Happy 2nd anniversary...

The golden, silky petals of a double Icelandic poppy, Papaver nudicaule, almost ready to be carried away by the wind.

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After a couple of hectic weeks of driving my girls to their summer camps and then having our house full of friends, I almost missed the second anniversary of my blog. I was trying to remember the reason for starting it, but could not come up with nothing more exotic than a pinch of loneliness caused by moving into a new country, and maybe a dash of curiosity about getting something out there... It felt a bit like I was sending my own tiny messenger satellite out to the boundless space of connected gardeners and other like-minded souls and waiting if there would be any signals back.

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The name of my blog, The Intercontinental Gardener, was something of a joke from the beginning, referring to the relatively nomadic gardening life I've led so far (both Nomad and Nomadic Gardener were in use those days, even if they both now have disappeared from the blogging universe). At times, I've felt tempted to change it to something more relaxed... I mean, some days I've definitely felt more like "Garden Punk" or "Heavy Petal" than the proper "Intercontinental Gardener". But somehow the name stuck, and now it would feel strange to see anything else on the top of the page.

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Looks like this guy is sticking its tongue out...
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During these two years, I've connected with many talented, writing garden people. Karen (Greenwalks) was one of my earliest commenting visitors. Being a natural connector, she organized Seattle area bloggers to meet at irregular intervals, which is how I came to know Daniel (Daniel Mount Gardens), Jean (Jean Bradbury) and many others here. In the early days, Tina (the Garden Design Chronicle) from New Zealand was living in Melbourne, and her beautiful blog felt like a wonderful greeting from the town where I had spent four wonderful years. Nilla (then the Reluctant Gardener, now Utanpunkt), won my heart with her insightful writing and exquisite photos, and not surprisingly, she is now working on a collection of novels. I can't wait to get to read them in print. Alice Joyce's amazingly energetic travel blog Bay Area Tendrils gave ideas for gardens to be visited on my trips to California. Ruben (Rubens Rabatter) always manages to make me glad with his sympathetic posts, and James Golden's (View from Federal Twist) quite philosophic posts about his wonderfully sensitive, naturalistic garden are a constant inspiration, that I will keep in mind when I start working with my own garden in Sweden again.

*A dark maroon, speckled and nameless lily from Marian's garden.

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Of many visitors I will never know more than the country and city address they leave on the tracker of my blog. Many of them land on my blog by searching for "Fergus Garret", "Villa Mairea" or "Daniel Hinkley, Windcliff" (all three top key words for finding this blog - amazingly, the word "stumpery" also get many hits...). Some come from faraway, exotic places that I sometimes search myself to see where they are. Some come from places that I have a personal connection to. For example, I would love to know who visited from Iittala, a small town in Finland where both my mother and the famous Savoy vase by Alvar Aalto come from. Or, who visited from the tiny, dusty village of Birregurra in the rainless countryside of Victoria. It felt like a distant, eucalyptus-scented greeting from an unknown friend. While living in Australia, we often stopped at this sleepy village on our way from Melbourne to Apollo Bay, bought a cup of coffee from the old ladies at the local coffee shop and let the girls have romp at the playground before entering the last, winding miles that lead to the beaches of the Great Ocean Road. The improbable name of Birregurra brought vivid memories back, and I would dearly have wanted to ask how things were back there, and if the drought had loosened its grip.

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So what now, after two years and 126 posts? I'm not sure. I sometimes ask myself if I should be blogging at all, as it can be extremely time consuming. But at the same time, it feels like keeping a living log about my thoughts of all things related to gardens and gardening. I love the spontaneity and directness of posting my little writings; it is so completely different from the long and laborious process of getting something out in print. So I guess I will just keep writing, one post at a time, and see where this blogging life is going to take me.

Delicious thugs

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As a sad outcome of the recent housing bubble, there are a couple of empty, unfinished houses in my neighborhood, waiting for the good times (and builders) to return in some distant future. I find it fascinating to see how fast the lush, abundant nature of the Pacific Northwest has claimed the land back, and filled it with such a rampant tangle of blackberries that they make the roses covering Sleeping Beauty's castle seem lethargic.

