wood Anemones is that their flowers close and nod on their stems at night and in heavy rain, raising their heads and opening once again to greet the returning light. The flowers also closely track the position of the sun, often forming a full 180 degree rotation through the course of a day. This habit makes it all the more surprising, perhaps, that the plants are specialists of deep shade. We have substantial colonies growing wild and quite naturally here in the garden and in the surrounding woodlands, but, aside from the odd individual straggler, all of the colonies grow in virtual darkness, and the deeper and danker the location the more vigorous and successful they are. This probably says more about the lack of direct and seasonal plant competition in such mini-eco-systems than it does about the limits of the Anemones potential range, since many such colonies are only accompanied by mosses and perhaps Ivy, so low are the light levels in their preferred habitats.

The flowers just on the verge of opening to greet the light.

That natural habitat is also the key to successful cultivation in the garden. Too often gardeners have tried to grow the species in an open, sunny location, where they generally dwindle away after a season or two. Planted deep beneath the canopies of trees and shrubs Anemone nemorosa will flourish and replicate something like it’s natural proclivities for colonising sites that can otherwise be tricky to “green-up”. A humus-rich, very free-draining (ideally leaf-mould based) compost or soil will greatly encourage growth and also widen the range of potential garden sites in which the plants will succeed.

Anemone nemorosa Blue Eyes.

Like many/most/all of our native wild flowers, the Wood Anemone has been subjected to intense scrutiny by gardeners down the years and a modest gaggle of 40 or so named varieties and forms now exist. The best known of these, and one that has stood the test of time in cultivation, is Anemone nemorosa ‘Robinsoniana’, with its large buds of slate grey that open to wide stars of pale lavender blue, with a contrasting ring of golden stamens.

Anemone nemorosa Robinsoniana.

At the other extreme some forms dispense with coloured tepals altogether.’Virescens’ is one such in which each sepal, anther and style is transformed into a miniature green leaf to create an improbable chartreuse lions-head of a flower. Being infertile these are also much longer lasting than are the flowers of their wild cousins.

The improbable looking flowers of A. nemorosa Virescens.

There are also doubles, including the inevitably named ‘Alba Plena’, and semi-doubles, such as ‘Multiplicity’ in which each sepal is sub-divided into narrower segments, as well as ‘Blue Eyes’ with frilled flowers of pastel blue, each with an indigo ring in the centre. Pure pink-flowered forms are rare, but the soft rose of  ’Latvian Pink’ fits the bill nicely. I’ve never seen even the faintest hint of blue pigment in any wild forms of the species, but evidently someone else has since there are a few blues to choose between as well as ‘Bowles Purple’ with flowers of a deep lavender.

Anemone nemorosa - pink form.

I have to say, however, that this is one wild flower where the hand (and eye) of man has yet to improve upon the simple beauty and of the common wild form: snow white, with the subtlest insinuation of rose-purple.  Pure perfection.


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