Mangroves, low tide

Mangroves at low tide - Nikoi Island in Indonesia.

 

This has nothing to do with the usual subject of my blog - I don't think anyone has ever planted mangroves in their gardens... Just a couple of pictures from Nikoi Island in Indonesia, very close to Singapore, where we spent a couple of days last week. I couldn't resist walking around the little island while the tide was low, and was quite taken by these sculptural plants on one side of the island, pushing through the smallest of openings in the cement hard coral reef exposed by the tide (the beaches on the other side of the island were quite paradise-like, as you can almost guess from the last picture where the pure, white sand slowly takes over from the corals...).

Only a short post, as I'm having a huge cold since a couple of days back - even if having a 'cold' sounds like a complete linguistic anachronism (is there such a concept? or is it anatopism? never mind, my brain resist thinking for the moment...) in the tropics of Singapore. Yesterday, the outside temperature of 38C matched exactly my fever levels, and while briefly walking outside, it was difficult to know where my head ended and the surrounding hot air started. So no more blogging today, just a cup of tea and hopefully a fast recovery. Amazing mangroves, though.

 

 

Blue pea flowers for ice cream

While visiting the Gardens by the Bay, I tried a heavenly ice cream coloured like softly blue evening sky. It was flavored with butterfly pea flowers, Bunga telang in Malay or Clitoria ternatea in Latin (I strongly prefer the English or the Malay name...). I had already read about pea flowers as a traditional ingredient for tea and desserts in Sharon Wee's lovely Growing up in a Nonya Kitchen - book, so I was eager to give it a try. Its taste was pleasantly floral and refreshing, not overpowering or perfume-like, as sometimes is the case with desserts made of or with flowers.

Today, I stumbled upon the flower itself during my morning walk. Someone had planted several young plants on the parking strip outside their house and the little bushes were full of flowers. They are supposed to be very easy to grow both in sun and shade, and they usually flower already six weeks after planting the seeds.

To be used for a strikingly indigo tea or for more softly colored desserts, the flowers need to be sun-dried first and then soaked in hot water to extract the deep blue shade that no commercial colouring can compare to. Our ice cream maker has already got to serious use since we moved to Singapore, but now I might need to plant some pea flowers on our balcony too to be able to make that delicious ice cream myself.   

Photo by Tanya may, Wikipedia Commons.

Very green, and only green

In his book The Education of a Gardener, Russell Page describes a small garden in the middle of Paris as following:

"I went down a narrow flight of steps into another world, a dark and shady wood, utterly restful, with no disturbing element and no hint that at any point one was only a few yards from the busy street. The achievement was remarkable and the means most ordinary.

There were a few old trees underplanted with yews allowed to grow quite freely; ivy was used to cover the high surrounding walls and to carpet the ground. A gravel path wandered about in this maze of green; and that was all. In this particular case, (the gardener) not only accepted the very limited possibilities, but achieved a remarkable garden.

Since it had to be shady, he made it very shady, and since green is precious in the city, he made his garden very green and only green."

"Since it had to be shady, he made it very shady, and since green is precious in the city, he made his garden very green and only green". This is one of my favorite lines in gardening literature, ever; a brilliant summary of how  the discipline (and courage) of keeping things simple while carrying out one's idea based on the character and qualities of one's site is the key to creating a 'remarkable' garden. Finding the 'very green and only green' of a garden is the most difficult but also the most rewarding problem of making a garden, and I think that no one has described it better than Russell Page is that short, eloquent paragraph.

Pictures from the Bloedel Reserve, a garden whose owners definitely understood the 'very green and only green' of their garden. As I've mentioned a couple of times, The Education of a Gardener by Russell Page (1962) is one of my favorite gardening books. 

Orange is for optimism

Californian poppies, powerful enough to light up grey days in Seattle ...

No, I'm not going to whine about the freezing cold in Seattle - we've had three over 70 degree (20 C) days so far, and it's been the coldest spring and early summer on record. About the only heat we get is the hot orange of the Californian poppies (Eschscholzia californica) that are sticking up their bright, papery petals everywhere. They self-seed and spread copiously here and bring a welcome splash of sun to these dull grey days.

Unfurling buds of Californian poppies - I love rose pink collar under the petals.

In my garden in Sweden, hardy Icelandic poppies (Papaver nudicaule) had the same effect as the Californian ones here. Initially, I was annoyed with their habit of impudently disturbing my carefully considered color combinations. But after a while, I grew to love their cheeky self-confidence. It felt like they were shouting with their yellow and tangerine petals "look at me - aren't I gorgeous together with this guy, too?". And in a mysterious way that is difficult for us humans to copy, they often managed to create unexpectedly gorgeous combinations.

