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

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

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

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

I love a new gardening book, which is a dangerous passion when so many fresh titles hit the shelves every year. Most are glossy, many interesting and just a handful destined to become classics. (Fewer still feature my own garden, so I confess to a degree of heathy bias when it comes to this post’s subject.) Cutting it on the coffee table is not an easy feat, but in Garden Design: A Book of Ideas, Marianne Majerus and Heidi Howcroft have carved themselves out a niche with their sharp images and pithy prose.

Make no mistake, this book is all about the photography. More than 600 ambrosial images are featured, lavishly strewn across 320 pages. Each one is the work of Luxembourg-born Marianne Majerus, who I’ve had the great pleasure of meeting on a number of occasions. A consummate professional, Marianne is happy to share the secrets of her great skill as a photographer, safe in the knowledge that few possess the dedication and artistry required to follow in her footsteps. Marianne is fastidious about choosing the right time of day and best weather conditions for her shots, setting each one up with incredible depth of field. What you cannot see in one of Marianne’s images is not worth seeing, and yet none of the gardens’ mood and magic is ever lost. Such consistency and quality makes for a book of rare quality. Any keen garden photographer will find Garden Design: A Book of Ideas as much of a page turner as any Jackie Collins or Ian Rankin (whichever tickles your fancy!).

Garden writer Heidi Howcroft must have found herself with a hard act to follow, but rose admirably to the challenge. In approximately a fifth of the page space, she manages to deliver tips and insights that enhance rather than detract from Marianne’s photography. Together, Marianne and Heidi take us on a journey from assessing a plot, through to deciding a style and choosing design details without so much as a chapter break. It’s an exhilarating rollercoaster ride of a book, packed with more ideas than any keen gardener or garden designer could need in a lifetime. What’s also refreshing is the absence of the usual suspects. Much as I admire the gardens at Sissinghurst, Hidcote, Biddulph and Stourhead, their triumphs are well catalogued elsewhere. This book brings to the fore work of lesser known, contemporary garden designers and gardeners, which has to be a good thing.

Garden Design: A Book of Ideas achieves exactly what it sets out to do – to be a visual compendium of the very best gardens and garden features in today’s design sphere. It is illustrated by one of the world’s finest garden photographers and accompanied by illuminating text from an eloquent and insightful garden writer. What more could one wish for in a garden design book?

Garden Design: A Book of Ideas (Hardback), by Heidi Howcroft and Marianne Majerus is published on March 15th by Octopus Publishing Group. ISBN: 9781845339210. Me and Him Indoors can be spied on page 19, under the heading ‘What Do You Want From Your Garden?’

All images copyright Marianne Majerus.

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

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



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

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



The groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould,

Fair Spring slides hither o’er the Southern sea,

Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold

That trembles not to kisses of the bee:

Come Spring, for now from all the dripping eaves

The spear of ice has wept itself away,

And hour by hour unfolding woodbine leaves

O’er his uncertain shadow droops the day.

She comes! The loosen’d rivulets run;

The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair;

Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun,

Now wraps her close, now arching leaves her bare

To breaths of balmier air;

 

From ‘The Progress of Spring’, Alfred Lord Tennyson

1809-1892

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

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

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

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

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

Iris ‘Katherine Hodgkin’

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

Iris ‘Sheila Ann Germaney’

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

I love to hear which sister you prefer….

For chapter and verse on these bijoux bulbs, follow this link to an excellent article written by Marcus Harvey of Hill View Rare Plants in Tasmania.

Iris ‘Sheila Ann Germaney’

Early in February I went along to the Chelsea Physic Garden for one of their annual snowdrop days. I was lucky enough to bag a ticket for head gardener Nick Bailey’s ‘Best in Snow’ walk, where he described very eloquently a dozen or so of his favourite plants for winter colour. Not many of them can be found in your average garden centre, which made it all the more interesting. Nick was charming and down-to-earth, dressed smartly in his winter attire. My grandfather, himself a head gardener for many years, was never to be seen working without a tie, waistcoat and jacket, and would have approved of Mr Bailey’s timeless style (well, maybe not the jeans, but even timeless style has to move on!).

