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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 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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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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Hedgerow Blossom.

Sunday, March 13th, 2011

The last few weeks have seen a very welcome  and sustained period of warmth that has triggered an explosion of activity amongst the inhabitants of the garden and the countryside. The colours of Spring – pink, yellow and white – are present everywhere now, and often in great washes – a sight for sore eyes after such a harsh winter.

That same warmth that triggers the flowering of native plants also allows the first waves of insects to emerge from their winter hiding places. Over-wintering butterflies – particularly Small Tortoiseshell and Peacock – can be found sunning themselves and re-activating those long-dormant flight muscles as they take to the wing. Hoverflies, wasps and, most importantly, numerous species of bee are also venturing forth from their burrows and nests and the air is once again filled with the sound of industrious activity. What all these insects have in common is an urgent need to feed and make up for the huge losses in body weight that they will have sustained over winter, and the natural first port of call for many will be the hedgerow.

Peacock Butterflies are one of the species that over-winters in their adult form.

From March onwards our British hedgerows are brimming over with buxom blossoms, and the symbiotic relationship and timing between these flowering plants and their insect pollinators is crucial. The importance of pollinating insects in sustaining everything that we hold dear about our native flora, and indeed the entire appearance of the countryside can hardly be over-stated. Many of the individual insects are relatively short lived. Those same early emerging Tortoiseshells and Peacocks will soon have mated, laid their clutches of eggs and died. Several further generations can occur in the space of a single year, but without those vital food sources the adults that kick start the entire cycle would be condemned to perish almost as soon as they emerge, leaving no eggs and larvae to continue in their wake.

Bumblebees, honeybees, mason bees and hoverflies together constitute our most crucial and significant pollinators and all are even more indebted to the hedgerow blossoms of early Spring. Whilst the sight of a Bumblebee zipping busily from blossom to blossom in the Spring sunshine is surely one to warm the human heart, the reality for the bee (or hoverfly) is far more stark. In the early period after the winter emergence their survival hinges entirely on their ability to harvest enough nectar and pollen every day before the cold night temperatures make flight impossible.

A bumblebee feeding on newly opened Blackthorn flowers.

Which is where those frothy, delicate-blooming hedgerow trees come in. The joint emergence of flower and insect provides pollination services for one and a vital diet for the other. Hedgerows themselves were under attack for most of the second half of the Twentieth century, falling prey to ever more industrialised agricultural practices. Thankfully those days are now largely behind us and the vital role of hedgerows as “wildlife corridors” is now widely appreciated.

Of course the vast majority of gardeners live well away from open countryside, and only a small proportion of gardens are bounded by hedgerows of any description, but that same relationship of pollinator and pollinated exists wherever plants are grown. What’s more the value of those pollinators is now better understood, and certainly more widely appreciated than it ever has been. As  many of our insect species come under threat through loss of habitat & foodplant all gardeners can play a role in their long-term survival by planting and encouraging the growth of these spring flowering native trees wherever possible.

Naturalistic hedge plantings, bursting with Spring bloom.

Beech (Fagus sylvatica ), Sycamore (Acer pseudoplatanus) and Field Maple (Acer campestre) are all species not generally noted for their flowering display, but the abundant production of pollen and nectar of all three marks them out as important trees for emergent insects. Much more obvious to our eyes, and particularly so when blooming on leafless branches in their hedgerow habitats, are a host of flowering trees from the Rose family – Rosaceae.

Flowers of the Beech - Fagus sylvatica.

Flower-wise these all share a common pattern – simple, widely opening cup-shaped flowers of white or pale pink, loaded with pollen baring stamens – a huge magnet for insects. Wild Pear (Pyrus pyraster) is a fairly rare sight these days, but it’s thorny, twisted stems burst forth with relatively large flowers of pure white right about now. Malus provides us with the long domesticated Orchard Apple – not technically a British native, but still a regular member of the hedgerow family thanks to the widespread distribution of the pips – as well as the true British Native, the Crab Apple (Malus sylvestris).

The common Crab-Apple - Malus sylvestris.

