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We have visitors here at the moment, so I am just quickly leaving you this photo of a radiant anemone flower. If I remember correctly, it is Anemone coronaria ‘Bordeaux’, sole survivor after the others were lost when a path was altered. (I lost a few bulbs when we did that!) Back to normal, with more flowers, next week!
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There’s no shortage of flower colour in spring but I think that the bright yellow of the more traditional-looking daffodils is the colour we associate most with the season. I have some of these daffodils here. They’re a reminder of the masses of golden daffodils in my parents’ garden and a cheerful sight to greet warmer days.
At this time of year, there are many yellow flowers around. They range in colour from the palest hints of yellow to a robust gleaming shade that demands attention. I particularly like the subtlety of some of the paler yellows. These can be found in daffodil varieties such as ‘Ice Follies’ (above). This one has a pale yellow trumpet surrounded by white outer petals and I have it planted alongside the delicate, creamy-coloured ‘Thalia’ in an airy combination that shimmers in low-angled spring sunlight.
Narcissus bulbocodium known as the ‘hoop petticoat daffodil’ (above) is a delightful plant and one that I’d like to grow. The flowers are only six inches high, so I might be best to plant it in a pot rather than the ground, so that it isn’t overrun by its neighbours.
A similar very pale yellow is seen in the primrose (Primula vulgaris). This is the wild primrose that that I remember as a common sight along roadside verges in my childhood. (Probably less common now.) I’m sad to see that mine have suffered in the very hot and dry summer of last year (and after losing the shade of a nearby tree), so this year the plants have fewer flowers. Clearly I need to take care to give them more water during periods of drought.
The dog’s tooth violet (Erythronium ‘Pagoda’) that you see above is one of the darker yellows in my garden. I enjoy the sight of the curving petals and the slightly Oriental-looking glamour of these little beauties. So far they have managed to survive in an area that probably gets more sun than they like. When I plant more, I’ll make sure to put them in a shadier spot.
Later in the spring, the neighbours’ laburnum tree will create a spectacular display right by our driveway, so we will have some fabulous ‘borrowed’ colour in May. Before then, there should be some very bright yellow from our ‘Golden Apeldoorn’ tulips. These and some red Darwin hybrid tulips were already in the garden when we came, and have flowered reliably in all the years since. They’re a glorious sight when they open up wide on a sunny day…which seems like a good reason to plant some more.
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When I visited Fullers Mill last month I noticed that the remains of their Chinese lanterns (Physalis alkekengi) had turned into little skeleton pods. I occasionally find leaf skeletons, as well as the skeletonised flowers of hydrangea, but this was a first for me.
I love the lace-like look of the veins left after the papery tissue of the pod has decomposed. To me, this is much more attractive than the orange ‘lanterns’ of the earlier stage (shown below). I’ve frequently seen these in gardens here, but only while they still had a solid pod, never before in the skeletonised form.
My curiosity about why some plants have parts that skeletonise led me to a swift dig around the internet. Apparently the veins are made up of lignin, a much more robust compound than the soft tissue of leaves, petals, or in this case, pods. The lignin structure of the veins can survive after the rest has decayed away. (Sometimes the skeletonisation is caused by insect damage, but the sheer number of pod skeletons showed that it wasn’t the case here.) Leaves with a particularly strong vein structure are more likely to work, whereas those with a protective, waxy surface are very unlikely to. A damp and sheltered environment, such as found amongst the trees at Fullers Mill, helps to encourage natural decay. In my own garden, I’ve noticed that I occasionally find skeletonised hydrangea flowers in a cool, slightly damp and sheltered area.
Although I’m not very keen on the orange pods, I might be tempted to grow some physalis. It would be worth it for the skeleton pods, and I can imagine how beautiful they would look with a coating of frost. I may have to go and look for some seeds!