Relaxed and engaging, Nick Bailey charms the group that gathered for his guided walk

I was fascinated to hear Nick’s potted history of the site. Chelsea Physic Garden was founded in 1673 as an Apothecaries’ Garden, with the purpose of training apprentices in identifying plants. Three hundred years before I was born, microclimates were already well understood. The garden’s Thames-side location permitted the survival of many non-native plants, including the largest outdoor fruiting olive in Britain (now declared a ‘Champion’ tree). The river functioned as an important transport route, linking other notable gardens and royal palaces as well as facilitating the movement of plants.

The garden’s long-term future was secured by one Dr. Hans Sloane, who lent his name to Hans Crescent, Sloane Square, Sloane Street and, latterly the Sloane Rangers who inhabit the expensive houses in this part of town. Dr. Sloane, his statue standing proudly at the centre of the garden, was a British physician of Irish descent. A rich man, he purchased the Manor of Chelsea from Charles Cheyne and proceeded to lease about 4 acres to the Society of Apothecaries for £5 a year, in perpetuity. That arrangement still stands. Nick explained that Dr. Sloane was so clever in his wording of the lease that it would be impossible for the plot ever to be used as anything other than a garden, which explains why it is now Britain’s second oldest botanical garden. As if that gift to the Nation was not enough, Dr Sloane also discovered milk chocolate, a recipe for which eventually found its way into the hands of the Cadbury brothers.

Dr. Hans Sloane – A fine gentleman, overlooking his fine garden

I digress, but Dr Sloane is one of the many historic characters that made London great. If they were to return to the garden today I am certain the founding apothecaries would find much that they recognised, especially the beds which display plants in their Botanical ‘Orders’. Yet horticulture moves on apace with thousands of new species arriving at the garden’s gate over the years leading up to the present day.

As in any good garden, things never stand still. Nick’s team have been busy creating a new woodland garden to reflect the original 1700’s layout. Winding between steeply mounded beds, a serpentine path will lead visitors through different ethnobotanic regions, starting with North America, then Europe and on to Asia. The World Woodland Garden will open on April 1st 2015 and will be cause for a return visit.

Lest I spend any more time deliberating over this post, I will get straight on with sharing eight of Nick’s top plants for bringing colour to your garden in later winter and early spring.

Nick Bailey’s Top Plants for Late Winter and Early Spring Colour

Correa backhouseana

Rosa x odorata ‘Bengal Crimson’

Chrysoplenium macrophyllum

Daphne bholua ‘Jacqueline Postill’

Galanthus elwesii var. elwesii ‘Kite’

Vinca difformis

Iris unguicularis

Scilla mauritanica

Since the first balmy weekend in March I have watched both our gardens move forward as if in slow motion. Temperatures have remained resolutely low, bringing to a halt the tulips, narcissi and hyacinths that seemed so eager to get going in late February. In the span of two weeks their fat buds and leafy shuttlecocks have edged forward only the tiniest amount. Our London garden, not blessed with much sunshine in winter, has been the slowest to get going, whilst The Watch House, with its special coastal microclimate, has progressed faster. Yet when I look back at what I was blogging about this time last year, it feels like we are a good three weeks behind.

Spring bulbs in particular are acutely sensitive to warmth, or lack of it. A mild spell around now can accelerate everything into bloom at once, whilst a chilly snap quickly puts the show back on ice. This is because early spring plants (described as ‘prevernal’ for those who like their fancy words) are fine-tuned to bloom when pollinating insects are abroad, but before trees, shrubs and perennials shade them out. Spring bulbs are like sprinters: finely tuned, packed with energy-rich carbohydrates and ready to power ahead as soon as nature fires the starting pistol. One can almost feel the muscular bulbs poised on their starting blocks, straining against the roots that hold them back. We’ve had one false start, now they’re ready for the off.

Race leader Narcissus ‘Rip Van Winkle’ was one of the fastest out of the blocks this year

They may not be distance runners, but spring bulbs put on the show everyone wants to see. The March weather won’t be breaking any records, but it’s been suggested that Easter could be unusually warm. That suits me as I am on holiday for two weeks so will get to be a spectator when the race does eventually get underway. You may even spot me cheering and waving as the daffodils, hyacinths and crown imperials coming roaring past, going for gold, silver and bronze.

How is spring progressing in your garden? Are you out in front or lagging behind like me (ever the long distance runner!)?

