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Superb Spindles.

Thursday, August 11th, 2011

In one of last months’ blogs I mentioned what a remarkably good year it is proving to be for fruit and seeds, with the warm, dry spring allowing maximum pollination, followed by a wet-ish summer when the fruits need moisture in order to swell and ripen. The Rowans – Sorbus species – undoubtedly lead the charge in mid-summer, but in terms of wow-factor, and as summer moves to it’s conclusion, the Rowans are now being eclipsed by an altogether less well-known and less celebrated group of plants – the Spindles.

Euonymus grandiflorus fruit capsules.

Spindles are from the genus Euonymus, well-known to most gardeners as the home of the very widely grown and bomb-proof (if rather innocuous) evergreen ground-cover plant E. fortunei and the equally indestructible shrubby E. japonicus, widely planted as hedging. I would guess that for many those two plants are both the beginning and the end of their experience of Euonymus, which is something of a minor tragedy, as this fascinating genus contains over 175 species, many of which are exceedingly ornamental. Spread across all of the continents (barring Antarctica, obviously!) these highly successful plants have evolved and diversified into small trees, shrubs, climbers and creepers, such as good old E. fortunei.

Euonymus planipes with semi-ripe, unopened fruit.

By far the majority of their number, however, are medium-to-large-growing shrubs. This band includes our native species, Euonymus europaeus, a deciduous shrub or small tree widespread across much of Europe and into Asia minor, and commonly seen forming part of the living tapestry of ancient hedgerows and woodlands. The wood of E. europaeus is unusually hard and was traditionally used to make the spindles used for the spinning of wool, flax and hemp, a utilitarian purpose which has lent the common name “Spindle” not just to our own species, but also to all of it’s shrubby relatives.

Euonymus cornutus var.quiquecornutus - this rare Chinese species has wonderfully "horned" fruits.

Throughout the early growing season the Spindles quietly get on with the business of growing, rarely drawing the gardeners attention. Their flowers are extremely curious and rather fascinating, but they are also absolutely tiny and are generally coloured in the green/brown regions of the colour spectrum. The casual observer might not even notice that a Spindle was flowering, even when at it’s peak. Those miniature blooms are popular with bees and hoverflies, which is always a plus in any garden, but it’s what happens next that holds the key to the Spindles splendour.

Euonymus europaeus in flower.

Following pollination the flower ovary expands considerably to form a fruit, and by mid August the fruits of the earliest of the Spindle species are beginning to ripen and burst open in the most spectacular fashion. Although their shapes vary somewhat across the species all Spindle fruits are heavily lobed, commonly likened to spinning tops or jesters hats – these are plants of great character, to be sure. Those fruits are also vividly coloured – typically bright pink or red externally, opening to reveal tangerine-orange coloured seeds. As they ripen the seeds, rather than simply being shed onto the ground, are held for several weeks  to dangle on delicate threads that extend from their cases. In a good season – and 2011 is about as good as any I can remember – the overall effect of a Spindle in full fruit is quite wonderful.

Euonymus hamiltonianus 'Winter Glory', with it's heavy clusters of fruit.

The Spindles have another trick up their woody sleeves too, and as the chills of autumn arrive the leaves of many of the deciduous species start to turn to a dazzling array of colours from deep black-ish plum-purple, through every shade of yellow, orange and red and, in some cases, bright pink, all forming a backdrop to those fruits that are often retained well into winter.

An individula fruit of E. europaeus 'Red Cascade'.

In order to produce a good fruit set two or more individuals of the same species need to be grown together. Even then some Spindles are showier than others and both fruit set and particularly autumn foliage colour will vary greatly from year to year, dependant, as they both are, on the weather. Our own native E. europaeus, one of the largest growing species, is no slouch, and bears an abundance of fuchsia-pink seed capsules, followed by bright scarlet leaf colour. The best form for use in gardens is undoubtedly ‘Red Cascade’ which couples abundant fruit set with much more reliable autumn colour. E. europaeus f. albus is a variant with porcelain white fruit capsules, and the two are particularly effective when panted together, also forming pollination partners to ensure good fruit set.

Euonymus europaeus albus.

Euonymus hamiltonianus is the next most widely grown and distributed species, and many forms have now been selected and named. The fruits ripen much later, well into autumn as a rule, and mature to pink, whilst the large, glossy leaves fade to delicate shades of apricot, yellow and coral.

E. alatus, with it's full-on autumn effect.

E. alatus is very widely grown in the USA where it is a mainstay of some municipal plantings – not exactly a recommendation, perhaps – and is also freely available to gardeners here. Plants are compact, rounded and slow-growing, forming a tangled web of branches that bear wide, corky “wings” that are pretty attractive over winter. The fruits are small and red-purple, but the autumn leaf colour is vibrant, crimson-pink.