A skeletonised pod of Physalis alkekengi (Chinese lantern)
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Last week I mentioned that hellebores flower through winter and early spring. Another flower that appears during the same period is Cyclamen coum, which produces its pink or white flowers from December to March. These tiny, delicate-looking flowers with their upswept petals bring a touch of colour to the greyest months.
Although the flowers may appear fragile, Cyclamen coum is thoroughly hardy, coping with temperatures down to minus 10°C. It likes a well-drained soil with plenty of humus and a little shelter. The leaves die back later in spring, reappearing in autumn, and it grows well in partial shade. This makes it a good plant for areas around trees and shrubs.
I have the autumn-flowering Cyclamen hederifolium growing here. The flowers are larger and manage to compete with the planting around them. Seeing how much smaller the flowers of C. coum are in comparison, made me feel that they would be somewhat lost in my garden (even more so where I leave the dead remains of the summer’s growth to shelter hibernating insects). Now though, I see that they can make quite an impact, especially where they manage to spread and create a mass of bright colour. There may be some Cyclamen coum corms on my shopping list for autumn!
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Flowering from winter days right into mid-spring, hellebores are a lovely companion as I look for the signs of the re-emergence and renewal of life in the garden. For me, hellebores make the time of waiting for spring brighter and happier. Their flowers are with us from the coldest time of the year. They last through that subtle shift away from winter, accompanying us until the warmth and longer daylight of spring has created a rush of fresh growth and bright, new colours.
On a recent visit to Fullers Mill Garden, I took the opportunity to photograph some of their many hellebores. To do so, I had to find flowers that were slightly upturned rather than facing downward. Then I had to wait for the breeze to die away…so there was a fair bit of patience and sheer luck involved! (You see the results here.)
In my own garden, I have planted several newer cultivars. These have more upward-facing flowers than the older hellebores. Apart from making them more visible, this makes them much easier to photograph. (And I can’t resist photographing them, so they’re also likely to make an appearance on this blog soon.)
Winter is, thankfully, on its way out. Spring is slowly taking over and we have had a few days of sunshine at last. After such a wet couple of months, the gradual change to warmer weather is more than welcome. I’m glad to have had the company of hellebores throughout this time.
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I’ve had enough of winter and I’m keen for it to go and for spring to be with us. Although it hasn’t been very cold here, it feels as if it has been raining for months. The thought of a bright, sunny spring day is very appealing at this stage and I’m on the lookout for signs that winter is coming to an end.
Every new flower that appears now feels like a little gleam of hope and the sight of snowdrops (Galanthus) always feels like a promise that winter won’t last much longer. I have a few snowdrops here and there in the garden at the moment. It makes me smile to see them because I know that they will soon be joined by crocuses and the first of the daffodils.
The snowdrops you see here are from my recent visit to Fullers Mill. They have lots of different varieties, many larger than those I have at home, making them easier to photograph. Our visit was a bit on the damp side, so I didn’t get much time for spotting the different cultivars. I’m hoping that a second visit will be on a drier day. I’d rather see snowdrops than raindrops!
Snowdrops mix well with winter aconites, making an attractive combination.
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Spring is still some way off in the UK but a few flowers are gradually emerging. My favourite gardens at Fullers Mill are open during February to let visitors come and see the snowdrops, so of course I have visited to photograph those. But I was delighted to find these sunny midwinter beauties growing there too. These are winter aconites (Eranthis hyemalis), one of the earliest plants to flower in the year.
As you might guess from the appearance of the yellow flowers, the winter aconite is a member of the Ranunculaceae, the buttercup family. If you look closely at the top photograph, you can just see the tubular nectaries around the stamens…a feature shared with the closely-related hellebore. Flowering at the same time as hellebores means the two plants can be used in some very striking combinations. I’d love to try growing winter aconites with either a pure white hellebore or a very dark purple one. (Winter aconites do look lovely with snowdrops, and I’ll be able to share a photo of that combination in my next post.)