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In my innocence, I thought that these vigorous plants were native - they surely look like they are having a ball here - until I found them on the list of noxious weeds in this state. Only the tiny, trailing dewberry, Rubus ursinus, is native to the Pacific Northwest. The thugs in my pictures are Himalayan blackberries, one of the two non-native species of blackberries that were introduced here by two unsuspecting Europeans, eager to find new berry varieties to grow in the fertile soil of the Northwest.

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Dr. Laurea was the first to try his luck with blackberries, and imported the evergreen blackberry, R. laciniatus, from Hawaii some time in the 1850s. Some thirty years later, horticulturalist Luther Burbank acquired a package of seeds of the Himalayan blackberry, R. procerus, from an seed exchange in India. The seeds proved to be more than the success Burbank had hoped on. Proud of his novelty, Burbank wrote in his catalogue that "the Himalayas would produce buckets of berries on wines that could grow 100-200 feet in only one season." Obviously, he didn't think this would be any kind of a risk, and definitely did not foresee having just introduced one of the area's most notorious weeds ever, capable of covering countless acres of land with impenetrable, thorny thickets.

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I guess that in the horticultural hall of fame, these guys score only a bit above the Englishman who imported rabbits to Australia, even if it has said in their defence that those days nobody quite knew about the huge risks of importing new species to new continents. And at least they were trying to grow something edible, instead of just wanting to introduce the ancient sport of fox hunting to their newly established society...

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Anyway, being an eager scavenger of all things edible, I'm already looking forward to the blackberry season ahead. It seems to become a good one: the wines are full of flowers and tiny, green berry babies. Almost no-one bothers to pick them in my neighborhood, which means that all the more are left to me and a couple of old ladies of Asian heritage, all of us probably the only ones eccentric (or greedy?) enough to do this. In two months time, we'll all be standing amongst the thorny wines again, picking the sweet, juicy berries with our sticky fingertips stained dark purple.
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Gossip in the garden

Ohhh... do you really mean...? Are you quite sure?

Only a moment ago, I stole a picture of these bursting little ladies,

eagerly sharing the latest tattle of the rain-drenched garden.

I think I heard something about Mrs. Papaver's dress looking already quite ragged, but I might just as well be wrong.

Quietly, I left the scene, careful not to disturb their discussion.

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I don't think they noticed me.

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Listening to a greenfinch

Hilding Linnqvist: Song of the heart, 1920. Moderna Museet, Stockholm.
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As I was younger, I loved studying the sumptuous flower still-lives painted by the Dutch artists of the late 16th and early 17th centuries. Their lavish and colorful bouquets, containing flowers from all four seasons in one single picture and complemented by carefully selected memento mori, could hold my attention for a long time. I loved to trace the delicate, skillful brushstrokes that formed the silky petals and see-through drops of water that still, after centuries, carried a message of our earthly mortality and a promise of an eternal life in paradise.

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Gradually, my fascination with those magnificent paintings cooled down, and even if I continue to love gardens and flowers, only a few artists who depict them seem to be able to capture my interest. One of them is Hilding Linnqvist, whose naivist painting 'Song of the heart' has been one of my favorites for years. It is tiny, only 37x24 cm (or 16x9 inches), and in it, a little green bird seems to be singing its heart out on the top of a bunch of French marigolds. A dove sits besides the glossy iron urn, gazing aimlessly at something outside the frame.

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The whole painting is a lyrical poem of symbolic meanings. The dove represents love and peace (or the holy spirit), and lemons stand for fidelity in love. Peaches are the fruit of salvation and cherries the fruit of paradise. The blue color of the background can depict sadness, or remind of Virgin Mary, whose mantel is most often painted in rich, deep blue tones. The forget-me-not stands for remembrance and the tiny white aster is sometimes told to stand for after-thought.