There’s little doubt, however, that the leaders of the hedgerow blossom pack, both from the point of view of human and insect appreciation, are found amongst the genus Prunus .  Wild Cherry (Prunus avium) is widespread throughout the UK, whilst Bird Cherry (Prunus padus) is more localised, although both have been widely cultivated for millennia.  The Wild Plum (Prunus domestica) is another, often under-appreciated species that can be found in many older hedgerows, whilst it’s cultivated counterparts are already present in many gardens.

Wild Cherry - Prunus avium.

As I sit and write this article, however, there is another Prunus that has, as every year, beaten all of it’s cousins out of the starting gate. Vast wreaths of snow white flowers demand your attention, and the source of those flowers is Prunus spinosa, the Blackthorn or Sloe. Arguably the most important tree in the lives of the early emergent insects, it is the combination of early blooming and a super-abundance of flowers that make the Blackthorn king of the Hedgerow in March. The near-indestructible nature of this species also makes it perfect for planting in those difficult spots in gardens, or, in fact anywhere you can, and when you do you can be sure that your resident population of bees, butterflies and hoverflies will thank you for it.

Blackthorn flowers - beautiful in their spidery simplicity.


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Heralds of Spring: Catkins.

Thursday, February 24th, 2011

All ornamental plants have their peak season, the time when, however briefly, they eclipse their neighbours and demand your attention. For those that flower later in spring the job is made that much harder, since they have to compete with so many others, big and small, that burst into colourful bloom at the same time. But right now, with almost all leaf and flower buds still tightly furled, the garden stage is relatively clear, and there’s a great sense of anticipation and possibility of the season to come.

All of this allows one species of tree to be pre-eminent in it’s subtle beauty. For right now Hazels - Corylus avellana – are festooned with their male catkins, flowers that might be overlooked if they were produced alongside bold foliage or simultaneous with showier, more traditional floral displays.

Male Hazel catkins aglow in the early spring sunshine.

Many people are probably unaware that catkins are flowers at all, but these are flowers that put all of their energies into pollen production, rather than colourful petals. The vast majority of catkin-bearing trees are pollinated by the wind, rather than by insects, so have no need for flamboyant, but energy-intensive structures with which to attract a pollinator.

Catkins are actually the earliest of all flowers to have evolved, long before the advent of flying (and thus pollinating) insects. The basic structure, though, is both so simple and so effective as a means of fertilisation that is has arisen independently in several different plant families, ranging from Nettles to Birches.

Stinging Nettles bear catkins too.

Catkin-bearing species of plants all produce separate male and female flowers. In some, including our native Hazel, the two different structures are produced on every plant, but more frequently the male and female flowers appear on separate plants,  a strategy that ensures cross-pollination occurs every single time.

The diminutive female flowers of a Hazel nestle above the male catkins.

Catkins develop over the summer months, but they remaining tight, closed and largely inconspicuous until their expansion. Typically this occurs in early spring, starting in the British landscape, as we have, with the Hazel. Most catkin bearing species of tree flower either before the leaves unfurl, or certainly before the leaves fully enlarge, a strategy that allows the pollen to be successfully spread on the slightest breeze without interference by the foliage. Once fertilization has occurred, then the male catkins wither and fall, so, in warm weather in particular, the period of their display can be all too brief.

Of course it’s not just our native Corylus that produces catkins, the Birches, Alders, Sweet Chestnuts, Mulberrys, Poplars, Oaks, Beech, Hornbeams, Hickorys and Willows all employ this method of reproduction too, and together represent perhaps the majority of the trees in our landscape.

The flowers of the Mulberry, Morus rubra.

Some members of this band of trees are relatively modest in their catkin structures – the Alders, for example, produce small-ish cones and the Birches have rather non-descript fawn coloured catkins, neither of which are noted for their aesthetic qualities. Others, though can be highly ornamental as well as fascinating structually.

Castanea sativa – the Sweet Chestnut – produces highly conspicuous cream coloured catkins as long as, or even longer than it’s huge leaves.