Years ago in Melbourne, I bought a book called Healing Gardens (Romy Rawlings, 1998) with generous advice on how to make gardens that benefit our physical and mental health. Besides aromatherapy, Feng Shui and herbalism, this book devotes a large part to colour therapy, explaining the effect colours have on our lives. According to it, orange is the colour of joy and optimism, and exposure to it promotes a feeling of well-being by providing a release from the everyday worries of life. Orange also provokes change, says the book, so it is a good colour for putting one's life back together when grieving or in shock. When used carefully, the 'healing properties' of orange can be harnessed to lift the spirits, combat depression and fight unknown fears. It is also supposed to improve social behaviour, lessen irritability, and increase appetite - maybe something to think about when planting around the outdoor dining area.

A seed pod ripening... 

All goodness, I think, until the writer claims that orange can also be used in the treatment of arthritis, asthma, gallstones, hip problems, impotence, infertility and underactive thyroid, which would be a lot to expect from any modern medicine alone, not to mention a poor single colour, however bright and cheery. But there's no harm trying, and at least for me, orange works well as a pick-me-up on those occasional blue days (they are contrast colours, after all...).

Even if I love poppy-filled meadows, tagetes peeking up from parsley and nasturtiums in late summer, orange is an intensive colour that grabs one's attention, and too much of it can be overpowering in a garden. Just a dab is often enough; besides the plants above, a well-placed (by nature or a skillful gardener...) lily or dahlia, a tuft of daylilies or kniphofias, or a coppery rose can light up a little fire in a garden. Together with dark or even bronze foliage, orange can form striking combinations. In autumn, berries often do the job - rosehips, stinking iris (Iris foetidissima) seeds, crab apple fruit, viburnum berries - even a little illusion of warmth is welcome as the days grow cooler. In winter, many maples, like paperbark maple (Acer griseum), have coppery bark, and when the year starts again, witch hazels (Hamamelis) unfurl their tiny fireworks of golden petals. Therapeutic or not, I'm sure most of us could do with a dash of orange in our lives and gardens.

European meadows, American meadows

A seaside meadow, technically really a pasture, by the seashore in Victoria, Australia.

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I've had a long lasting love affair with meadows, which I've confessed earlier in a post called Meadows, meadows everywhere. And the larger community of gardeners seem to share my affection for meadows, judged by the steady flow of articles, books and blog posts that fill the media on all continents.

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So as you can guess, it didn't take long to make John Greenlee's book The American Meadow Garden - Creating a Natural Alternative to the Traditional Lawn (Timber Press, 2010) the newest addition to my library. Based on Greenlee's decades long experience as a nurseryman and garden designer, and illustrated with Saxon Holt's lavish photographs from all corners of the US, this well-written book is a real treasure for devotees of all things grassy - lawns strictly excluded. Covering all bases from natural habitats and design tips to plant information and advice on cultivation, it will probably be "the classic American grass gardening book" for years to come.

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Saxon Holt's pictures in The American Meadow Garden are both instructive and inspirational at the same time, not an easy feat to achieve. (I snatched this picture from the net, shame on me...)
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Greenlee's language reflects his deep passion for his subject: "Grasses are sensual. You can smell them, and hear them, and watch them move. Meadows are sexy, just like lovers - they never stop changing, never ceasing to surprise." Likewise, it shows his contempt for lawns; according to him, traditional such are "huge, time-consuming, water-guzzling, synthetic-chemical-sucking mistakes". He shows no mercy for any historic or geographic considerations to nail down his point, which sometimes feels a bit simplistic. After all, in some climates, lawns can be maintained with little or no watering, in small gardens, muscle-powered reel movers are perfectly ecological, and using harmful chemicals is not a necessity. And anyone who thinks that a perennial-filled large meadow thrives with "minimal input" of anything must be dreaming. Still, Holt's pictures of Greenlee's designs show temptingly shimmering gardens that are sensual and hugely attractive, two characteristics that few lawn gardens can boast of.

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A meadow in front of the old barn at Christopher Lloyd's Great Dixter. His book "Meadows" is still one of the best ever written about the subject.

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I love Greenlee's enthusiasm and commitment to challenging the dominance of lawns in American gardens. Throughout the book, his designs are both beautiful and ecologically sound, and his deep knowledge of his subject makes the book both practical and instructive. There is only one thing that bothers me (and even then slightly), and it is the use of term meadow of Greenlee's gardens.