Still in the changing room, my bulbs prepare for the off

You’ve all heard of primrose yellow, but let me introduce you to primrose blue. As a flower colour blue is something of acquired taste, especially when it doesn’t come naturally. Could there be anything more abhorrent than a blue rose, a turquoise chrysanthemum (please note Tesco cut flower buyer) or, worse still, a sapphire orchid? And yet few blooms are as rich or vibrant as those of delphiniums, campanulas or gentians, which are blue through and through.

In part it’s about what we are accustomed to. This may be why I am not quite sure about the pot of marbled, lavender-blue primroses I currently have on my deck, purchased on a whim at the garden centre. They just about get away with their curious colouring on account of veering towards mauve but, like many bedding plants, they have that slightly too processed look about them. Too many flowers, not enough leaves.

Blue is not uncommon in primroses, although rarely could one describe the colour as true blue. Among the doubles, P. ‘Blue Ice’ is a deliciously chintzy powder blue, whilst old favourite P. ‘Blue Sapphire’ is a kind of faded indigo. Last year at the RHS Plant and Design Show I ran into P. ‘Blue Zebra’ for the first time; a flower that looks too much like cheap Chinese crockery for my liking, but the novelty of which will doubtless win fans. Perhaps the prettiest of the lot are the violet blue singles, including P. ‘Blue Riband’ and P. ‘Hall Barn Blue’, which sport masses of delicate golden-eyed flowers. Positioning them alongside other blue and yellow flowers is probably the best bet.

As for these chaps they’ll be straight on the compost heap once they finish flowering. Give me a primrose primrose any day.

I had ideas about going to the Great Dixter Spring Plant Fair this weekend, but it dawned on me that I should spend more time worrying about the plants I already have rather than acquiring new ones. This was something of an revelation for a confirmed plantaholic like myself, and one which I hope doesn’t occur too often.

Our raised beds, the main growing space in our coastal garden, were planted up almost nine years ago and are starting to look overgrown and tired. Many of the plants that we selected were never intended to achieve the proportions they have. A warm microclimate and slightly more sunshine that the rest of the UK has meant that in many years the garden has grown for a full 12 months. I saw the writing on the wall two or three seasons ago, but lacked the guts to take action. Enjoying the leafy exuberance, I let nature take its course. In that time Pittosporum tobira ‘Nanum’ (Japanese mock orange) has become rather less ‘Namum’ and a little more ‘Giganteum’ thanks to its sheltered spot in a warm corner. A wiser gardener would have pinched out the new shoots to encourage bushiness, but The Frustrated Gardener favoured ‘jungly’ over ‘groomed’ and has ended up with what an old university lecturer of mine would have described as ‘green custard’.

On arrival my pittosporums (second plants from the bottom) were neat, well-groomed little bushes

It’s not often acknowledged, but one of the essential qualities of a good gardener is bravery. It’s all well and good letting plants do their thing – that’s the relaxed impression many of us want to portray in our gardens – but the reality is that gardening is about control and discipline. No gardener worth his or her salt will just let a garden ‘go’. Inevitably plants will outstay their welcome, become too large or simply die after a period of time. Unless one is happy to preside over inevitable decline, then intervention cannot be avoided. Bravery, however, should not be confused with brutality. One is about doing the right thing, being courageous; the other about cruelty and savagery. Our local parks department, who seem to think indiscriminately hacking swathes of venerable shrubs down to tabletop level, would do well to heed the distinction.

The task of hard-pruning my pittosporums begins

Having noted in the past that P. tobira ‘Nanum’ will shoot generously from old wood when a branch is cut, I took the plunge and pruned both bushes back to about 10 inches high. Despite having formed a dense mound of evergreen foliage I discovered numerous straggly green shoots close to ground level and am hoping they will thicken up before garden opening weekend in August. It’s a risk, but one worth taking when the alternative is ripping both plants out and starting again. The space that’s opened up will be planted with echiums, just as it was in the early days. These will not cast too much shade over the recovering pittosporums, allowing them to form back into the neat, glossy bushes they started out as.

The thing about being brave in the garden is that the outcome is rarely as terrible as you might imagine. Should the pittosporums not recover, what I have gained is a light, bright corner, room to circulate around the garden table and space to indulge in something new. Before taking decisive action with any plant or shrub it’s worth seeking advice in a good gardening book or on the Internet. The RHS website is about as comprehensive as it gets (although in this instance hard pruning was not recommended). A little bit of research can make the difference between bravery and brutality, success and failure.