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What has always intrigued me though is the French marigold, Tagetes patula, that shares the main stage with the little greenfinch. I've often wondered why Linnqvist put such an ordinary kitchen garden plant in the center of his painting; Tagetes might be great for fighting nematodes in the soil, but with its plain little flowers and unpleasant smell, poetic it is not (even if here it visually forms a great contrast to the blue background of the painting - this is probably the most beautiful portrait of a Tagetes ever...).

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Tagetes as a symbol leaves many openings for an interpretation. In English speaking countries, it has been said to symbolize Virgin Mary, coming from the common name marigold - Mary's gold. Sometimes I've read that marigolds symbolize grief, but it is difficult to know if Tagetes or Calendula is meant in the texts, as both have been called marigolds in the English language. Marigolds were a sacred flower for the Aztecs in Mexico, and they've been held as a symbol for the Spanish conquest, with the red and and yellow colors standing for the Aztec blood spilled by the Spanish conquistadors over the gold of the Aztecs. Marigolds have also been called flor del muerto, and they are often used when celebrating the Day of the death in beginning of November in Mexico and other countries. Linnqvist was well-traveled and -educated, so he most probably knew a lot about the symbolism of flowers. But did he refer to Virgin Mary, to grief or the flower of the death?

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And the little greenfich then? Or is it even a greenfich, with its little head touched with red and black feathered wings with their distinct white spots? What does it want to say? I don't know. The painting leaves so many open questions. But after so many years of looking, the dainty little bird still touches my heart, and I keep listening to its passionate song.

The remains of an old nursery

The mossy, old boiler house, slowly sinking into the water-logged ground...

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This morning, an article about the historic Winters House in Bellevue being on the way for light rail construction caught my eyes in The Seattle Times. I drive regularly past the building, but being a rather ugly, Spanish Mission style house from the 1920s, it has never really roused my interest. Behind the house, the Winters had a nursery that grew and sold azaleas, daffodils and irises from the 1920s to the 1940s. After that, a rhododendron nursery operated for years in the same location. A brief note that the remains of a sinking old boiler house still stand behind the house woke immediately up the "ruin romantic" in me and I just had to brave the miserable weather and venture out to take a look.

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The mouth of the rusty old boiler stands gaping above a mirror of water. Heat from it was led through pipelines to seven hothouses where azaleas were propagated.

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The mossy remains of a hothouse are barely visible under the rhododendrons gone wild.

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With water dripping down my neck and my camera carefully bundled under my raincoat, I trailed along the boardwalk built on the boggy terrain, admiring one of the most impressing, accidental rhododendron parks I've seen. The moss-covered, gnarled trunks stood up from the water-logged soil, mingling together with ferns and great horsetail plants and sending up desperately beautiful trusses of bright flowers in all shades of whites, pinks and maroons. Beneath the glossy leaves, remains of the seven hothouses could still be seen, their broken roof lines slowly rotting away and sinking into the soaked ground. In one corner, between tangled rhododendron trunks, giant leaves and slender white flowers of the umbrella tree, Magnolia tripetala, tried to make their way towards the light.

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A boardwalk leads through the area, as the soil is covered with water most of the year. Hundreds of old rhododendrons fill the ground, fighting for place amongst the ever increasing native vegetation.

Pink and red rhododendrons growing through a carpet of horsetail.

As the Seattle Times reported, the Winters House is now under threat of ending under the new light-rail to be built through the area, and of course, the construction would alter the parkland behind it too. Somehow, despite this closer inspection, I couldn't quite warm to the house itself, but I loved the overgrown, forsaken old rhododendrons patiently growing through the watery marshlands, like giant old ladies who still were putting up the show even if all the money was gone a long time ago. Completely realistic about the barren economic climate of today, I understand it would require a miracle to raise the funds and build a tunnel just to save an abandoned, old nursery, but it still would be lovely if someone would come with a miracle wand and make it happen...

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The Seattle Times: National register house in Bellevue lies within path of light rail.