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When I think of a meadow, I think of a delicate tapestry of breezy grasses interlaced with fleeting shows of dainty flowers. Probably because of my northern European background, my mind goes back to the Scandinavian meadows that carpet hills, forests sides and seaside clearings after the dark, frozen winters like small wonders (like the one below...). Or alpine flower meadows that look like a perfect background for Fräulein Maria and the von Trapp children to frolic on.

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I know I've published this before, but this is still my favorite meadow...

So when looking at some of the meadow designs in this book, I have difficulties with thinking of them as such; especially when large specimens of Miscanthus grasses, sedges, and perennials are grown in well-positioned swathes, all arranged for the maximum effect. These gardens are well-designed and often stunning, but are they really meadows? Greenlee talks about them as "designed meadows", but rather than a carefully arranged design, isn't a meadow more a process with an amount of unpredictability to it, even when it has been created with a great care to its habitat? And isn't it just that unpredictability and randomness the reason why we are drawn to their natural or naturalistic beauty? Beautiful as they are (just like any well-designed gardens), I think Greenlee's grass gardens have too much control to really be meadows.

But then, Greenlee writes about The American Meadow Garden; just like when an European orders an entrée before and an American for his/her main course, we might think about and see meadows differently, too, having been influenced by the natural habitats of our continents (like most things in America, the meadows too are often more lush and taller than their European cousins). But whether or not meadows, Greenlee's grass gardens are often breathtakingly beautiful and always ecologically sound, and they are well worth to be studied by all gardeners interested in creating earth-friendly habitats.

Fragrant raw material for making Washi

The furry, soft buds of Edgeworthia chrysantha, just opening to reveal its bright, yellow flowers.

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Given the mild climate of the Pacific Northwest, gardeners here are spoiled with a wide choice of plants to enliven their gardens through the rainy, foggy winters. As a result, I've been been acquainted with a completely new palette of shrubs and other plants that would never survive either the cold Scandinavian winters or the hot Australian summers; some of them attractive for their scent, some for the flowers, and a few lucky for both.

The nodding buds lift up their heads, eventually forming a globe of yellow flowers.

Paper bush, Edgeworthia chrysantha, is one of these happy new discoveries. For the moment, an old specimen is starting to flower at the Bellevue Botanical Gardens nearby, so ventured there to get a closer look. It wasn't quite open yet, so I couldn't detect any scent, but it is described as beautiful, Edgeworthia being part of the family of Daphnes so well-known for their heavy fragrance. It has a similar form too, as the new stems reach out in 45 degree angles from the older branches. Ultimately, it becomes a bush of about 5 ft by 5 ft, but it can also be grown as a single stemmed, little tree. Edgeworthia is very picky of its growing conditions and requires heavy loam and a sheltered location with no major frosts to thrive. Its flowers are quite insignificant, yellow tubular ones growing in tight clusters, but they are really wonderful when still in bud, covered by a silky, silvery hair, soft like rabbits ears if you touch them.

Trying to get a glimpse of the reluctant buds...

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I've always loved Japanese paper, those light-weight, translucent sheets that reveal a fine structure if held against light, which can be found in good art supply stores. So I was quite intrigued to find out that Edgeworthia, or Mitsumata in Japanese, is actually one of the three most common raw materials for making Washi, a Japanese paper used for calligraphy and printmaking. The Grove Encyclopedia of materials and techniques in art tells that the Japanese farmers have since the 10th century cultivated Mitsumata to make paper during the cold winter months; low temperature discourages mold growth and tightens the fibres to produce crisper sheets. The fibre from the inner bark is washed and beaten by hand and foot in the clear running winter streams (I shiver even at the thought of this), then cooked with wood ash and washed again several times before it is set in bamboo and silk screens and processed further to become sheets of smooth, glossy, insect-resistant paper.

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The Japanese tea house at the Bellevue Botanical Garden; traditionally, Washi was used to make screens and windows for Japanese houses.

Edgeworthia is still used to make Washi paper today, even if I suspect that only few farmers produce it with the ancient method described above. And even if yellow is not my favorite color in the spring garden (besides Hamamelis, I usually find white flowers from Narcissus to tulips a bit more attractive, even if I'm not fully consistent on this...), I think Edgeworthia with its wonderful scent and interesting history would definitely be worth a try in a garden with the right conditions.

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Scrupull and other weights a gardiner ought to understand

A Scrupull of Barly-cornes

A Graine weights a Barly-corne.

A Scrupull is 20 Graines.

Obolus is 10 graines.

A Dram is 13 Oboluis.

An Ounce (no further explanation here).

A Pound is 12 Ounces of physical ingredients;

16 of other things.

A manuple is a good hand-full.

A pugill is a small hand-full, or as much as

you can take up with the tops of you fingers.