The dramatic catkins of Castanea sativa, the Sweet Chestnut.

Several species of Quercus (the Oaks), and particularly the American Red Oaks, bear very pretty clusters of bright red and tangerine orange flowers that make an effective contract with the unfolding foliage.

Quercus nigra - the Black Oak - in full flower.

Garrya elliptica, an evergreen shrub native to the West coast of the USA, is widely cultivated specifically for it’s catkins too. In January and February the male plants produce 30cm long cream coloured flowers that give the species it’s common name of “Silk Tassle Bush”.

Garya elliptica - unmistakable in flower.

Itea illicifolia is another evergreen shrub, this time from China, that has similar appeal, but which, unusually, produces it’s catkins in summer rather than spring.

There are several purple-leaved forms of various of the Corylus (Hazel) species, and these have added appeal for catkin fans, since the red pigment extends to the plants’ flowers (and the fruit too for that matter). Corylus maxima ‘Red Zellernus’ & ‘Purpurea’ and Corylus colurna ‘Te Terra Red’ all produce highly attractive pink-red catkins on completely bare, leafless branches at the very start of spring.

Corylus colurna 'Te Terra Red'.

One group of trees, though, has become synonymous with the appealing nature of it’s catkins, and are often cultivated purely for it’s flowering display. These are the Salix species – the Willows. Hardly anyone can be immune to the charm of “Pussy Willows” – the soft, fur-like catkins produced by a number of species of Salix, and our widespread native tree Salix caprea (the Goat Willow) in particular.

Salix caprea - Pussy Willow - catkins.

Willows, as a genus, take the catkin to dimensions shapes and colours that are present in no other group of plants. Salix gracilistyla ‘Melanostachys’, for instance, produces completely upright, ink-black catkins that contrast vividly with the plants’ bright red winter stems. Salix daphnoides is a variation on the same theme, this time with fluffy silver catkins held on scarlet stems.

Salix daphnoides.

Leaving the best of all catkins bearing trees to last, though, we come to Salix magnifica – literally the “Magnificent Willow”. This Chinese species is special in a number of ways. When he first discovered a non-flowering specimen of the plant in 1909, the famous plant-hunter Ernest Wilson believed he had found a new Magnolia, so large and lush were it’s leaves. The flowers follow suit, and both male and female catkins are show-stoppers – up to 25cm in length, purple and yellow in colour and held upright, like candles on the branches. Truly a magnificent Willow, and truly magnificent catkins.

Salix magnifica.


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The May Tree.

Monday, May 17th, 2010

Right about now hedgerows, parks, woodlands and gardens across the land are full of frothy white blossom, which is itself buzzing with a multitude of hoverflies and bees. Richly evocative of an English spring, there’s little that’s more eye catching or pleasing to all of the senses than a May Tree in full flower.

A young Hawthorn, or May Tree.

One of the most marvellous and beautiful of our native trees Crataegus mongyna – AKA Hawthorn, Whitethorn, Haegthorn, Quickthorn or May Tree – has an ancient relationship with mankind.

The old Anglo-Saxon name Haegthorn – literally the “Hedge Thorn” – as well as Quickthorn – referring to the value of the plant as a living, impenetrable barrier – shows that it has long been the most valued of hedging and boundary plants. But the Hawthorn has much more to offer than a life as a prickly hedge. These are truly multi-season trees. In good seasons the foliage turns bright red in October.

Hawthorn berries, all a-glow.

Autumn also sees them smothered in tiny bright red berries (the “Haws”). These are packed with antioxidents, vitamins and minerals and are an invaluable pre-winter food source that is harvested by anything and everything that can get to them.

As well as providing great autumn viewing interest to us those berries are a guaranteed bird magnet and they alone make a Hawthorn a near-essential element of any wildlife garden.

Actually much of the plant is edible in one way or another. As well as the fruit that are traditionally turned into jellies and jams the young leaves can be eaten as a salad vegetable, or cooked and added to soups whilst the flowers and flower buds make a pretty and tasty garnish.

Would you like Hawthorn leaves with that, Madam?

