''Botte de foin, épis de grain
Serais-tu blé ou encore orge?

Barbes de soie ou de satin

Avoine sauvage des forges

Semeur à tous vents

Entrelacé de soleil

Égrettes légères du temps

Virtuosité sans pareil''

Larger than life; Kew's superstar

Kew Gardens can proud itself of having some 50 000 different live plants in its collections, reputedly the largest in the world. Many of these are diminutive and not very exciting to the untrained eye but there are also, as one might expect, many wonders of the vegetable world. I like to amaze people by showing them some of these striking plants on my guided visits and I think it is fair to say that none excites them more than the giant waterlily. In a world where size is everything, Venus fly trap cannot compete with Gunneras and Redwoods, but Victoria certainly can and indeed there is enough here to satifsy a size Queen.

The first westerner to discover the giant waterlily was the Bohemian (Czech) botanist and naturalist Tadeáš Haenke. Although this happened in 1801, it it was only in 1849 that the plant was grown successfully in Europe - by the English, at Kew (of course!), Chatsworth (Derbyshire) and Syon (across the Thames from Kew). It was in the great glasshouse of the Duke of Devonshire at Chatsworth that the first flower opened and was presented to Queen Victoria, whose name it comemorates. No doubt that made the gardeners at Kew green with envy, but the record does not tell us anything about that. All we know is that theirs flowered a year later. Strong of the first successes, many people of the European Elite built glasshouses to accomodate the beast in their collection and here at Kew the waterlily house was put up in 1852. Having this small glasshouse meant that the exacting growth requirements of the waterlily were met and that it its ebullient foliage was displayed beautifully, as it is still today. Hailing as it does from the hot tropics, Victoria needs warm water and hot temperatures to grow well and to walk in there on a sunny day is a stiffling experience, with all this humidity in the air!

The most amazing fact about the Victoria at Kew is that it is grown from a seed every year. In the wild, the plant is perennial, but it does not take very kindly to the British winters and is more difficult to keep going than to grow from seed every year. The seed is sown in January, is put in the pond in April and almost at once starts growing at a phenomenal rate. By August its leaves are about 5 feet (150cm) in diameter and the plant fills most of the pond. Only one plant is put in and even if it is pretty impressive, it would pale next to one of the record breaking plants of 'La Rinconada' in Santa Cruz, Bolivia - but then they do have the advantage of the perfect climate! After seeing this, no one would doubt that, although the night-blooming flowers of the giant waterlily are beautiful, looking somewhat like a large peony or double camellia, it is the leaf of Victoria that really capture the imagination. It is a construction of great ingenuity, having a netting of veins that give it tremendous strenght. As the leaf unfurls, it traps air underneath and a mature leaf can withstand a charge of 45 Kg or so if well distributed on the surface. Also it has a slit on one side that allows the rain water to escape and is covered with spines on the undersides to deter fish and other aquatic life from damaging it.

There are two species of Victoria, V. amazonica et V. cruziana. The first has the largest pads but the upturned edge of the leaf is narrower. It also needs hotter conditions to grow well and so at Kew V. cruziana is the one usually grown as it does better and looks more dramatic. Some years a vigorous hybrid of the two species, 'Longwood Hybrid', is also grown.

A thug for your garden anyone?

It's officially summer! I know so because the Rosebay willow herb is flowering. Well, you know sometimes here in England it’s difficult to gauge when spring gives way to summer. Especially in a cool and wet year as we are having now. Of course, the calendar is a useful tool for that kind of thing, but as I tend to live a rather pedestrian life, nature often guides my way a little. I cannot think of a weed that could epitomize summer better for me. Where I come from in Canada, Épilobe or Fireweed as it is known there, is a ubiquitous native - it grows everywhere that has been tampered by man (or fire, hence the name) - and as a teenager I awaited the brightening of the roadsides and woodland edges with its bright magenta flowers with great anticipation. Strangely I remember them a more vivid shade than I see them here now, but that could be because there they were often found growing amongst the dull pink corymbs of Eupatorium purpureum. In any case, whatever the intensity of the colour, it still lifts my spirits up to see them growing abundantly on the road to town at the moment.