If you have a story about being brave (or brutal) in your garden, please share!

Down, but hopefully not out, Pittosporum tobira ‘Nanum’ after the chop

Regular readers may already have noticed that I am sucker for a subtropical plant. On a cold Sunday in February, whilst visiting London’s Chelsea Physic Garden, I found myself drawn in by the the scented warmth of one particular glasshouse, that which holds the garden’s collection of rare and threatened species from the Canary Islands and Madeira.

Scrambling towards the rafters in the centre of a fine display was a climber that I was completely unfamiliar with. The label read Canarina canariensis, the Canary bell flower. Research reveals that this elegant climber is an endangered member of the campanula family that carves out a fragile existence in the diminishing laurel forests of Tenerife, La Palma, Gran Canaria and La Gomera. Unusually for a campanula, the Canary bell flower regenerates from summer-dormant tubers which send up long, scrambling shoots in autumn. These can reach 6′-8′ in length, wandering along leaf-littered ground or through supporting shrubs. The soft leaves resemble those of a thunbergia. It’s in the winter that the bell-shaped flowers start to appear, divine but faintly reminiscent of a human organ with their fleshy tones and strongly contrasting venation, especially when back-lit.

After flowering the foliage dies down and the tubers preserve the plants’ energy until growth resumes again in autumn. This is how Canarina canariensis has adapted to survive summer drought in its natural habitat. In the UK we don’t concern ourselves greatly with water shortages, but the Canary bell flower makes a wonderful winter flowering subject for a cool, semi-shaded conservatory. In summer the tubers can be stored in a dark, dry place until they are ready to burst into life again. Naturally, I felt compelled to track down my new discovery. I found that seeds were available from Jungle Seeds priced at £3.95 for 10. I will let you know how I get on with cultivating my island beauty later in the year.

Happy Easter one and all! For the whole of Easter week I will be writing about the most lauded of spring flowers, the daffodil. Spring is dragging its feet, which means many daffodils are still in fine form the festivities. Mine (pictured above) have survived a week of rain and high winds, looking much fresher and brighter than I do. Let me introduce you, from left to right, to Narcissus ‘Rip Van Winkle’, N. ‘Toto’ AGM, N. ‘Minnow’, N. ‘Jetfire’, N. ‘Cragford’ and N. ‘Oxford Gold’, representing a broad spectrum of the smaller cultivars available to gardeners.

In our coastal garden, we grow daffodils in pots, mainly from fresh bulbs each season. I have found that N. ‘Jetfire’ and N. ‘Tete-a-Tete’ come back reliably year after year if replanted in fresh compost in August. Others tend to fade away and would be better planted in the ground to bulk up again. I always choose smaller varieties that will not be toppled by the gales but bounce playfully in a stiff breeze. By the front door, strongly perfumed varieties such as N. ‘Chagford’ are a must. In our London garden we should grow more daffodils, but they don’t appreciate the heavy shade in some corners of the plot. I have had greatest success with N. ‘Jack Snipe’, which is a trouper, and N. ‘W.P. Milner’, but I need to plant lots more bulbs next year to achieve the tapestry of colour I am hankering after.

Over the coming week I’d love to hear about your favourite daffodils, tips for putting on a great spring display, and any folklore surrounding these symbolic Easter flowers. Wishing you all a peaceful and relaxing weekend, accompanied by good gardening weather.

Daffodils are a wonderfully diverse group of bulbs thanks to years of careful hybridisation and selection. A scion of the narcissus family that is less often seen in British gardens is the tazettas, also known as Chinese sacred lillies, joss flowers or polyanthus narcissus. The reason for their relative scarcity is their alleged tenderness, a trait of their Mediterranean heritage which renders the plants slightly less tolerant of our cold, damp winters. Tazettas are extremely tall, up to 80cm, carrying blooms in bunches of up to eight atop their long stems. Whilst they are hopeless in a windy garden, they are ideal as cut flowers, blooming from the dawn of the year in clement spots such as the Isles of Scilly.