Hawthorn wood has long been used for carving, whilst the tough root wood is traditionally used for box making. The trunk wood is also unusually dense and burns at an extremely high heat, so was the wood of choice for smelting iron.

Those individually delicate pure white flowers open from tiny, pink-blushed buds and, after being pollinated, the flowers age back to pale pink before falling in a carpeting confetti shower in early June. Other forms have much deeper pink flowers and these make a pleasing landscape contrast with the white.

Not surprisingly, given it’s long association with mankind and ubiquity in the landscape Hawthorns have many magical and pagan connections, legends and tales associated with them.

Their thorny nature as well as their often somewhat gnarled, Tolkein-esque appearance saw them approached with some trepidation and considered the haunt of  faeries, elementals and assorted enchantments.

A pink, double-flowered Hawthorn.

The common name of May Tree comes from the plants role in traditional May Day celebrations, when both people and their houses were dressed with May blossom (“bringing home the May”).

The popular rhyme “Here we go gathering nuts in May” was sung by the young men, gathering not “nuts” (which are around in Autumn rather that Spring) but “knots” of May blossoms for those May Day festivities.

Those celebrations, which are still richly enjoyed across much of the country - including our Devon neck of the woods – are all about welcoming the arrival of spring, new life and new growth.

Folks “wear the green”, by decking themselves in Hawthorn greenery and flowers, whilst the appearance of the early May blossom always had great significance and itself symbolised the beginning of new life and the onset of the growing season.

Snowy white blossom.

Hawthorns are also extremely long lived. The most ancient of all trees in France is a Hawthorn, reputed to be over 1700 years old.

The oldest British specimen, known as “The Hethel Old Thorn”, grows near Norwich and is believed to be around 700 years old, whilst the most legendary is undoubtedly the famous Glastonbury Holy Thorn in the old ruined Abbey.

Possibly even better news is that Hawthorns are ridiculously easy to grow, and failure is pretty much impossible. They will grow in virtually any soil (aside from a perpetually wet one) and will cheerfully inhabit any aspect.

A single flowered pink form.

Here we have them planted everywhere from full sun to deep shade, although they certainly flower better when given a sunny aspect.

In a completely ideal and open situation they can eventually reach as much as 8 metres (25 feet) in height and breadth. Where space is more limited Hawthorns can also be severely pruned to any acceptable size and shape without compromising flowering.

So from a historical, cultural, culinary, wildlife and aesthetic point of view the Hawthorn is one very special native tree. Why not join in an ancient English tradition and find a spot to plant your own May Tree today.


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And the answer is…..

Friday, May 14th, 2010

Actually, first here’s the question for you:

Which plant, when grown here in Blighty,

1) has absolutely no garden pests – nothing from slugs to rabbits to deer will touch them,

2) despite being a shrub requires no pruning,

3) once planted is unlikely to need real maintenance of any kind in the garden, save for maybe a decent annual mulch,

4) is ridiculously hardy, down to about -25C at least,

5) produces some of the most spectacular, highly fragrant and breathtakingly beautiful flowers of any plant anywhere,

6) was, very possibly, the first plant anywhere on earth to be grown for purely ornamental reasons,

6) is flowering right now,

7) oh, and is the number 1 subject of Japanese tattoos…

Give up?

The answer is the Tree Peony, or more accurately the Tree Peonies.

Paeonia Golden Thunder.

Emblematic of several Eastern countries, Peonies have permeated Japanese and Chinese art and culture for millennia where they have always been deeply revered.

Paeonia, the slightly awkwardly spelled genus to which they belong, is a highly distinctive group of less than 40 species.

Despite many attempts to lump them in with various other plants, (particularly the buttercup family) recent genetic studies have revealed that these ancient and highly aristocratic plants are not closely related to anything else.

Paeonia suffruticosa.

Of those 40 species more than 30 are herbaceous and disappear entirely below ground each winter.

The remaining 8 are woody and slowly build a permanent branching structure, much like any other shrub. Reducing things still further just 4 of those 8 species (namely: P. delavayi, P. ludlowii, P. rockii, and P. suffruticosa) are widely cultivated.