More information and old pictures of the place is found on: History of the Winters House.

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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.

A portal of monkey puzzles

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Walking past the stately, century-old houses that fill the residential area of Capitol Hill in Seattle, these magnificent two monkey puzzle trees, Araucaria araucana, caught my eyes and I had to add this snapshot of them to my photo collection of period gardens in Seattle. Probably planted as small saplings soon after the large Arts & Crafts style house was built in 1909, their umbellate canopies now join gracefully together, forming a decorative even if quite prickly portal in front of the main entrance.
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Monkey puzzles were one of the it-trees of the Victorian era, after they first had been discovered in Chile in the end of the 18th century. First in 1844 enough of viable seeds were obtained by plant collector William Lobb, who had been to South America to collect plants for the firm of Veitch.

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Monkey puzzles are very hardy and long-lived; some specimens in the Chilean forests are well over thousand years old. They are also one of the oldest living species of plants, dating back to the days of the dinosaurs; their scaly, prickly needles seem to me very well suited to that era, and I think they always look a bit alien in residential gardens.

* A Tudor Revival style house in Seattle, with a young monkey puzzle tree on the front lawn. Period photo by Seattle photographer Asahel Curtis, early 20th century.

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During the second half of the 19th century, monkey puzzles became very trendy and many were planted on the grounds of Britain's great estates. As so many other garden trends from Europe, this one also followed the newcomers to the Seattle area. Planting monkey puzzles, Chilean conifers popular in English gardens, must have given their owners more status than using any of the handsome native conifers readily available in the area (which in turn were very much sought after in Europe - I guess the grass is always greener...).

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Many photos of residential houses in Seattle taken in the late 19th and early 20th century show monkey puzzles proudly planted as solitaire specimens to adorn the front lawns of the houses. Some of them have survived and thrived in the temperate climate of Seattle, and are now, a century later, huge trees that have since long outgrown their allocated spaces.
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Having two of them, like these magnificent ones flanking the main entrance of the house above, must still be extremely unusual, and I was thrilled to find such fine, living examples of garden history. Admittedly, they are now far too large and dwarf the house with their huge trunks, and they probably cast a deep shade and drop their extremely prickly needles everywhere. But I still hope that all inconveniences can be overlooked, and that the present and coming owners of this house see the historical value and charm of their huge monkey puzzles. Given that they often live for over thousand years, they can still delight several generations to come...
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PS - the history of the name "monkey puzzle tree" is just as silly as the name itself: in the mid-1850s, some Englishmen who saw the tree for the first time, commented that climbing the tree would puzzle a monkey. Amazingly, the stupid name stuck, even if there are no monkeys neither in England nor in Chile where the tree comes from...

The gardening life of a man called Pearl

There's always gonna be obstacles.

The thing is, you don't let those

obstacles determine where you go.

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-Pearl Fryar-

Yesterday evening, as I struggled in the snail-paced rush-hour traffic to the other side of the town, I quietly wondered if the lecture I was heading to really would be worth the tedious effort. It was, every minute of it. Pearl Fryar, the 70-year old self-taught master of artful topiary, spoke about his life and garden, and as he spoke, he proved to be just as much of a philosopher as a gardener.

Pearl Fryar's garden, photo by Erica Glasener.

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Coming from a poor family, Pearl told how he seldom was able follow on the school field trips, as he could not afford the 25 cents needed for the transport. But he never let those circumstances hinder himself from trying hard to get what he wanted, ending up with a good job and house with a garden for his own family. In 1984, he began to work with his 3 acre garden trying to win the local "Yard of the Month" competition of his hometown, Bishopville, South Carolina.

