This past week I have been busy wielding the axe. Well, not quite - it was secateurs and a saw, but I did butcher a few plants. Most notably the Crinodendron hookerianum, or Chinese lantern tree. Long ago I fell pray to its charm  - a tall dense, evergreen shrub with narrow, toothed, dark green leaves and lots of fleshy, almost waxy flowers that look indeed like the red Chinese lanterns you'll see in restaurants or in Chinatown. Just a tad more on the blue-ish side of red. (I haven't mastered the RHS colour charts yet... :-))

About six years ago I bought a little Crinodendron plant at the plant heaven that is Nymans Gardens. When its first winter in my care approached I was so worried it might freeze and die in its pot that I wrapped it in a coat of bubble wrap. Not a good idea. For one thing: winter temperatures in inner London rarely dip below freezing point. But even if they do, it seems preferable to take the risk and just move the pot close to the house wall rather than leave the Crinodendron wrapped up for longer than two days at a time. I did not leave mine in the bubble wrap for months, mind you, and I did remember to water it sparingly every now and then. Still, it lost almost all its leaves and ever since it has looked really scraggy and bare.

I hoped it would regrow leaves from the bare branches, but it hasn't really. It kept on growing and every late spring produced its lovely flowers, but I can't say it clothed itself again. I've lost patience now. As it was such a pitiful sight with all these spindly branches, just a tuft of leaves at the top and otherwise naked, nothing like the true appearance of the plant, I decided it was time for drastic measures.

Remembering that I had often seen mature camellias hacked back and sawn off just centimetres above ground if they had outgrown their space in a garden and happily sprouting new shoots from the stump, this is exactly what we did: butcher it. I have no idea how my Crinodendron will take it - whether it will sulk, or even consider this to be the final straw and die. I'm very fond of it, there is some sentimental value attached to this particular plant - so what if I've killed it?? Well, nothing to do now but cross fingers. A fellow gardener once told me 'You have to be cruel to be kind'. I hope she was right.

Not quite as existential a cut but still a fairly drastic one I executed on my cistus. Each May, it has masses of white blooms with a boss of golden yellow stamens and a maroon mark at the bottom of each of its five petals. My children call it the "fried egg" plant (even though, of course, there are plants that more closely resemble fried eggs - notably Romneya coulteri, the tree poppy).

The shrub was here when we moved in so I'm not exactly sure as to the correct botanical name but think it is Cistus x cyprius, or more likely even a white form of Cistus x purpureus. It sometimes sports the odd rose-pink flower or a white one where just half a petal is pink - very strange, but not uncommon. Cistus is of Mediterranean origin and as a protection against heat and drought has slim, greyish-green, slightly felt-y leaves and exudes resin that makes the branches sticky but also fragrant.

Ours is an old shrub, nearing the end of its lifespan and leaning forward into the terrace on angled, bare legs. At flowering time, under its own weight, it swallows a large chunk of our precious outdoor space so we needed to confine it and have done so for the past few years. Straight after flowering we cut it back hard, usually to just above the old wood - and occasionally, i.e. in some places, even beyond. For the first few weeks it looks horrible and always breaks my heart. But it has bounced back strongly every time, sprouting new shoots from old wood, too, even though my book said it won't. And no, normally it would be better not to prune a cistus at all, just give a light trim perhaps or leave alone altogether.

This year, as I'm not sure my old Cistus has any years left in it at all (the genus is short-lived), I took a good number of cuttings from the prunings. If all else fails, this lovely variety will still be with me albeit much smaller for a number of years. And I could plant something else in the original shrub's space...

I also used most of the off-cuts from my rose pelargonium (Pelargonium 'Attar of Roses' if I'm not mistaken) as cuttings. Mainly, because I can't help it... I just think it such a waste to throw away strong fresh shoots, I always (and almost despite myself) give them a try and a fair chance to root. With rose pelargoniums at least people love my gifts as they have such a wonderful smell and can be used in the kitchen, too - to flavour deserts or drinks, for instance. Not that I personally ever use my Pelargonium in that way... I just love running my hands through its leaves and enjoy the fragrance and the small but pretty pink flowers and otherwise leave it to the bees which are simply mad about this plant.