Euonymus latifolius.

E. latifolius and E. planipes are close relatives of one another, the former from Europe, the latter native to Japan. They are both readily cultivated and each produce large scarlet fruit and brilliant autumn foliage – highly recommended.

Euonymus myrianthus.

Not all of the Spindles are deciduous, and some of the most beautiful are evergreens native to China. E. myrianthus was a species that I first encountered as a teenager and, indeed, the one that awoke my enthusiasm for the Spindles in general. That particular plant was growing, as it still does, in the National Trust garden at Killerton, here in Devon, and I spent much time being fascinated by it’s deep golden fruits as well as admiring the tropical-lushness of the long, glossy leaves. E. myrianthus is a little tender in the garden, but it’s relative E. grandiflorus, is much tougher with large leaves that can remain evergreen in mild winters, or else age to deep burgundy and are slowly shed over the winter – a great foil for the beautiful, shell-pink fruits.

Euonymus grandiflorus, with not-yet-opened seed capsules.

The recent rise in interest in the Spindles, coupled with a mass of plant-hunting expeditions to Asia, has brought many new species into British cultivation and popularised others that have long been on the horticultural back-burner.  A few of my favourites are the exceedingly elegant E. bungeanus, with delicate, arching branches, slender, drooping leaves and blush-pink fruits; the wonderfully named E. cornutus var. quinquecornutus, a narrow-leafed semi-evergreen with perhaps the most dramatic fruits of all the Spindles; and E. americanus, with fruits that look just like little pink sea-urchins.

Commonly known (in the US) as the Strawberry Bush, Euonymus americanus is irresistible in fruit.

Aside from the few somewhat tender species, the Spindles are an adaptable and easily cultivated lot. We grow them successfully here on our mildly acidic river soil, but they will thrive on most soils, and do particularly well on chalk, making them amongst the most valuable of all shrubs for those somewhat difficult alkaline gardens. They are not large or difficult to accommodate in even small sites, and provided they receive a reasonable amount of sun they will reward you year after year with their impressive displays.

The delicate autumn colours and cascading foliage of E. bungeanus


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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: Foxgloves.

Thursday, May 19th, 2011

All planted gardens, no matter how modest in scale, and no matter their style are beneficial to wildlife. With the increase of industrial scale farming through the last part of the 20th Century, many species of bird, mammal and invertebrate have come to rely upon our gardens and use them as a refuge or even as their permanent home. The combination of habitat, food-source and breeding location makes the garden an obvious and invaluable sanctuary for wildlife, but, of course, some gardens are more useful than thers when it comes to providing for the needs of wildlife.

The common, wild form of our native Foxglove.

Lots of recent research has underlined the importance of native plants in attracting and then maintaining populations of wildlife in the garden. This is hardly a great surprise, as virtually all our our native flora and fauna have evolved together and a host of different inter-dependent relationships have emerged as a result. Taking this to it’s ultimate conclusion you could argue, as many do, that the ultimate wildlife garden would contain only native plant species, and in so doing would replicate a little patch of habitat that has been lost from the open countryside.

That’s all well and good in theory, but in practice only the most dedicated, or those with the most garden space to spare, are likely to head down the all-native route when planting out their plot. But what almost every gardener certainly can do is to integrate some native plants into their garden schemes. The British flora is well known for having been greatly impoverished by the last ice age, and it’s true that we can’t get close to the variety or numbers of species found at similar latitudes in Asia or North America; still, a little investigation will turn up a really quite remarkable array of highly appealing species that will sit comfortably in any ornamental garden whilst giving the local wildlife the opportunity to benefit at the same time.

The soft pink of Digitalis purpurea 'Suttons Apricot'.

A good case in point is our native Foxglove – Digitalis purpurea. Foxgloves are so familiar, so commonplace both in the landscape and in our flower-memories, that it’s easy to take them for granted and ignore their great appeal. In this case, though, commonplace certainly doesn’t mean dull or unworthy of garden space. If you stop and take the time to really look at a foxglove in full flowering glory you could easily imagine that you’re looking at some exotic, tropical hot-house plant, rather than a vigorous and ultra-tough wildflower.

Digitalis purpurea Excelsior Group.

Digitalis is a small, but highly ornamental genus of herbaceous plants, pretty much all of which are endemic to Europe. D. purpurea is the only truly British native species, (although a few others have escaped from gardens are form localised populations in the wild) but rather handily, it is also the largest-flowered, and most easily grown of the group. The species is very easily grown from seed, which germinates rapidly (a week to 10 days is the norm) with no special treatment. The plants are generally biennial, meaning that the first year is spent bulking up and the second flowering, after which they die, leaving copious seed behind. If you grow them in a semi-natural area or bed, then they will invariably self-seed and quickly provide an ongoing succession of generations to grow and flower. Alternatively it’s easy to collect some seed and sow in a pot or seedtray the following Spring. In the wild they often colonise disturbed ground and woodland edges, but in the garden they will do just as well in full sun or semi shade in a regular herbaceous bed.