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And I thought it was a bit inconvenient to convert between grams and pounds, Celsius and Fahrenheit... How wrong I was. I could actually have been stuck with scrupulls, oboluis and drams, too. Well, to celebrate that the weekend is almost here, I just had a pugill of dark chocolate raisins. Cheers!

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From 'Directions for the Gardiner and other Horticultural Advice' by John Evelyn (1620-1707), edited by Maggie Campbell-Culver and published in 2009. This books is fantastic reading with practical gardening advice from the 17th century. It contains detailed instructions for cultivating and tending perennials, annuals, root vegetables and trees, and explainations of horticultural terminology, advice on tools and many other delicious things for real garden people. Highly recommended!

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Witch-hazels against mid-winter gloom

Hamamelis x intermedia 'Orange Beauty' in full bloom at the Witt Winter Garden.
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The witch-hazels are out again, spreading their spicy honey-scent around in the winter-wet gardens of Seattle. Two years ago, I wrote about witch-hazels and other midwinter wonders in the Witt Winter Garden at the Washington Arboretum, and yesterday, I decided to check out how they were doing this year. Wonderfully, as my pictures can tell.

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Hamamelis x intermedia 'Winter Beauty' with burnt orange stamens that darken towards the maroon flowers.

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I'd always thought that the name 'witch-hazel' had something to do with the plant's many medicinal qualities - it has been traditionally used as an astringent and to prevent hemorrhages - but Vita Sackville-West tells otherwise in her Garden book. She writes that the early settlers of North America took the characteristically forked twigs of the native Hamamelis virginiana and used them for water-divining, as they had used hazel-twigs back in England. The plant got its name from this as any twig that would twitch in the hand had something to do with a witch or a wizard in the old days, at least according to Vita.

*A Hamamelis x intermedia cultivar with a bit darker orange ribbons... it looks a lot like 'Jelena', but I couldn't find a name tag to confirm my thoughts.

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Besides the three native North American species, Hamamelis virginiana, H. ovalis och H. vernalis, the most beautiful witch-hazels come from China and Japan, as so many other distinct garden plants. Hamamelis x intermedia, a hybrid of Chinese H. mollis and Japanese H. japonica, has produced many garden-worthy species. Their flowers are like tiny fireworks, cascades of them exploding with both colour and scent from the twisted branches. As a picked flowers, witch-hazels are long-lasting and capable of filling a whole room with their fresh, spicy scent.

Hamamelis x intermedia 'Fire charm' has pinkish red stamens with delicate, white edging.
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Sometimes I entertain myself by making mental lists of plants that I would like to have in my garden in Saltsjöbaden. Witch-hazel always comes up there within the top ten or twenty, and luckily, there are several cultivars I could plant even in the cold climate of Sweden. As Vita says, they are tough and will grow in any soil and any aspect, though the better they are treated, the better they will do (she adds that this applies to most people too...). I think a little grove of them would make cheery sight together with the thousands of snowdrops that already thrive under the big oaks, brightening up dreary mid-winter days. As it seems now, I still have some time to decide which cultivar to choose from the all tempting alternatives...

I think I'll go for the 'Orange Beauty' - its lucious, citrusy colour scheme can truly chase away the gloom on a dark winter day.
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Rain and the zen of moss gardening

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The weather gods of the Pacific Northwest are showing off all their muscles. Since last Friday, they have bestowed Seattle with almost six inches of rain and there still seems to be no end to their generosity. Some coastal areas have got drenched with 12 inches in three days, which equals half the yearly rainfall of Stockholm or Melbourne pouring down during just one long weekend. Our air humidity is now close to 90%, but unfortunately that's where all similarities stop with the velvety, balm climes of Singapore...

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Not tempted to stick my nose out and get soaked, I've been perusing George Schenk's remarkable book Moss Gardening Including Lichens, Liverworts, and Other Miniatures (Timber Press, 1997). It is a perfect companion for rainy winter months, the high season of all mosses; when else do their emerald, smooth cushions look so soft and becoming than during the coldest and wettest days of the year?

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Originating from the moist shores of the Pacific Northwest, George draws from his long experience of moss gardening on three continents and offers fascinating insights to how his tiny subjects have been used in the gardens of East and West. With his expressive pen, he blends garden history and design with horticultural practices into a delightful mixture of knowledge, wit and entertainment. Many pictures in his book are highly inspiring, and George can now be blamed for getting me all fired up about growing mosses in containers, especially on flat bonsai trays. Just imagine low, unglazed trays holding miniature landscapes of soft, billowy mosses: so poetic, unusual, easy to care for and hardy - in my eyes, absolutely irresistible!