This plant is versatile. It will grow in woodland and shady conditions or in sunny spots, preferring reasonably moist, fertile soil. If it’s happy with the site, it can spread over large areas, but it doesn’t take over for long as the leaves die back in late spring.
Appearing from late January makes this flower an excellent source of nectar and pollen for the first queen bumblebees to emerge from winter hibernation. It is valuable for honeybees too, and for any other pollinating insects that are active early in the year, making it an asset to a wildlife garden. Clearly, at a time when there are not many plants in flower, the winter aconite is more than just a pretty face!
The yellow flowers of winter aconite (Eranthis hyemalis) can spread over a large area.
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My attention is called away from the garden and photography this week, so I shall just leave this frosty rose for you, with a reminder that Valentine’s Day is coming up on Saturday. (The rose is ‘Rhapsody in Blue’, which is really more of a pinkish purple.)
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When frost is here, the stars of the garden are the seed heads. Their shapes become sculptural and exciting as they are made sparkly with frozen icy crystals. They’re the first thing I look for in winter photography, and a very satisfying subject for an appealing image.
But there aren’t a huge number of seed heads, and, of course, they are vastly outnumbered by the remaining leaves. Fortunately these leaves can often be very attractive with a sprinkling of frost and give their own photographic possibilities.
Frost accentuates the edges of a geranium leaf.
The leaf in the top photo is a Japanese anemone. These can take on interesting curvy shapes as they dry out and the brown colouring adds a bit of extra interest. There are usually lots of these leaves in the garden, but this year I have noticed that there are fewer. Perhaps the increasingly hot and dry summers have made these anemone clumps less inclined to spread and be thuggish. Although they can make themselves a nuisance, I will be sad if I lose the pretty show of flowers that they give in late summer and early autumn. It seems that climate change may be changing the nature of my garden.
The picture immediately above shows a hardy geranium. These are plants that are good-looking in both leaf and flower, so I’ve been happy to find space for several of these in the garden. The way the frost outlines the deeply indented edges of the leaves emphasises their shape and creates an image that is both pleasing to see and inviting to photograph.
Fennel leaves are gracefully lacy under a heavy coating of frost.
While the first two photographs were taken in this winter’s light frosts, the remaining two were taken in years when the frost was much heavier. A dense coating of frost crystals has given the feathery foliage of a bronze fennel the appearance of lace. (Normally the fennel leaves would be gone by the time there was much frost, but that year the frost arrived earlier.)
Below, frost on the leaves of Euphorbia mellifera will quickly melt in the strong sunshine of a bright winter morning. Despite looking more robust than the delicate fennel leaves, this euphorbia is less hardy and would probably be best given winter protection in areas colder than ours. Luckily for many of our plants, we don’t usually get very cold temperatures for long. As a gardener, I have reason to be very grateful that this winter has been fairly mild so far, even if that means fewer opportunities for winter photography. ❄
Frost on the leaves of Euphorbia mellifera will soon melt in the sunshine.
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My garden is full of the leftovers of summer and autumn. Clumps of curled and dried-out leaves, seed heads (many now empty of their cargo of seeds) and, here and there, the tattered remnants of flowers, all create an untidy patchwork. But that untidiness is a protection to the life lurking within: insects are hibernating in it and, below, the soil and the creatures that inhabit it are protected from the effect of heavy winter rains.
Everything is going through the long wait for spring. I won’t tidy up the dead growth until all the little lives it shelters are active again. By then there will be new leaves beginning to push up through the soil and the first spring bulbs will be in flower.
Meanwhile the frost makes patterns on the remains of last year’s plants. Old leaves are finely edged in white and the ghosts of past flowers appear to be encrusted with tiny white seed beads. (Above: a tiny skeletonised flower of a hydrangea has become encased in a coating of icy frost. Below: tiny bead-like frost crystals decorate what’s left of a clump of aster daisies.) The seemingly insignificant oddments of the garden year are enough for the frost to create its ephemeral magic. ❄
Ann Mackay: Inspired by Nature 