Spring. Spring! It jumps at you, doesn't it? No coincidence, for my money, that the name of the season is the same word as the verb that actually means a sudden movement, a leap. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, spring is a term that originally referred to the source of a well or stream and was then broadened to mean the first sign or beginning of something. In the 15th and 16th century, people apparently used the phrase "the spring of the year" which then became shortened to "spring". Before, this first season had only been known as lent.
And yes, it's no stretch of the imagination to link the season with a well, with fresh water bubbling from the ground. Because aren't many young shoots doing just that? And isn't the season as invigorating and life-affirming, if not to say life-giving, as a mountain spring? No doubt. But I still think the verb, the leaping and jumping, as much a name-giver as anything. The image seems so fitting: A coil released, all systems go! A sudden explosion of the vegetation after a few warm days.
And yes, it's no stretch of the imagination to link the season with a well, with fresh water bubbling from the ground. Because aren't many young shoots doing just that? And isn't the season as invigorating and life-affirming, if not to say life-giving, as a mountain spring? No doubt. But I still think the verb, the leaping and jumping, as much a name-giver as anything. The image seems so fitting: A coil released, all systems go! A sudden explosion of the vegetation after a few warm days.
Heaven is a cloud of ornamental cherry blossom
Into this January, it had been unseasonably mild. But February and March, unlike in previous years, were consistently chilly. Plants took the hint and remained cautious. In April however, at least here in London, buds seemed incapable of any further restrain. So sunshine and a rise in mercury have now led to an eruption of foliage and flowers. The cherries are out at last, billowing clouds of white and pink blossom with hints of lime green or copper from the emerging leaves in between.
Seen against a blue sky I can never keep myself from smiling as everything inside me wants to skip and sing and dance and twirl, arms outstretched, finally collapsing in a heap under these miracles humming with bees. I wish we'd do like the Japanese and celebrate it with a national holiday and picnics and whatever else this sensitive people have come up with. Cherry blossom is when spring has well and truly arrived. Everything else before feels just like a prelude.
Seen against a blue sky I can never keep myself from smiling as everything inside me wants to skip and sing and dance and twirl, arms outstretched, finally collapsing in a heap under these miracles humming with bees. I wish we'd do like the Japanese and celebrate it with a national holiday and picnics and whatever else this sensitive people have come up with. Cherry blossom is when spring has well and truly arrived. Everything else before feels just like a prelude.
Young leaves and flower candles on the conker or horse chestnut tree, Aesculus hippocastanus
What still surprises me each and every year, however, are the horse chestnut trees (Aesculus hippocastanum) and their buds. I've seen it happen so many times and yet still can't get my head around just how quickly they grow and expand once the original "signal" has been received: all that penned up energy released, they race into action. You can almost watch the shoots growing, the downy leaves unfurling and spreading. And I'm still convinced that, if only I had better ears, I could hear them grow - in a whisper, a rustling, like tissue paper. And occasionally a cracking: first when those big sticky buds open and then when "joints" adjust to a different angle. In no time there are not just huge leaves but those candles full of flower buds, too.
In my own garden, suddenly there is fresh mint and lemon balm to pick for infusions. I consider my small plot entirely ornamental, but those herbs are an exception to the rule and we enjoy them never more than at this time of year. With the mint "running" (i.e. spreading via runners) and the lemon balm self-sowing everywhere, picking also helps keep them in check.
In my own garden, suddenly there is fresh mint and lemon balm to pick for infusions. I consider my small plot entirely ornamental, but those herbs are an exception to the rule and we enjoy them never more than at this time of year. With the mint "running" (i.e. spreading via runners) and the lemon balm self-sowing everywhere, picking also helps keep them in check.
Bleeding Heart is incredibily sculptural - here the typical heart locket shaped flowers are just starting to emerge
Bleeding Heart (Lamprocapnos spectabilis, still widely known by its former name Dicentra spectabilis) now stretches at last and produces its lovely sprays with the dangling heart lockets. Was it the chill after early mild temperatures, was it a drought I didn't notice? It had started to bloom when the shoots were no more than an inch out of the ground: very sad looking since totally stuck and congested. I had worried that this might be it, but the plant starts showing its graceful arching flower stalks again. I grow both the white and the pink-with-white version but prefer the latter.
Both, however, go really well with another darling out in my garden right now: Omphalodes cappadocica. Their flowers very much resemble those of Forget-me-not’s and indeed both belong to the Boranginaceae family. I cherish both ‘Starry Eyes’ (blue stripes, like a star, on a white background that sometimes has a tinge of purplish-pink to it) and ‘Cherry Ingram’ (true deep blue of a luminious quality that is hard to find in flowers). Those cultivars, by the way, have bigger flowers than the species hence make more of an impact.