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On the pages of Moss gardening, I especially enjoy George's thoughts of what he calls 'ocular gardening', or gardening by eyes only, where the gardener draws back all her efforts instead of bending the nature to her ideas. This minimalist gardening practice is unique to moss gardeners and consists of waiting for nature to plant mosses best suited for the place, providing only a minimum of help by watering occasionally and by picking up wind-blown debris. According to George, in a couple of years, the patient gardener is rewarded with a luxuriant carpet of mosses. Not the most patient gardener myself, I'm intrigued by this zen-like idea of letting go and enjoying the slowly emerging results, even if I know from experience that the reality is seldom as easy as that, not even in a moss-prone area like the Pacific Northwest.

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A carpet of moss is a great awakener of the sensuous human being that I think every gardener must by nature be, writes George in his wonderful, spirited book. I cannot but agree, and leave you with his favorite haiku by Ikiru from Japan, the country of the masters of moss gardening:

On the shingled gate

Where in rain moss grows jade-bright
Earth and heaven merge.

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No peonies before breakfast

I shall try to fix firmly in the mind of the peony lover

the proper time to begin planting:

it is September 15th at 9 A.M.

(I do not believe in hurrying through breakfast).

- Alice Harding, The Book of the Peony, 1917 -

Alice Harding, also known as Mrs. Edward Harding, was an American horticulturalist and peony expert. Her two books, The Book of the Peony (1917) and Peonies for the Little Garden (1923), were much appreciated and popular works when they were published, and still remain the standard account of propagating and growing peonies. Her work was widely acknowledged by horticultural societies both in the United States and in Europe, and several peonies and other garden plants were named after her.

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While writing this, it is already one hour past the "proper time" so I'd better get going...

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Bredablick revisited

The entrance flower bed as seen from the house towards the drive way. The round stone on the left is a pebble from the nearby beach.

No, I'm absolutely not comparing my house and garden to Brideshead in any way... nor was Bredablick, my garden, after our two years of absence in such a horribly gloomy condition as Brideshead was when Charles Ryder unexpectedly returned there as head of his brigade.

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Lower part of the same flower bed as above...

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When arriving in Sweden, I first felt quite uneasy to see my garden and house called Bredablick, "the wide view", named so after the lot of land where they are situated. Having had such an intimate relationship with my garden - cutting back, clearing, weeding, mulching, planting, always with soil under my fingernails - I was full of anguish to see how much had survived a break of two years and three summers. Of course, I've had someone to do the basic maintenance, but as anyone who has ever gardened knows, a garden must be loved, not just maintained.

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And still another view of the same area, with an old apple tree in the front.

To my great relief, many plants had survived, even if there were casualties: my shady flower border was almost gone, with only some ferns and a couple of Lilium martagons and Astrantias persisting in front of the huge, old lilac hedge. I chose them not only because of their lovely looks, but also because they are supposed to be highly tolerant towards both shade and neglegt, but I guess they too have their limits. In my entrance flowerbeds some plants had thrived and some not. Sadly, the hollies (Ilex meserveae 'Blue Prince') that I had planted in a bout of "hardiness zone optimism" had shed almost all of their leaves, so I had to cut them back to a height of only one feet. I hope that they grow back before we return (which should be in about two years time...), but until then, what was supposed to be a a dark, glossy green fond behind the perennials in these highly visible entrance flowerbeds, consists now only of a bunch of meager sticks with a couple leaves sprouting from them.

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The front lawn, where I usually grow islands of daisies and other meadow flowers...The large buxus was planted in the 1930s and the small babies by me for a couple of years ago.

Otherwise the Hostas were thriving and should have been divided, an impossible task given the hot, dry weather while we were in Sweden. Many of the peonies had grown fatter, and all lady's mantles, Alchemillas, were having a ball, spreading happily into all flowerbeds and self-seeding all over the gravel drive together with the Geraniums. I was hoping to have time to transplant even some of them to better positions, but our days in Sweden disappeared quicker than it took the glistening sprinkles of water from our garden hoses to be absorbed by the needy, parched soil...

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Bredablick, part of the "wide view"... Limestone paving and a lavender hedge to the left.

And there I was, happily toiling in my garden again, not noticing as time flew past. I was secretly feeling a bit ashamed of that I don't feel like this in my garden in Seattle, despite all its abundance and possibilities... And then, in Robert Pogue Harrison's thought-provoking book Gardens - An Essay on the Human Condition I found a passage that describes what I hadn't been able to formulate:

A garden that comes into being through one's own labor and tending efforts is very different from the fantastical gardens where things preexist spontaneously, offering themselves gratuitously for enjoyment. (...)
Unlike earthly paradises, human-made gardens that are bought into and
maintained in being by cultivation retain a signature of the human agency to which they owe their existence.