Thanks to several thousand years of intensive cultivation and hybridization in the East those 4 have, between them, been responsible for the creation of a multitude of forms and colours, some of which are now readily available for gardeners to plant and enjoy here in the West.

Cultivation.

Paeonia delavayi.

Tree Peonies are not hugely fussy about most aspects of their cultivation and are extremely easy to please in the garden. Plants may be seed grown (the species) or grafted onto a rootstock (the named cultivars).

If grafted, and supplied bare root, then they should be planted deep, with the graft union around 8cm beneath the surface of the soil. This helps to stimulate the grafted plant to create it’s own roots, and forms a stronger plant in the long run. Potted plants should be supplied in very deep pots, having already been planted with the graft union underground.

Soil type is not particularly important. The driest and wettest sites should be avoided, certainly, as should sites in deep shade. In the wild most species grow in quite bright, open situations, on poor soils, and although the plants will thrive in complete shade in cultivation, they will certainly flower much better in a reasonably sunny position. Good air flow is useful too, and will help prevent any fungal disease, although a site with too much exposure risks having the often large flowers smashed in high winds.

Growth habit.

P. ludlowii - new growth unfurling.

Tree peonies are never fast growers, and could certainly never be accused of romping away. Typically a plant will put on perhaps 15cm of new growth each season and will eventually form an attractive, dome shaped shrub of around 2 metres by 2 metres.

The foliage is extremely handsome in it’s own right. The leaves of P. ludlowii & P. delavayi in particular are very large and very heavily divided into various intricate patterns. This foliage is generally cut back by the first hard frosts leaving the thick, densely woody stems over winter. New shoots start to appear in March and (in my experience at least) are completely untroubled by frosts.

The enormously fat flower buds develop alongside the new foliage and  open in succession throughout May and on into June, depending on the temperatures. The species will also set large amounts of seed, from which new plants can easily be germinated.

The species.

Paeonia ludlowii.

Although the hybrids are very spectacular the smaller flowered species from which they were derived are also extremely garden worthy.

P. delavayi (with incredibly intense, blood red flowers) and P. ludlowii, (with larger canary yellow flowers) are very closely related to one another and often considered part of the same species.

Both are widely available as very good value seedling plants, which will flower when only 30cm or so tall, and are to be highly recommended.

P. rockii form.

P. suffruticosa is the Chinese species that forms that backbone of all of the Tree Peony hybrids.

It is widely variable in the wild, with flowers ranging from white through pink to deep crimson and it’s this variation that has provided so much material for generations of plant breeders.

Finally P. rockii (named after the Austrian-American botanist Joseph Rock) is another widely variable Chinese species, but the finest and most sought after forms have single or demi-double flowers that are pure white with black-red markings in the throat. Although there are numerous variations on that theme they are collectively known as the Rock Peonies.

The hybrids.

Paeonia Botan Pink

With such a long and important history of cultivation there are, not surprisingly, innumerable hybrids and named forms in China and Japan.

Widespread interest in the UK has only really taken off in the last 15 years or so, and there are now a number of specialist suppliers who are introducing the Asian hybrids (often under their true Chinese names, sometimes under Anglicised versions) in increasing numbers.

Most of these are regarded as heritage plants – i.e. amongst the heirlooms of the gardening world – and many command hefty price tags that reflect the slowness of grafting and the limited quantities of plant material.

A single flowered P. suffruticosa/rockii hybrid

Flower forms encompass singles, semi-doubles  and full doubles, whilst colours range from white through all possible shades of pink and red, together with yellows and a few peachy/oranges, some with contrasting streaks and stripes in the petals and many with darker centres, where these are visible.

For me, though, the beauty of the Tree peony flower comes through it’s simplicity and purity of form.

The single-flowered white, yellow, and intensely red plants, each with a contrasting boss of golden stamens, some with that dark central “eye” and many with a beautiful perfume, together sum up the glory of the garden on the very cusp of summer.


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