I grow both Omphalodes’ in pots, together with perennials which are slow to start - such as hostas or astrantias. That seems to work well: by the time those get going properly, the former have had a head start and begin to withdraw a little anyway. They are evergreen but in my experience benefit from a "haircut", i.e. cutting off the old leaves in late winter as you might do with Epimedium or Helleborus.
Much as I’d want Omphalodes to light up my slim rim of a border aka open ground as well, they won’t oblige. Whether they dislike the clay soil more, though it is continually improved with compost, or the competition from their neighbours I don’t know.
Both, however, go really well with another darling out in my garden right now: Omphalodes cappadocica. Their flowers very much resemble those of Forget-me-not’s and indeed both belong to the Boranginaceae family. I cherish both ‘Starry Eyes’ (blue stripes, like a star, on a white background that sometimes has a tinge of purplish-pink to it) and ‘Cherry Ingram’ (true deep blue of a luminious quality that is hard to find in flowers). Those cultivars, by the way, have bigger flowers than the species hence make more of an impact.
I grow both Omphalodes’ in pots, together with perennials which are slow to start - such as hostas or astrantias. That seems to work well: by the time those get going properly, the former have had a head start and begin to withdraw a little anyway. They are evergreen but in my experience benefit from a "haircut", i.e. cutting off the old leaves in late winter as you might do with Epimedium or Helleborus.
Much as I’d want Omphalodes to light up my slim rim of a border aka open ground as well, they won’t oblige. Whether they dislike the clay soil more, though it is continually improved with compost, or the competition from their neighbours I don’t know.
Omphalodes cappadocica 'Starry Eyes' lives up to its name
Another winning combination is the likewise true blue of Corydalis flexuosa ‘Pere David’ and the small red flowers of Camellia japonica 'Shikibu’. A strong contrast, but perfectly in tune with the exuberance of the season – especially since the red of the Camellia is echoed in the reddish stems of the Corydalis.
While Omphalodes won’t grow well in my “border”, the latter is a joy at this time of year thanks to tulips. I grow new cultivars and combinations each year, restricted however to white, pink in all shades and really dark ones. Sometimes I add orange, sometimes I go for purple. I love other colours too, of course, but have banned the “warm spectrum” from the garden because too many would fragment such a small space even further. Orange tulips sometimes escape this rule because I like lily-flowered ‘Ballerina’ so much. (And yes, there is a handful of other exceptions such as my pride and joy, the Sophora tetraptera - New Zealand’s “Kowhai” - I raised from seed.)
I treat my tulips as annuals, i.e. once they have flowered I pull them up. There wouldn't be much of a show next year anyway, thanks to the London clay which they dislike. By the time they are finished, the space is also much needed by their neighbours which get into their stride. I’d rather buy anew each autumn and have a proper show to look forward to than hope against all odds that they might bloom again. I'd also rather avoid the annoying sight of yellowing tulip leaves from which there is simply no escape in a tiny garden. The upside of having a pocket-sized plot of course is that buying new bulbs each year remains affordable.
While Omphalodes won’t grow well in my “border”, the latter is a joy at this time of year thanks to tulips. I grow new cultivars and combinations each year, restricted however to white, pink in all shades and really dark ones. Sometimes I add orange, sometimes I go for purple. I love other colours too, of course, but have banned the “warm spectrum” from the garden because too many would fragment such a small space even further. Orange tulips sometimes escape this rule because I like lily-flowered ‘Ballerina’ so much. (And yes, there is a handful of other exceptions such as my pride and joy, the Sophora tetraptera - New Zealand’s “Kowhai” - I raised from seed.)
I treat my tulips as annuals, i.e. once they have flowered I pull them up. There wouldn't be much of a show next year anyway, thanks to the London clay which they dislike. By the time they are finished, the space is also much needed by their neighbours which get into their stride. I’d rather buy anew each autumn and have a proper show to look forward to than hope against all odds that they might bloom again. I'd also rather avoid the annoying sight of yellowing tulip leaves from which there is simply no escape in a tiny garden. The upside of having a pocket-sized plot of course is that buying new bulbs each year remains affordable.
 Omphalodes cappadocica 'Cherry Ingram' |  Corydalis flexuosa and Camellia jap. 'Shikibu' |
But there are some tulips I keep, namely a bowl full of small Tulipa ‘Little Beauty’. And it lives up to its name: magenta-pink petals, white and blue inside towards the bottom of the calyx, and blackish-blue pollen sacs. All no more than 20-25 cm high and dainty and graceful, except for the by now rather uncombed looking narrow leaves.