For fragrance, the tazetta narcissi are legendary. If you search a little you’ll discover there are several varieties commercially available. The Kim Kardashian of the family, known to all, is Narcissus tazetta ‘Paperwhite’, cultivated across the Northern Hemisphere to bloom at Christmas. Hybrids such as N. ‘Grand Soleil d’Or’ (yellow), N. ‘Ziva’ (pure white) and N. ‘Geranium’ (white with orange trumpets) are often used for forcing indoors. A new find for me this year was N. tazetta ‘Cragford’, which shares similar colouring to N. ‘Geranium’. Rather than grow them indoors I planted my bulbs tightly in pots outside and left them in the shelter at the base of a wall. Here they have come on slowly, flowering not at Christmas but in succession from mid March. The huge bulbs are now pumping out stem after stem of flowers, filling the air outside our front door with their potent fragrance (tazettas are grown commercially in Southern France to produce essential oils for the perfume industry).

The benefit of growing tazettas outside is that they do not become drawn and floppy like they do indoors, plus the flowers last much longer. Bought bulbs are typically large and will produce a generous number of stems provided they are planted in a gritty, well-drained compost. Give them a little protection from cold and excessive wet and they will perform as well as hardier types. Around town there are many gardeners who have successfully cultivated these beautiful bulbs in the ground, so they are well worth experimenting with if you have a warm, south-facing border. Just three or four stems are enough to bring the scent of spring into the house, so plant generously this autumn and you can expect to enjoy fragrant flowers for many weeks.

At this time of year London’s Royal Parks are carpeted with vast swathes of daffodils. If the weather is fine I leave the tube one stop early and walk through Green Park, past Buckingham Palace to work in Victoria. The park’s daffodils create serpentine rivers of gold, primrose and white between the naked plane trees. I like to imagine Her Majesty sitting in bed with a lightly boiled egg, hot buttered soldiers and a cup of tea, gazing out of her bedroom window at her subjects, busying themselves like ants below. I am sure she does nothing of the sort, but it pleases me to think she’s enjoying the colourful scene.

Royalty have a great fondness for daffodils, particularly the Prince of Wales. Last week His Royal Highness asked the new leaseholder of an historic quarry on his Duchy of Cornwall land to pay one daffodil each year as rent. The 999-year lease on the site in Tintagel, Cornwall, cost its new owner £81,000, despite having no commercial potential. In a wry twist on the nominal ‘peppercorn’ rent, The Prince of Wales decided to accept just a single daffodil, the national flower of Wales, as payment.

A longer tradition was established thirty years ago when The Queen began sending daffodils from her Sandringham estate to patients and staff at hospitals across London – a typically charming gesture from a monarch who frequently receives posies and bouquets of narcissi from well-wishers. Here she is, outside Fortum and Mason in 2012, with The Duchess of Cornwall and The Duchess of Cambridge, giving the flowers her royal seal of approval. Let’s hope that there is still a smattering of daffodils in bloom on April 21st when she celebrates her 89th birthday. If this cool weather continues we can be sure of it!

Image: XPOSUREPHOTOS.COM

When I set out to post daily on the subject of daffodils, little did I know how distracting this week’s almost perfect gardening weather would be. The opportunity to spend two unbroken days outside rarely comes along and I have gardened from dawn to dusk. In the course of the last 48 hours, planting bulbs and rejuvenating borders, I have been enveloped by the scent of hyacinths, serenaded by bees and danced for by a solitary butterfly. This I have enjoyed in the company of our resident doves, Daphne and Dudley. They are becoming tamer and tamer by the day, almost eating out of my hand. If only they would build a decent nest there could be a whole family of them at The Watch House.

Narcissus ‘Toto’ began flowering when it was just 4 inches tall, but has experienced a dramatic growth spurt this week. The bulbs have come into their own in the warm sunshine, throwing up stems bearing two, three or four flowers. The blooms deserve a companion planting of blue scilla, chinodoxa or muscari to bring out their curds and whey colouring, not the sugary pink cyclamen I foolishly paired them with. I will know better next time. Their fragrance is not as intoxicating as Narcissus ‘Cragford’ or Narcissus ‘Minnow’, but is pleasing enough if you get your nose in there. Honoured with an Award of Garden Merit by the RHS, Narcissus ‘Toto’ ticks all my boxes and will definitely be on my bulb order again this summer.

Nothing is more cheering on a sunny spring day than a broad swathe of daffodils emerging from lengthening grass, or a delicate cloud of cherry blossom hovering in the air. Driving out of Canterbury towards Harbledown yesterday I was greeted by verges and roundabouts thronged with narcissi. It was as if a magician had pulled a million bunches of flowers from his hat and public spiritedly plonked them in every inch of sward he could find. The effect was uplifting; a little bit of the unnecessary in a world where the beautification of things ‘just because’ seems very far down the list of priorities.