It is good that Chamaenerion angustifolium (previously Epilobium angustifolium) grows wild here as in my native Canada, it saves me having to grow it in the garden, but the one I do grow here is the white form, simply called ‘Album’. It is less vigorous than the type and has very pale green leaves, two things which lead me to think it might be an albino. This said, it still isn't the best behaved of plants, spreading about the garden in an insidious way. I just about tolerate it in the white border because it is easy enough to pull out, but I have to keep an eye at it regularly! Sometimes I wish it grew more thickly, but it has always refused to do so with me. I try pushing the spade through the clump to sever the roots and encourage more stems, but I can never manage to have it as a solid mass as does Mr. Francis Cabot in his garden ‘Les Quatre Vents’, La Malbaie, Québec. There I saw it thick as a wild stand, looking wonderfully ghostly on a moonlit evening. A sight I shall never forget.
I had often read in nursery catalogues of another cultivar of this great weed, ‘Stahl Rose’ but it was only this year that I had the pleasure to see it. I was a bit suspect at the idea of a pink selection, but what a lovely thing it turns out to be! I visited Phoenix Perennials a couple of days ago and it immediately caught my eye from a distance.It has petals of the most delightful shade of pale pink and deep red stems, a most successful combination. The fact that it had come out of its pot and was growing up other plants' pots gave me a clue as to its equally invasive nature (apparently it runs more than the white one) and so I refrained from buying a plant – for now at least!

Parsley crested amphibian

He, who is fortunate enough to receive the visit of a toad in the garden, is blessed with an invaluable companion. I always rejoice in seeing them near me, though these adorable little creatures tend to wander about much, leaving the boundaries of my garden, exploring ça et là the countryside. It was therefore a stroke of luck when one of them found my garden pleasant enough to stay. He came last year and we have learned to tame each other since.

His name is Farfugium japonicum ‘Cristatum’. He comes from Japan and is a bit tender so I keep him in a pot that I can bring in the cool glasshouse in the winter months. I used to grow it in the ground in my garden in London and it survived well, but the frost inevitably damaged its leaves which took rather a long time to grow back in the spring. Now that I pamper it a little, it is always lush in leaf. It is a very easy friend to accommodate, I put him on the northeast side of my house where it gets the morning sunshine but escapes the afternoon glare and he seems to like it there. I make sure it gets a regular dose of water since, like all amphibians, it doesn't like to dry out completely. I feed him with seaweed extract from time to time but otherwise I leave it in peace and it rewards me by growing its large pinky grey crested leaves all year round.

I suspect my Farfugium has eaten far fewer slugs than its bouncy comrades (and spawned fewer eggs in the pond!) but he's different and that's why I love him so much.

Prairie aristocrats please!

Today I would like to come to the rescue of one of my best friends of perennial plants, Baptisia. People have been calling it names - and not nice ones. It used to be false lupine, or wild indigo, which is just about acceptable but what, now people in America are calling it redneck- or even worse bastard- lupine! There is nothing illegitimate, spurious or inferior about Baptisia. Quite the contrary! It is the noblest perennial plant one could wish to grow. What is so difficult about Baptisia? It sounds perfectly simple and lovely to me. Oh! - it is only striking me now that you might not have even heard these unpleasant names at all and that I am creating the wrong sort of propaganda by introducing them to you. Please forgive me for this and allow me to praise this wonderful plant to you.