Mine started off innocently enough: a small plant, put in a 20 - 25cm pot. It grew happily for the first two seasons, sheltered in winter. Then the third spring I left it near the house wall - in full sun - and forgot to put the saucer back underneath the pot (which I had taken away for winter so the plant wouldn't sit in water for long periods and rot). A little later the rose pelargonium took off and seemed to explode - within weeks it easily covered a square meter and more.

I was baffled - what with so little water and nutrients in this small pot - until I discovered it had stretched its roots way into the layer of pebbles on which it was stood. Now it would soak up every nutrients from the detritus that gathered amongst the stones and every drop of moisture spilled when watering the other flowerpots nearby. Nice trick!

Actually, I first discovered it with two Metrosideros plants - the lovely "Pohutukawa" or "Rata", also called "Christmas Tree" in its native New Zealand on account of their showy red flowers at that time of year - which I had raised from seed and stood nearby. Despite being confined to a flowerpot that by now can hardly contain any soil at all I fear, just roots, they too have taken off in the past two, three years that seemed incomprehensible until I was let in on their secret.

Whilst so far I have resisted my man's pleas to cut the Metrosideros back so as to be able to get to the water tap without getting a good whipping an brushing from them, the rose pelargonium really had outgrown its welcome. Thus I waited until the first big rush of blooms was over and then cut it back hard. Even if it should not regrow well (new plants from cuttings being preferable in any case, I guess) - it has managed to self-seed between the pebbles right under the door. Must remember to move the vigorous seedling before this plant too needs a butchering!

With me again? Thank you! I promise this will be the last post about campanulas for a long time... But  they are just so incredibly beautiful, aren't they! And because I have - or, in some cases had - quite a few more of them, let's dive straight in. I will try to be brief :-) .

Let's start with the "had"s - those that thought it beneath their dignity to stay with me. First and foremost in this category there was Campanula lactiflora 'Pritchard's Variety'.
I'm not sure I had the true thing, as it is described as having dark purple bells and mine were mid-purple only. No matter. Praise has been heaped on C. lactiflora by many a famous gardener, and 'Pritchard's Variety' along with the pinkish 'Loddon Anna' are just the best-known for borders.

Apparently, this campanula too self-seeds like mad - though I'm not sure this applies to the named varieties as well. Lewis and Lynch (in their book Campanulas - A Gardener's Guide) say that E.A. Bowles spoke of its becoming a weed at Myddelton House! I love Myddelton House Gardens, by the way - it is one of my most favourite "London discoveries", even if it is not really within London but just outside the M25. The gardens have been lovingly restored and I often went there with my little one whilst his older sibling was at school. Alas, now they both are and it feels a little sad to go on my own. But that's just an aside.

C. lactiflora, whether 'Pritchard's' or not, did not like its allocated spot - squeezed between the rose, my cistus and pots on the remaining two sides. Neither did it want to wait for the promised land - the one I promised I'd take it to one day when I'd have a proper garden - but went in search for it itself. That is to say: it grew weaker and weaker until this year I believe it reached plant heaven, i.e. it did not come up again. I should like to try this species again when I indeed will have a proper garden, in the meantime I try to take this as a warning.

Nearby, even more in the shade perhaps, some Campanula glomerata just hang on for bare life. In light soils it creeps and runs to the point of overrunning a plot, but on our London clay (albeit improved one) it does not manage much. And, of course, the shade wears it out. My plants are gifts from my mother's garden - the ultimate light soil there, but too dry for C. glomerata to conquer it completely - and they are still with me but too weak to flower. I just leave them were they are, as the spot really is invisible.

But one day, in this longed for garden proper, I should like to try grow them again, especially some of the lovely named varieties such as the white 'Schneekrone' ('Crown of Snow') which has not just one domed clusterhead of flowers at the top but whirls above whirls, like a candelabra primula.