Deck for outdoor dining behind the house.

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Somewhere between the lines above, there might be the reason for my inability (at least not yet)to get attached to my Seattle garden: it was designed and planted by someone else, and despite all my pottering around, I have not really been creating anything of my "own". Maybe, creating and taking care of a garden is what is needed for being able to truly appreciate and enjoy it and its beauty. At Bredablick, I started with an overgrown, weed filled jungle and worked hard to leave my mark and make it into a garden. Despite my absence and the fact that it still is very much a work in progress (or isn't a garden always just that...), I feel that it still carries "a signature of my human agency"... and maybe that is why I continue to love it so much.

The sun coming up behind the nearby islands, all wrapped in early morning mist.

PS - thank you, Farmor for all help with getting the garden at Bredablick back in shape.

Varied about variegated leaves

Helleborus argutifolius 'Pacific Frost'

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It is a pity I didn't take photos of this variegated Corsican Helleborus, Helleborus argutifolius 'Pacific Frost' a bit earlier in the season, when its ghostly pale shoots emerged from the soil. After a while, the leaves turned into a spotted jumble of lime and cream, and the flowers opened equally spotted, only a couple of shades lighter in color. Now, the strong, glossy leaves form an excellent contrast to the softer spring time perennials around it, and their waxy tone picks up the whites of the flowering Corydalis and Omphaloides effectively.
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Russell Page discusses plant combinations with variegated leaves in his book The Education of a Gardener (this book from 1962 is my perennial favorite, one of the most wonderful books about garden making ever published...). In a garden he planted for the Duke of Windsor, he used the variegated Acer negundo and underplanted it with Eleagnus pungens aureo-variegata, Elymus arenarius, Eulalia zebrina (now Miscanthus), variegated hostas and the variegated form of Iris pallida dalmatica; all plants with spotty and stripy, variegated leaves.
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He writes that the planting made him think "even in grey weather that a patch of sunshine had been caught and held in that shadowy corner", which is a wonderful description, even if the combination sounds a bit too visually restless to me. I prefer using variegated plants against a backdrop of plain, preferably dark green or even purple leaves; for example, the pale, spotted 'Pacific Frost' Helleborus above would probably look wonderful against a bed of black mondo grass, too.

Until quite lately, I've had a bit ambivalent relationship with variegated plants. I've always liked the stripy ones, like Miscanthus sinensis 'Morning Light' and many hostas. They always look elegant, like they would have been touched by a thin brush adding strokes of light on their leaves. But variegated leaves that are spotted have always made me look a second time to check if they really are meant to be like that, or just affected by some kind of a nasty bug or a virus. Coming from the harsh, Nordic climate, I naturally prefer strong, healthy plants; variegated plants, having less chlorophyll producing tissue, tend always to be weaker than their plain green relatives. But I guess I now have an excellent opportunity to rethink my likes and dislikes: while living in the temperate, horticultural Eden of the Pacific Northwest, I can for the first time fully revel in the possibilities of using variegated plants without any concerns about their hardiness.

Such an impeccable little polyanthus....

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Primrose, auricula, polyanthus... don't ask me about the differences between these little spring bloomers, as I'm not sure how they are classified correctly. They are all members of the Primulaceae family, and have been loved by gardeners and florists during the last couple of centuries. Penelope Hobhouse mentions them to have been bought to Britain by the Huguenots by 1700, and then having been popular florist's flowers during the 18th century. Those days collectors often displayed their finest specimens in so called Auricula Theaters, which were decorative cases with shelves for easy viewing of the plants. I found this little impeccable one in my friend's garden, here on the Eastside of Seattle (you know where, if you have been reading my posts lately...). Almost over its prime and petals already a bit tattered, it still looked like a vintage Chanel suit in black velvet with a perfect trim in gold.

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The little primrose is very much like Gold Laced Polyanthus from Barnhaven Primroses, described as a "florist's polyanthus, bred to exacting standards for more than two centuries"; exactly the kind of plant one can expect to find in the garden it grows in. Barnhaven has an interesting history from the Pacific Northwest point of view: Florence Bellis, who developed a passion for primroses in the 1930s, founded Barnhaven Primroses in Oregon, on the west coast of the US. For a long time, she researched the subject at the Oregon University and was one of the founders of the America Primrose Society, working as a Editor of the Society for several years. In the end of 1960s she sold her business to a couple in the UK. Since then, Barnhaven Primroses has won several awards for its primroses, and it has been operating from North Brittany, France, since 1990. So my association to a vintage Chanel suit was not so much amiss, after all...