Why I love Baptisia so much is very simple; it is a beautiful, easy, carefree and long lived plant. Now, if you are the type of gardener who likes his flowers bigger, heavier and fuller than everybody else’s, I fear I am going to have to let you go, since Baptisia will make no impression on you whatever. It is a prairie plant that has been hybridized very little and so it looks rather sparse next to a Russell or Westcountry lupine (in the same way that a pretty wild Dahlia looks demure next to a silly giant dinner plate one) but what Baptisia lacks in quantity it gains it in quality. The flower spikes are most elegant and the individual petals positively glow with vibrance like fine silk velvet. The foliage is nice and sturdy and remains attractive the entire season, long after the plain lupines have been attacked by black flies and collapsed in a heap of mess.
It is a plant that takes its time and will not reward the impatient gardener however. One usually has to wait three years for a cutting or a seedling to give its first flower and another two years for it to show off nicely but like a peony or a hosta it will increase in size and beauty every year, will not need division or cosseting and will most likely outlive you, being so trouble-free.
The most common Baptisia in cultivation is B. australis and deservedly so. It has lovely deep blue flowers in late spring followed by nice slate grey seed capsules that look like inflated pea pods. Then there is a paler blue one, B. minor, a tall white one with grey stems, B. alba macrophylla, a bright yellow one with particularly slender stalks that I adore, B. sphaerocarpa, and a rather different one with arching stems and lovely primrose yellow flowers, B. leucophaea. All of them make wonderful cut foliage, flowers and seedpods.
It is an interesting fact that until recently plants from North America were more cultivated and improved on the European side of the Atlantic. We English have dramatically improved New England and New York Asters, whilst Germans and more recently Dutch gardeners worked on Joe Pye Weed (Eupatorium) Veronicastrums and perennial sunflowers (Helianthus). With Baptisias however, it is a different story and for once hybrids come from their homeland. There aren’t many of them yet but the ones available are outstanding. From North Carolina Botanical Gardens comes the nicest of all called ‘Purple Smoke’ with pale mauve flowers above grey-blue foliage (right and top of page) and also the excellent ‘Carolina Moonlight’ with primrose yellow flowers on a vigorous plant. More recently, Chicago Botanical Gardens gave us two new ones: ‘Twilite Prairieblues’ with purple-brown and yellow flowers (an unlikely combination that works well, even if the flowers hide somewhat in the bluish foliage) and ‘Starlite Prairieblues’ with gentle pale blue suffused flowers.
How does one acquire any of these beauties then? Apart from Baptisia australis, few nurseries in the United Kingdom sell any of them. The best way to get species is to procure some seeds from the United States, Germany or seed exchanges and sow them in the autumn in pots that will be left out of doors to the vagaries of the weather, which will help lift their dormancy. Be careful that the mice don’t get at them! They germinate readily in the spring and grow steadily, if slowly at first. The plants can be put in the garden when still quite small without trouble, but I personally wait a season before tempting fate. Slugs do like them in their tender age.
Most books will tell you that Baptisia resent disturbance and cannot be divided but from experience I know that they it can be done successfully, although I am not saying it is an easy thing to do! The digging is quite an operation as the plant grows huge forked roots that seem to descend all the way to Hades and it is all too easy to severe most of the viable parts off in the process. One also finds that there are actually few pieces to work with as most of the eyes congregate in a tight cluster (as with a peony or Gypsophila). Any section with eyes and a bit of root will bounce back once replanted however and start blooming again after two seasons’ growth. I have divided all of the hybrids for exporting, root washed them, and they grew back quite well once replanted. This said, by far the easiest way to multiply the cultivars is by taking cuttings. They root easily if taken early in the season. They don’t always form dormant growth for the following spring though and so it is best to plant more than one needs just in case.

No excuse to have sickly lupines in your borders now, dig them up and plant Baptisia instead, I dare you to!

''Je voudrais du soleil vert, des dentelles et des théières, des photos de bord de mer dans mon jardin d'hiver.
Je voudrais de la lumière comme en Nouvelle Angleterre, je veux changer d'atmosphère dans mon jardin d'hiver.

Ta robe à fleur sous la pluie de novembre, mes mains qui courent, je n'en peux plus de l'attendre. Les années passent, qu'il est loin l'âge tendre; nul ne peut nous entendre.
Je voudrais du Fred Astaire, revoir un Latécoère, je voudrais toujours te plaire dans mon jardin d'hiver.
Je veux déjeuner par terre comme au long des golfes clairs, t'embrasser les yeux ouverts dans mon jardin d'hiver.
Ta robe à fleur sous la pluie de novembre, mes mains qui courent, je n'en peux plus de l'attendre. Les années passent, qu'il est loin l'âge tendre; nul ne peut nous entendre''

Henri Salvadore

Astonishing Asclepiads

I have quite a fond affection for succulents. They are varied, colourful, architectural, undemanding, easy to propagate and, unlike cacti (which I also quite like), defenceless and easy to handle. I only have a few of them but share my enthusiasm with my neighbour, Paul, who has a much larger selection. He came to tell me that one of his prized specimen was in flower this morning, and I jumped on the opportunity to share it with my little world because I think it is quite a sight! It is called Stapelia gettliffei.
Stapelias are interesting plants that belong to the Asclepiadaceae family and if they don't look remotely like asclepiads, their long pointy seed pods and flat brown seed attached to silky hairs are a giveaway. Asclepiads are generally quite amazing and I have yet to find a plant in the family that isn't interesting. A lot of them have deliciously fragrant flowers and my most favourite is the gorgeous Dregea sinensis.