Public displays of daffodils are relatively commonplace in England, but I wish they were more so. Some of my favourites are in London’s Royal Parks. In St James’ Park, choice varieties such as Narcissus actaea are planted beneath cherry trees to create little cameos of paradise in the heart of the city. In these days of council cutbacks there’s little hope of more displays like those at Pegwell Bay in Kent being created at the tax payer’s expense. Yet this particular spectacle, around the Danish longboat replica ‘Horsa‘, attracts hundreds of visitors to East Kent every spring. In Thriplow, Cambridgeshire, the village’s 450 residents have worked together to plant thousands of daffodils in private gardens and public spaces. They stage a special Daffodil Weekend each year, raising huge sums for charity and bringing enormous pleasure to all those that take part in the event. Wouldn’t it be great if more villages followed Thriplow’s example, and not just with daffodils? A rose festival or a dahlia derby would surely be crowd pleasers.

Whilst researching public displays of daffodils I stumbled upon a moving story in last week’s Telegraph newspaper. Having been told he only had eight weeks to live, retired RAF pilot Keith Owen decided to leave his £2.3m fortune to the resort of Sidmouth in Devon. The interest was to be spent on schemes to brighten up the seaside town and its neighbouring villages. One of Keith’s wishes was that a “valley of a million bulbs” should be planted at Park Head, on the cliffs above Sidmouth (see below). Since 2013, 400,000 daffodils have been planted by volunteers and groups, ranging in age from 2 to 90. Their reward is nothing more than being able to enjoy the ‘flowers’ of their labour every March and April, along with the town’s many visitors.

Whilst Mr Owen could have left his legacy to any number of worthy causes, he chose to invest in a place that he loved, for the benefit of thousands of others. Just occasionally we should all afford ourselves the opportunity to do something because it’s a beautiful gesture, not because it’s a necessary one. I’m certainly going to put aside a little ‘daffodil money’ from now on.

Do you know of any good public displays of daffodils? And if you could leave a horticultural legacy, what would it be?

Wishing you all a lovely weekend.

Photo credit: Sidmouth In Bloom

The flowering of the magnolia marks a turning point in our London garden. It’s a fleeting moment, the petals falling just as they appear to be reaching their prime, but it’s a magical moment all the same. Through the winter months our secluded plot is plunged into perpetual shade. The soil remains cold and wet, and there is little cheer. But with the magnolia comes the sun (or should that be the other way round?) and a host of jewel-like spring flowers.

The coconut-ice chalices of Magnolia x soulangeana

The juxtaposition with Kerria japonica ‘Pleniflora’ is an awkward one. Blush pink magnolia blooms and brash yellow pompoms are hardly a match made in heaven, but I haven’t the heart to rip out either. Individually they are both splendid spring plants – straight forward and easy to grow. A match for the kerria in the yellow stakes is Caltha polypetala, the kingcup, or giant marsh marigold. This moisture-loving perennial rises early from the margins of our pond (or ‘the lake’ as Him Indoors describes it), appearing blissfully unaware that such a thing as winter ever occured. The kingcup’s golden flowers reflect wonderfully in the inky-black water.

Golden wonder: Caltha polypetala, the giant marsh marigold

Blue is such a welcome flower colour in spring and comes in many forms: scillas, hyacinths, brunneras, forget-me-nots and navelwort, (Omphalodes spp.). One of the best varieties of the latter is Omphalodes cappadocica ‘Cherry Ingram’, which has fresh green leaves and azure-blue flowers. Navelwort enjoys a rich, damp, woodsy soil, so is more or less happy in our garden, although yet to start seeding about.

‘Ol Blue Eyes – Omphalodes cappadocica ‘Cherry Ingram’

Not quite blue, but a lovely warm purple is Anemone blanda (winter windflower). I planted a couple of clumps when they were already in growth in the spring of 2014, not expecting them to reappear from our soggy soil. They have, and in rude health, so I have popped in another six groups where I had a gap, selecting the sunniest spot I had available. Amongst the blooms are a few rogue white ones, which stop them looking too much like uniform bedding. How could anyone not be cheered by these porcelain-perfect little flowers?