A wild stand of Digitalis purpurea.

Foxgloves have an exceptional reputation for attracting certain kinds of wildlife. They don’t bring in birds or butterflies, but they are absolutely unrivalled attractors of one of our most important and most threatened groups of insects, namely bumblebees. You only have to look at a Bumblebee feeding at a Foxglove to see how obviously and closely the two have co-evolved, each benefiting the other. The foxglove flower fits the bumblebee like a glove, and indeed, so specific is the match that few other insects are able to access it’s resources at all. For the flower the bumblebee brings a reliable and dedicated pollinator, whilst for the bee the Foxglove provides a feast of both nectar and pollen, which they feed to their larvae.

A White-tailed Bumblebee coming into land on a Foxglove flower.

Each individual flower is spotted and lined to our eyes, and much more vividly so to a Bumblebee, whose vision, like that of all insects, operates primarily in the ultra-violet spectrum. These patterns have evolved to precisely guide the bees onto the landing strips of the flowers, and then up into the bells to where the nectar and pollen lie.  The flowers even have an array of hairs on their lower surface to help the heavy insects get a secure grip as they do their work.

A Foxglove flower in close-up, with the guide spots and hairs for the benefit of the bees.

Wild populations of Digitalis purpurea are almost invariably rosy red/purple in flower, and show relatively little variance. However their very long history in cultivation has, over time, lead to the selection of  a number of other colour forms. D. purpurea f. albiflora is an exceedingly beautiful and very well-known form with pure white flowers.

The elegant, cool white of Digitalis purpurea f. albiflora

Digitalis purpurea 'Sutton's Primrose'.

‘Sutton’s Apricot’ is a soft, flesh-pink whilst ‘Sutton’s Giant Primrose’  extends into deep nearly-yellow-cream. Many other forms, such as the Excelsior Group, have also been selected for increased spotting or heavy blotching on the flowers, which reaches an extreme in ‘Pam’s Choice’ and the Giant Spotted Group. All of these are seed grown and so the flowers of each individual plant do vary somewhat, within the general limits of the group, but all are highly worthwhile and can provide essential drama for you and a lifeline for your equally fascinating and beautiful garden residents, the Bumblebees.

Digitalis purpurea 'Pam's Choice'.


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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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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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The Winter Garden: Galanthus Gala.

Monday, January 31st, 2011

As this unusually long and rather harsh winter moves into it’s final stages, and the days finally start to grow longer and brighter, one of the most familiar and totemic of all our wildflowers is re-emerging, seemingly in defiance of the cold. The Snowdrop – Galanthus nivalis – is so familiar it’s easy to take it for granted, but take the time to kneel-down and study an individual flower and you’ll be rewarded with an intimate portrait of a fascinating plant.

Galanthus nivalis 'Daphne's Scissors'.

Members of the Amaryllis family (Amaryllidaceae) our native species is one of a small genus of around 20 species.  Some, such as Galanthus elwesii, are larger and rather more bold in the garden, whilst others  including Galanthus woronowii, are dwarf, they all pretty closely follow the same familiar pattern and floral structure.

Their scientific name was one of the first “Latinized” names to be published, indicating their significance in the landscape. Linnaeus, the oft-styled father of modern plant taxonomy, chose the name in 1753, fusing two Greek words gala (meaning milk) and anthos (flower), and adding the specific name nivalis (meaning snow) to underline the season as well, perhaps, as the pure white quality of the flower.

Galanthus 'Hill Poe'.

Whilst the common name “Snowdrop” is now utterly inseparable from the plant, in earlier times the flowers had a huge number of other, rather charming regional names including “February Fairmaids”, “Dingle-Dangle”, “Candlemas Bells”, “Snow Piercers” and “Mary’s Tapers”.

The species that we regard as our wild snowdrop is actually native to a wide swathe of Continental Europe spreading Eastwards to Turkey and the Ukraine. Here I must drop what could be something of a gardening bombshell too, for “our” Snowdrop, so permanent and ubiquitous in British woodlands, hedgerows and gardens is actually nothing of the sort. The species is actually believed to have been introduced from the continent as recently as the 1500′s.

Galanthus 'S. Arnott'.