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The New York Botanical Garden has an Auricula Theater on display, April 16 through May 9, 2010. Auricula Theaters have been used since the 17th century to exhibit collections of fine specimens of the species.

Oh, baby, you are so beautiful...

Trillium gradiflorum 'Floro plenum' in full bloom in my garden. Every nodding flower is like a perfect miniature camellia - or not quite, somehow these feel a bit more sensitive...

I'm madly in love. With a White Wake-robin that grows in my garden. And there is nothing to do about it. And I swear I won't leave this place, ever, without it (not that I am moving anywhere for the moment, but so that you know, just in case...).

I've been kneeling besides my camellia-flowering Trillium grandiflorum 'Floro plenum', gazing into its pearly white, nodding flowers. It seems fully aware of its preciousness and quite reluctant have its portrait taken. Of course, my gorgeous Wake-robin was another invaluable gift from Marian, one of the few gardeners who had such priceless rarities growing around in her garden just like other people have tulips and daffodils.

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Briefly, I wondered how I can ever thank her enough for all the treasures I have got, but I guess I do: I love and take care of every single one of them, with passion. And what more can you ask for when you have to leave your babies behind?

Almost everything in a Trillium - petals, sepals and leafs - grow in clusters of three, even if in the double forms this can be a bit difficult to see.

The double forms of Trillium gradiflorum are mutations, where all the reproductive organs have mutated to petals. These forms often possess a great beauty, and are highly sought after by gardeners and collectors. most double forms are sterile and must be propagated by slow, asexual division. Thus, if available at all, they command very high prices - a couple of days ago, Carol Klein called it "a holy grail for plant collectors" in the Guardian. Horticulturally, these forms have been given name 'floro plenum' or "multiplex', meaning "many petaled", which is not a correct latin name, but is used for convenience in trade.

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"Trilliums", by Frederick W. Case, Jr, and Roberta B. Case, by Timber Press in Oregon, is an excellent book about this plant genus.

The Hepatica leaf pool

Hollywood, California: Philip Ilsley estate, Hepatica-leaf pool.

While doing research for an article about free-form pools, I found this amazing picture of a pool in form of a Hepatica leaf. It looks so completely whimsical and irrational and I've never seen anything quite like it. Still, it is a merry pool, and I can easily imagine myself in it, happily paddling my way from lobe to lobe past the gently curving sides of the pool.

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Philip Ilsley, who built his pool in 1949 on the Hollywood Hills overlooking the San Fernando valley, insisted that it was both beautiful and functional. He explained, that "the Hepatica shape provides the most swimming and diving space for the least water. Its three lobes separate the sun-tanners; who like to loll on the warm brink without getting wet, from the divers, who splash and splash around the springboard on the opposite side, while the athletic types who like to swim can tee off at the far end of the leaf and paddle right up the stem..."

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A eccentric pool for an imaginative person, it seems, but this eye-catching form was made to grab attention, which it did very well, as several articles were published about it. Ilsley was an entrepreneur who revolutionized the construction of pools using pressure-sprayed-concrete (Gunite), which made them affordable even for the middle classes, making Ilsley's firm the largest pool-building company in the US. He became the preferred pool-builder of the rich and famous in Hollywood. Many film stars wanted their pools to be unique, and Ilsley was able to meet their dreams with creations like the piano-shaped pool he built for Frank Sinatra in Palm Springs.

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What I find intriguing is that a fashionable pool-builder like Ilsley chose the leaf of the humble, small Hepatica as a model for his own pool. Being so sought-after by the stars of the old Hollywood, why didn't he choose something more glamorous, like the old symbol of fleur-de-lis, that could have stood for Iris douglasiana, the beloved native iris of California? What was his relationship to the dainty little liverwort that needs cold winters to thrive and therefore is not even suited for the warm Californian climate? I guess I will never know, but I still find the Hepatica leaf pool quite attractive in its own, quirky way.

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Thomas A.P. van Leeuwen: The Springboard in the Pond. An Intimate History of the Swimming Pool.

MIT Press, 1999.

Have you ever read...

The Desert Garden at the Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens in San Marino, California. Picture from Wikimedia, I'm visiting this garden in late February.

Wonderful garden writing can sometimes turn up in completely unexpected places. My family has been subscribing to the Financial Times for some time, and I usually skim it through just to get an idea of what is going on in the world. However, their weekend edition has turned into a favourite of mine, full of articles about art and culture around the world. On Saturday mornings, it is a treat to read the last page at the House and Home section, which often contains a garden column by Robin Lane Fox, an English historian. Lane Fox is a Fellow of New College in Oxford, and University of Oxford Reader in Ancient History. His book Alexander the Great (1974) was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and he has written about the different cultural aspects of the Classical Mediterranean world. As gardening is another of Lane Fox's great interests, he has also written a book with title Better Gardening besides his gardening column in Financial Times.