Surviving against the odds – Anemone blanda

All the blues and purples provide a perfect foil for daffodils, still going strong despite it being the middle of April. Those pictured below are a bargain-bucket purchase that I failed to label – a pity as they are very elegant and I would like more. I enjoy the way the petals twist slightly to suggest movement, but am less charmed by the trumpets, which juvenile snails seem to have found particularly delicious. Time to break out the slug pellets I think.

Daffodils – variety unknown

From now on our urban woodland garden will burgeon, foam and froth, the foliage of aquilegias, foxgloves, hostas and epimediums quickly disguising any fading bulb leaves. Yet it will never recover the fleeting vitality it possesses now. A moment to treasure.

Our London garden, seen from above

Clockwise from top left: herb robert (Geranium robertianum); hart’s tongue fern (Asplenium scolopendrium); lesser celandine (Ranunculus ficaria); Alexanders / wild celery (Smyrnium olusatrum); common gorse (Ulex europaeus); blackthorn / sloe (Prunus spinosa); red campion (Silene dioica); dog violet (Viola riviniana); three-cornered leek (Allium triquetum), primrose (Primula vulgaris); common scurvygrass (Cochlearia officinalis); bluebell (Hyacinthoides non-scripta); dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) and field chickweed (Cerastium arvense).

This week me and Him Indoors are enjoying a break in North Cornwall with friends Rachel, Simon, Scarlett, Jack and an adorable Cockapoo puppy named Barney. Although spring has been as slow to get going here as it has up country, the hedgerows are already thick with wild flowers. The cliffs around our holiday cottage in Talland Bay are frosted with blackthorn (below) and gilded with honey-scented gorse (above). The white blackthorn blossom is so impossibly profuse that it’s almost indistinguishable from the foam cresting the waves in the rocky cove below. This year’s crop of sloes will be bountiful.

In the lanes that lead toward the fishing village of Polperro, the high Cornish hedges are festooned with garlicky three-cornered leek and perfumed posies of dog violet and primrose. The primroses are so abundant in places that it appears as if the landscape has been spattered with acid yellow paint.

Assisted by my 12 year old protégé Scarlett, I collected flowers from over 20 wild species to study and photograph at home after tea. Many were natives, but some, like lampranthus and periwinkle, were exotics that had escaped from gardens to join the locals.

I wonder if it’s any coincidence that the flowers gracing our hedgerows in April are the same colours as those that we choose to adorn our gardens – white, yellow, blue and candy pink. Together they scream spring, rescued from the brink of gaudiness by a vast, saturated canvas of green. In a few weeks the grasses and ferns will have grown so tall that only the red campions, cowparsley and foxgloves will hold their heads above the rising tide of foliage.

I am off now to pick wild garlic (Allium ursinum) and wild celery (Smyrnium olusatrum) for our dinner. Lightly steamed, these foraged herbs will accompany a hearty meal of sausages and mash. Wild Cornwall doesn’t just look good, it tastes pretty special too.

1. Yesterday, after several abortive attempts, I finally managed to drag Him Indoors to Derry Watkins’ Special Plants Nursery at Cold Ashton, near my home town of Bath. Although Derry’s nursery is tucked half way down a steep hill below the village it’s evident that the settlement was aptly named. The view out towards the Severn Estuary and Wales is beautiful, but it’s a chilly spot. At the end of Greenways Lane – one of those byways that has a strip of grass in the middle and golden dandelions at the edges – we arrived to find we were the only customers. The nursery team had found a warm, sheltered spot for an alfresco lunch. I felt slightly guilty intruding on their break but, as I hoped, there were many wonderful plants to distract us.

   Derry Watkins has a reputation for tracking down rare and interesting perennials and grasses, many of which have been tried and tested in her own exposed garden. Like me, she also has a penchant for tender perennials, pointing out that they often flower for much longer than their hardy counterparts. I particularly wanted to get my hands on the white form of Geranium maderense, which Derry refers to as ‘Alba’. I have a single plant of ‘Guernsey White’, yet to flower, that I raised from seed, but wanted more. Having bagged two Albas, we went on to explore the rest of the nursery. Three Digitalis canariensis, two Zaluzianskya ovata, an Impatiens omeiana and an Impatiens kilimanjari x pseudoviola ‘Pale Pink’ later, my wallet was bare. (The latter I hope to propagate and grow in the light shade of the passageway that leads to our front door.)