A topiary sculpture by Pearl Fryar, from Tales of the Microbial Laboratory.
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Pearl knew nothing at all about gardening when he started, so he didn't have any limitations or expectations about what would be or not be possible. He rescued some half dying plants from the local nursery, and off he went, arguably creating some of the most incredible topiary in the world, with wildly sculptural, almost extraterrestrial forms reminding of both Dr. Seuss and Salvador Dali, combined. As Pearl described his work, it "flew from him naturally", and he just felt where the forms of the plants would go. He talked about his love to seeing other peoples gardens as they always are an expression of the creativity flowing from the person gardening in them. I would have loved to ask him what his garden tells about him with its laboriously cut and shaped forms, but being paralyzingly shy for asking questions in front of crowds, I unfortunately don't have an answer.

Topiary sculpture, photo by Erica Glasener.

Since starting his garden, Pearl has become something of a celebrity, and several newspapers and gardening magazines have pictured his work. Also, a documentary "A man named Pearl" was done for two years ago, telling Pearl's story from the early days as a sharecropper's son to the celebrated cultural icon of his hometown that he is today. The Garden Conservancy has now included Pearl's garden into its protected gardens, working on preserving the garden to the future generations; an amazing journey for a man who just wanted to win the local "Yard of the year" competition.

At the end of his presentation Pearl told that he gardens with a purpose: he sees his garden not only as an artwork, but as a tool to learn the unprivileged young kids of today about his life's philosophy of never giving up. As he said, "you have to think and and positive, 'cause negative thinking has never led to positive results." If he could beat the odds of a poor childhood, anybody can; "If people see you trying hard to achieve something, sooner or later some of them are bound to try to help you." And couldn't agree more with him, leaving the lecture feeling warmly and deeply touched by Pearl and his wonderfully eccentric topiary garden that is a living testament to his philosophy in life.

Pearl Fryar's Topiary Garden, official website.
A visit to Pearl Fryar's garden, a blog post by Tales of the Microbial Laboratory, with excellent pictures.

The first picture is from a postcard given out by Pearl at the lecture.

The month of the Moutan

White tree peonies, their golden anthers shimmering against the milky white petals flecked with rosy pink.
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On my early morning walks, I've been admiring the unfurling blooms of tree peonies opening up in many gardens in my neighborhood. I love their fleeting beauty; their fragile, golden anthers and their huge, silky petals gently fluttering in the breeze, reminding of how many of the precious things in life are only momentary, passing.

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Originating from the mountains of China and Tibet, tree peonies have been loved and cultivated by the Chinese for at least 1,500 years. In the Chinese calendar, each month is represented by a flower. The fourth month, beginning in early May, is the month of the Moutan, the tree peony. Tree peonies are often called an imperial flower, and it is not only because of their magnificent blooms. Already during the Sui dynasty (589-618), Emperor Yang Ti placed the plant under imperial protection, and many select varieties were selling for up to a hundred ounces of gold per plant. Since the tree peony was called 'the King of Flowers', it was a natural favorite of the emperors, who planted thousands of Moutans in their imperial gardens.

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In Chinese art, tree peonies represent spring, and the scholars of the Ming dynasty (1368-1644) attributed it the qualities of prosperity, vitality, opulence, and the active male principle of the universe. Already during the Tang dynasty (618-907), the Moutan was celebrate in poetry, song and painting, and there is an abundant literature describing the many varieties in detail. Also the Japanese loved the beauty of the tree peonies, which they call the Botan, arranging 'peony-gazing' celebrations when they where in full bloom. An excellent idea to take after, and since I unfortunately don't have any Moutans in my garden, I'm open for invitations...

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The deep green foliage is quiet and reposeful,

The petals are clad in various shades of red;

The pistil droops with melancholy -

Wondering if spring knows her intimate thoughts.

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Wang Wei, AD 699-731, translated by A. Waley.

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Thank you to my mother-in-law, MaryLou, for kindly sending me the article "Moutan" by Peter Smithers, in Arts of Asia, vol 14, 1984. If you are interested in reading more about Moutans, I recommend Jane Fearnley-Whittingstall's lovely book "Peonies, the imperial flower" (1999) which is extremely well-researched and -written and has beautiful photos and illustrations. All photos in this post were taken by me and show Moutans flowering for the moment in my neighborhood.

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.