Sphaeralcea ambiqua, Desert Mallow, blooming in the Desert Garden. Photo Huntington Botanical.

In his garden columns in Financial Times, Robin Lane Fox writes about plants, gardens and garden history around the world. He often complements his texts with personal associations and details related to his main theme. Often, he gives details that can be quite unexpected in the context. Lane Fox's texts are always well-researched and have an enjoyable depth of knowledge, and his background gives him a strong credibility even as a garden writer. In the latest column, Appetite for Desert, he writes about the Desert Garden in the Botanical Garden of the Huntington Library in California, and gives some interesting quotes, for example by Roberto Burle Marx, a great 20th century landscape architect, who thought that Huntington was the most extraordinary garden in the world.K

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In my opinion, Lane Fox's texts are enjoyably British in their style, even if his frequent use of words like 'lovely', exceptional' and 'extraordinary' put sometimes a slight smile on my face. I can almost hear his voice speaking (in this case, in correct Oxford English...) while reading his writings, which is something that only very good writers manage to do. See if you enjoy Robin Lane Fox's columns too, one of my favourites was about the mysterious gardens at Ninfa, which I hope to visit some time in the not so distant future.

Without plants, a dull and lifeless home

A housewife discussing with her servant; flourishing plants form a suitable background depicting a happy household... 'Husmoderns rådgivare' by Kerstin Wenström, Stockholm 1923.

Potted plants are a symbol for a happy home. Think about all pictures in books and magazines: even the most streamlined modernist interiors have something live and green, preferably with a striking, architectural form. They gratify our need for a bit of nature midst our busy, often urban lives, and give us the joy of experiencing the miracle of growth.

In Scandinavia, plants seem to have a special place in peoples hearts as carriers of hope during the long, dark winters when nothing in the nature seems to be alive. Nowhere is this love for potted plants more visible than in Carl Larsson's paintings about his wife Karin's flowers filling the windowsills, adding to the charm of the home of these two, prolific artists. Even today, an average Swedish home has between 20 and 40 houseplants, many of which start their lives as cuttings from friends and family.

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Azalea, by Carl Larsson (1906), shows Karin Larsson with her flowers. The handloom that she used for her textile designs is in the background.

Most of us never give a second thought to why we grow potted plants. But Clas Bergvall, an ethnologist at Umeå University, was so intrigued by how much joy his wife got from plants, that he dedicated eight years and his doctoral dissertation to the subject. In Life, Mood and Meaning, Bergvall researches the relationship between indoor plants and their owners, looking at how potted plants affect the way they view their lives, their identity, and their space. By interviewing hundreds of plant owners, Bergvall found out that the satisfaction of seeing plants grow and change over the seasons and time was as important as the aesthetic reasons for having them. While attending to their plants, the owners felt that they got their own space for thoughts and reflections, undisturbed by other people or daily chores. Also, being able to nurture the plants was a confirmation of their capability to create a real home; many thought that a home without indoor plants is dull and lifeless.

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A selection of indoor plants from 'Husmoderns rådgivare'. Roses 'Hermosa', 'Marechal Niel' and 'Gloire de Dijon', which are still available from some growers, are given as examples of reliable choices for forcing in pots.

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Bergvall tells also the history of potted plants in Sweden. First, they appeared in the orangeries of the nobility during the 17th century and were symbols for wealth and status. From there they slowly spread to the houses of the new and affluent middle classes of the 19th century. By the end of that century, even the modest homes had potted plants, often grown from cuttings taken by people who worked as servants in the wealthier households. By the first half of the 20th century potted plants were a given part of a home.

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In my life, I've gone through periods of having many plants and absolutely no plants. Some of them I still miss, like the lemon tree that I grew from pips that came from a huge Meyer lemon tree in my garden in Melbourne. In only five years, it shot up to over two meters, showing clearly its genetic parentage. It felt like a living, direct link to our wonderful life in Australia, and I spent many times contemplating how to take it with me to the US. Fortunately, my mother with green fingers is babysitting it now. The lemon tree seemed like an exception to my success with indoor plants in general. I've always doubted the link between successful indoor and outdoor gardening; I seem to be much more capable of nurturing plants in the open, somehow forgetting about the poor indoor ones until their wilting leaves nearly shout out their need of water. But with or without plants, I've luckily still never thought of my home as dull and lifeless...

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'Husmoderns rådgivare', a book about housekeeping by Kerstin Wenström was published in Stockholm 1923. It was hugely popular; eight editions came out during its first year in print.