A climber of delicate complexion, it shares the beauty and scent of Hoya, but it is deciduous and therefore hardier, an undeniable advantage for us dwellers of the temperate regions. I longed for it for a while and have at last secured a plant in the spring. It is only a small thing still, but it already delights me with its intoxicating flowers. I bought the variegated form, a plant which would make a snobbish gardener turn up his nose, but which I quite adore, each leaf having a different pattern. I do admit that the flowers might set themselves off better on plain dark green foliage, but I think it's better value to have the ornemental foliage as well.

This plant used to be called Wattakaka, which I think is a brilliant name, but obviously it was just too much for some stoic botanist who managed to have the name changed to dull Dregea.

There are so many other Asclepiads that I should like to mention and indeed I can feel a piece on hardy ones coming up soon but for the time being I am going to finish with the photo of a herb from South Africa that was introduced to me by a friend, Ellen, who grew it in her nursery on Lake Ontario, New York State. She gave me a plant but it didn't survive the transit to England and I hope I can try it again in the near future for it is definitely something exciting, even in the name. It's called Xysmalobium undulatum.

''My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun
Coral is far more red than her lips red

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun

If hair be wires black wires grow on her head

I have seen roses Damask, Red and White

But no such roses see I in her cheeks

And in some perfume is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks

I love to hear her speak yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound

I grant I never saw a Godess go
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground

Yet by heaven I think my love as rare

As any she belied in false compare''

Pigmented daisies for summer joy

Summer is here and the borders are heaving with colours that tickle my senses and make me want to dance like a school girl! Of all the garden plants in flower at the moment, none lift my heart and satisfy my greed for bright tones more than the Achillea millefolium. It is a queer sort of plant, and not the easiest to keep alive over the winter outside here in balmy wet England (it is impervious to cold but despises the British rain of January) but those cloched or brought indoors and put back out in April are repaying the little attention I gave them with a myriad of flowers arranged in flat domes over ferny dark green foliage. It isn't an obvious fact that they are in the same family as the asters and daisies, but if one looks close enough it becomes pretty apparent, each individual flower having its typical ray of petals around a conspicuous centre.I tried some new colours this year and so far I am pretty impressed with the vigour and shade of 'Rose Madder'. I am already faithful to the pale yellow 'Hella Glashoff' as I am to the wonderful 'Lachsschönheit' (which is German for 'Salmon Beauty') and I need to rekindle my friendship with burned orange 'Walter Funcke', which I used to grow and thought wonderful amongst silver leaves of Artemisia and plumes of grasses.

The only downfall of Achillea millefolium for me is its slightly stale odour. It makes great bouquets, but must be kept away from finely powdered noses!

''Ti invito al viaggio in quel paese che ti somiglia tanto

I soli languidi dei suoi cieli annebbiati hanno per il mio spirito l'incanto dei tuoi occhi quando brillano offuscati

Laggiù tutto é ordine e bellezza, calma e voluttà

Il mondo s'addormenta in una calda luce di giacinto e d'oro

Dormono pigramente i vascelli vagabondi arrivati da ogni confine per soddisfare i tuoi desideri''

Manlio Scalambro

_________________________________________

''I invite you on a journey in the country that resembles you so

The lonely langors of its clouded skys have for my spirit the enchantment of your darkened eyes when they sparkle

There, everything is ordered, beautiful, calm and sensuous

The world is clothed in a warm light of hyacinth and gold

Sleep lazyly the wandering vessels, arrived from every frontiers to satisfy your desires''

In praise of classical architecture

Europe has many underrated gems but none the more so I think than the ancient temples of Sicily. I visited this wonderful island last April and was bowled over by its beauty. Modern life, poverty and corruption has tried all it could to ruin it but she has lost little of her glory and still resplendent under the Mediterranean sunshine.
Of all the marvelous sights we encountered on our tour - and there were many - the most evocative and enthralling for me was the Doric temple at Segesta.
No words carry enough weight to describe the powerful energy that surrounds this building and the awe that it inspires. Clothed in a sea of giant fennels and dwarf Chamaerops palms, it was for me the epitome of architectural genius.