This spring I can just enjoy them. Why not before? Well, after a handful bloomed a few years ago, I decided I really liked them and wanted to add some more bulbs to my stock. At the local market, I bought Tulipa ‘Little Princess’: There were no pictures but the bulbs looked exactly like the ones I already had and the name, for all I remembered, seemed correct and apt. Except the flowers came up purple and yellow… Which, by the way, just goes to show that you should always buy from a reputable source if you are after anything specific. Because 'Little Princess' really is a reddish-orange species tulip with a gold yellow ring around a black centre! What I most likely was sold is Tulipa humilis 'Eastern Star'. Anyway, the clash of colours was excruciating. I had to separate the beauty from the alleged princess.
First I tied twine around every purple flowering tulip, thinking I could thus identify them once the plants had withered. I should have known better. Once dead, the straw-dry stalks and leaves simply came off before I could dig up the bulbs they had been attached to, no matter how careful I was. Apart from that, the bulbs of course had produced daughter bulbs which complicated matters further. So last year I was ruthless and dug up every purple-yellow flower as soon as the buds showed colour. It worked, but the sight of the bowl wasn’t very pretty after that and the dug-up plants took it very personal. They are homed with Tulipa tarda now, a small yellow and white species, and I hope they’ll be strong enough to flower again next spring at which point I might pass that bowl on to someone else.
This spring I can just enjoy them. Why not before? Well, after a handful bloomed a few years ago, I decided I really liked them and wanted to add some more bulbs to my stock. At the local market, I bought Tulipa ‘Little Princess’: There were no pictures but the bulbs looked exactly like the ones I already had and the name, for all I remembered, seemed correct and apt. Except the flowers came up purple and yellow… Which, by the way, just goes to show that you should always buy from a reputable source if you are after anything specific. Because 'Little Princess' really is a reddish-orange species tulip with a gold yellow ring around a black centre! What I most likely was sold is Tulipa humilis 'Eastern Star'. Anyway, the clash of colours was excruciating. I had to separate the beauty from the alleged princess.
First I tied twine around every purple flowering tulip, thinking I could thus identify them once the plants had withered. I should have known better. Once dead, the straw-dry stalks and leaves simply came off before I could dig up the bulbs they had been attached to, no matter how careful I was. Apart from that, the bulbs of course had produced daughter bulbs which complicated matters further. So last year I was ruthless and dug up every purple-yellow flower as soon as the buds showed colour. It worked, but the sight of the bowl wasn’t very pretty after that and the dug-up plants took it very personal. They are homed with Tulipa tarda now, a small yellow and white species, and I hope they’ll be strong enough to flower again next spring at which point I might pass that bowl on to someone else.
The bowl of Tulipa 'Little Beauty' in bird's-eye view
But the efforts of the biggest flowerer in my garden right now are the least visible: Pittosporum tenuifolium 'Purpureum'. It actually is an "evergreen" shrub that takes on a tree-like appearance and with us is something like 7 metres tall. Its leaves are olive-maroon, wonderfully shiny and as they age display an amazing spectrum of colour up close. Nonetheless, I don’t like it: the overall appearance is like a dog’s dinner – horribly brown. It was, of course, here before us. If Pittosporum it had to be I’d at least opted for a green or variegated version.
Small birds, however, simply love its open habit. In our garden, the Pittosporum is their favourite place to alight and perch. And right now it is covered in tiny flowers that are all but invisible among the leaves - if you do not look for them. Petals are such dark maroon they appear black, but the stamens are primrose yellow. During the day you’d be forgiven for not noticing either. As night falls though, they come into their own: a heavy, overpowering, almost tropically sweet fragrance hits you. At this time of year, we rarely sit outside in the dark to enjoy it. But the perfume is so strong and powerful, during still nights with the window ajar I can even smell it in bed - about 8 metres away! Actually, any closer and it would induce a proper headache. You have been warned.
Small birds, however, simply love its open habit. In our garden, the Pittosporum is their favourite place to alight and perch. And right now it is covered in tiny flowers that are all but invisible among the leaves - if you do not look for them. Petals are such dark maroon they appear black, but the stamens are primrose yellow. During the day you’d be forgiven for not noticing either. As night falls though, they come into their own: a heavy, overpowering, almost tropically sweet fragrance hits you. At this time of year, we rarely sit outside in the dark to enjoy it. But the perfume is so strong and powerful, during still nights with the window ajar I can even smell it in bed - about 8 metres away! Actually, any closer and it would induce a proper headache. You have been warned.
Pittosporum tenuifolium 'Purpureum'
 "Invisible" Pittosporum flowers: Now you see me... |  ... now you don't. Not if you didn't know :-). |
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