   Special Plants Nursery had already lived up to expectations, but then, as I cast a discerning eye over one last bench, I spotted Chorizema ilicifolium commonly known as the holly flame pea. I was smitten, but alas only the display plant remained. Thankfully this lanky Western Australian native with its holly-like leaves and neon blooms is easily raised from seed, flowering when only a few inches high and continuing on to about 3ft at maturity. The plants require the shelter of a cool greenhouse or conservatory but reward with copious flowers from March until October.

   Seeds of Chorizema ilicifolium are available from Chiltern Seeds. As soon as there is any space available on my windowsill I’ll be sowing some!

I will be devoting a post to a different spring flower each day this week, and they don’t come much more special than Pleione formosana. I had always presumed these to be tricky customers, reserved for the kind of gardeners that keep pristine alpine houses, but after picking up three plants for a song at a car boot sale in Cornwall, I resolved to see if I could make them happy.

As it turns out, Pleione formosana, somewhat oddly dubbed the ‘windowsill orchid’, is simplicity itself to cultivate. Mine are planted in a shallow terracotta pan in a very loose homemade compost made from decomposing bark and leaves. When not in flower the pot sits beneath a garden bench in cool shade and stayed outside all winter. This was a risky move as pleiones are supposed not to like frost: I would not recommend you follow my lead. Once I’d built my little unheated grow house in February I moved them inside, covered by a mound of dry magnolia leaves. The flowers began to form about three weeks ago and are now in full bloom. They are like exotic moths with fringed mouths projecting out beneath lilac-pink, wing-like petals, every inch as beautiful as the rest of the orchid family. The number of flowers has tripled year-on-year, creating quite a display. Each time I go outside I can’t resist looking in on them through the glass.

After flowering come foot-long, creased leaves which project outwards from the tiny pseudobulbs that fuel the plant. These remain, looking rather aspidistra-like, until late autumn. In their native China and Taiwan they can be found growing on the forest floor in cool mountain habitats. Consequently they appreciate dappled sunlight, humidity and lots of organic matter. Given too much sun and warmth they may not thrive – hence they are better suited to a very well ventilated, frost free greenhouse than a windowsill indoors.

I am utterly besotted by these lovely little orchids and am trying a primrose-yellow variety called ‘Shantung’ this year (yet to flower). Next spring I have a yearning for a pure white cultivar …. or maybe a darker pink. Oh dear, I can feel a new addiction coming on! If, like me, you are interested to learn more about pleiones, then I have a discovered a very informative website, imaginatively named The Pleione Website, which offers excellent advice. Meanwhile, I hope I shall enjoy a fortnight or more with these charming orchids.

Our London garden offers few plants their perfect conditions – no surprise when you consider it was once no more than a shady patch of shattered Tarmac with subsoil dumped on top. And yet so many plants do make a go of it, helped along by a little (although not enough) soil improvement.

A plant that has done better and better every year, despite being moved a couple of times, is a handsome woodlander named Disporum megalanthum (fairy bells). Purchased several years ago from Harvey’s Garden Plants, this rare perennial didn’t make its mark until last year, when suddenly it found its stride. Early in April half a dozen burgundy stems surged up through the damp ground beneath last season’s foliage. From the vigorous new stems emerged furrowed, oily-green leaves, followed by hundreds of nodding, acid-yellow bells.

The flowers are intriguing rather than inherently beautiful, but the contrast with the dark, glossy foliage is something I enjoy. I have to clamber around the unstable edge of our pond to really appreciate them standing out cleanly against our London stock brick walls. Later in the year the chocolate tint in the leaves diminishes and tiny black berries appear. The foliage remains fresh-looking over winter, but falls to one side and perishes as the new growth emerges in spring.

I grow it by water in a sheltered spot at the foot of a wall, but woodland edge conditions are what Disporum megalanthum really calls for. Currently I have it underplanted with Brunnera macrophylla ‘Jack Frost’. Next year I intend to introduce greenish yellow Tulipa ‘Formosa’ (below, photo: Van Engelen) and T. ‘Spring Green’ around and about to pick up the unusual colouring of the disporum flowers. Standing about 24″ tall Disporum megalanthum will more than hold its own amongst the bulbs.

Plants of Disporum megalanthum are available from Harvey’s Garden Plants and other specialist shade plant nurseries.