This raises an interesting question about what we really mean by “Native” British flora. A good number of plants we now regard as always having been here were also introduced by various different human endeavours, and some have gone on to define aspects of our vary landscape – the Beech tree being perhaps the most significant of these. One thing is for sure though, as soon as the diminutive Snowdrop arrived on our shores then it was taken to the hearts of everyone who clapped eyes on it. By the early 1700′s different flower forms were being noticed, selected and propagated, and by the Victorian era Galanthus fever was in full effect, a condition that persists to this day.

Galanthus 'Boyds Double'.

Snowdrop collectors, fans and growers – collectively know as galanthophiles – have between them named over 500 different forms. This is a truly astonishing number for a plant which displays relatively little natural variation, and (arguably!) stands as one of the best examples of horticulture as obsession. But one of the great lessons that the galanthophile can teach any gardener is to look, really look, at the details of a flower, and in these details can be found endless beauty and micro-variations.

Snowdrop cultivars can be roughly divided into groups, for ease of navigation. The first division comes between the single and the double-flowered forms, for yes, there are a multitude of each. Another important division separates forms with yellow, rather than green markings on the white flower, collectively known as the Sandersii Group.

Galanthus 'Sandersii'.

Of course the patterning and amount of pigment can also vary considerably too, from almost pure-white, unmarked flowers at one extreme culminating in Galanthus nivalis ‘Virescens’, which is the nearest approach yet to a snowdrop with an all green flower. ‘Daphne’s Scissors’ is an interesting example, too, in which a green imprint in the shape of a pair or scissors appears on the scape  - the tubular inner segment of the flower. Further distinctions focus on size, from the unusually tall and large-flowered forms such as  ’Straffan’, ‘John Grey’ and the well known ‘S. Arnott’ & ‘Atkinsii’, down to miniatures like the recently named ‘Snow White’s Gnome’.

Galanthus 'Snow White's Gnome'.

Finally there are a small number of forms in which the basic shape of the flower differs from the norm. ‘Scharlockii’ (AKA donkey’s ears) has an enlarged and split flower; the double flowered ‘Walrus’ has tightly packed rosette of green surrounded by tubular, narrowed “tusks”; ‘Boyd’s Double’ has an almost brush-like flower; ‘Hill Poe’ is another double form with five or six petals, as opposed to the more typical three.  Most of the differences between the cultivars are much less pronounced, however, and it’s the ability to spot and select these differences that is the mark of a true galanthophile.

Galanthus 'Scharlockii'.

All the varieties are a treasure trove for the collector or general gardener, and it’s easy to find space in even the smallest garden for a couple of interesting named forms. But a slight word of warning, once the bug has bitten you could awake to find yourself transformed into a full-blow galanthophile, set on a mission to collect as many cutivars as possible.

The hobby can become an expensive one too. Prices of less common, though not super-rare varieties average around £10 per bulb, though £50 is not uncommon and a single bulb of a pure white flowered cultivar recently sold at auction for £357. But whether one is a collector or just enjoying their natural charms in a wild garden or border, those swept up in the February flowering celebrations will be following in a rich gardening tradition by joining the ever-swelling ranks of snowdrop aficionados.

Galanthus nivalis 'Virescens'.


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Gardening Tips September

Thursday, September 2nd, 2010

There is one little cheat’s trick that will instantly revive a tired September garden:  Go out and edge the lawn, if you have one, and then take hand fork and loosen the soil at the very front of your borders and winkle out any young  weed seedlings or wisps of stray grass that have wandered in there.  I have just been grubbing around outside myself (I have been writing books this summer rather than gardening, and things have got away from me a bit) and the transformation is amazing.  Coupled with a bit of snipping and tweaking here and there, and the garden will stagger on quite attractively for another month before the big Clear Up starts in earnest in October.

I am often asked how you make a garden ‘last’ longer – most people are very good at planting spring bulbs and high-summer show-off plants, but fail to leave room for flowers that look their best in August and September.  If its blowsy colour you are after make space next year for a generous clump of lovely lofty, pleated daisies with ferny foliage – Cosmos bipinnatus – the tall ones not the boring dumpy ones called ‘Sonata’.  You can grow them from seed in individual pots on a windowsill – but don’t sow them till May since they germinate quickly. They will flower in profusion from late July until the frosts.   Many perennials cut back in July put on an extra show in late summer, and my Hybrid Musk roses (‘Penelope’ and ‘Buff Beauty’) are now coming back into flower, too.  Still looking quite smart in my borders is a hunky, late flowering Phlox (P. paniculata ‘David’), a blue Aster frikatii ‘Monch’ and a huge white single Shasta daisy (Leucanthemum maximum).  Other asters – ‘Little Carlow’ and ‘Harrington Pink’ will show up in a few week’s time, and all the while deep yellow, black-eyed Rudbeckia ‘Goldsturm’ glows on and on.


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