I was also a bit naïve with Campanula latifolia, I guess. I had come across a quote saying "its toughness in the face of competition and difficult conditions make it a most elegant plant for wild or woodland gardens. We found the white one among the nettles when we took over our 17th-century garden." Mine was the white one and bearing that quote in mind, I planted it in a dry, shady corner - thinking it would cope and simultaneously be kept in check there.

Well, that was a bit too optimistic perhaps. A new plant, pale lavender, has a slightly more favourable spot and gets watered every now and then, so it is still with me. I wish I could say it was the stately plant I admired elsewhere, e.g. at Kew, but again: too little space and light for that. But at least it does flower. With this campanula, too, there are lovely named varieties - such as the deep violet 'Brantwood' or the pale lilac coloured 'Gloaming'. The species, by the way, is a native to most of Europe, save the Mediterranean. Apparently it loves slightly acid soils and can be invasive there.

Since at least occasionally I try to learn from my mistakes, I have not planted any more campanulas in the beds but any new treasure I could not resist buying was put in pots. This way, they may not have more room but they will get more light since half the terrace is in the sun for most of the day.

So which treasures are there? Well, there is the lovely hybrid Campanula 'Sarastro': big dark purple or deep violet tubular flowers, that look great next to white or silver-leaved Senecio cineraria. 'Sarastro' looks similar to the perhaps better known hybrid 'Kent Belle', but the latters flowers are less tubular or rather more slashed. So anxious was I not to loose this plant as well that I split the pot-full I bought and planted the bits in three different spots. So far they all do okay, but obviously they need to grow stronger before there'll be much of a show.

Then there is another plant I bought at a plant fair last year, called Campanula 'Wedding Bells'. Frankly though, they must be the wedding bells of a vagabond: two white skirts, slightly crumpled and not very clean ones, put on top of each other. If you lift them - or catch the plant flashing its knickers, so to speak - there are bristly hair and lots of burgundy red dots inside. If I remember correctly, I was told it is of Campanula punctata parentage, and this ancestry would explain the spots. Overall, the plant is pretty but certainly not refined. But it too has the lovely habit of producing more and more blooms from its axils if you snip off - very carefully so as not to destroy the baby buds - the spent blooms.

Double-skirted, too, but much more of a well-bred little lady is Campanula trachelium 'Bernice'. Her skirt is a deep violet-blue, very frilly and girly, and she looks amazing next to my hot pink Salvia 'Cerro Potosi'. Unfortunately, she's also a magnet to black-fly. I am yet to find out whether this is due to my keeping her in a small pot or a general vice, a sort of flaw in character.

Also back in a pot now is Campanula alliariifolia. It is a self-seeded plant which I intend to keep as a back-up, since its mother in the shady bed slowly gets swamped by a white Japanese anemone. I love its slender spire of slim white bells, like a white foxglove perhaps - just a bit more stocky. The plan will eventually bulk up though and form a clump.

And finally: Campanula medium, the Canterbury Bells. They always remind me of a chandelier for some reason. I remember being fascinated by them as a child - in my mind I can still see the seed packet with its picture of the tall inflorescences, their flowers a mix of dark purple, light pink and white. You still get these seed packets, but is there a law that dictates "You are never to get the colour you set out for"? A commandment even: "You shall not seek a specific colour from this mix..."?

I love the dark purple and the white ones best. But with seedlings, there is no way to tell the colour before the plant is well budded up. So which ones to keep? There is only room some very few plants! Invariably I end up with either pink or pale purple... It is maddening. That even happens when I buy a plant in a nursery or garden centre! Campanula medium is biannual, you can get plants in autumn or spring. But no matter how often I buy 'Alba' or 'white form', they never turn out as claimed! But, of course, they are beautiful all the same - just so shamefully fleeting: glorious for one week, two, if you consider the buds, but no good after that.

Well, obsession never made for rational choices I guess. So I have, as you are sure to agree, far too many campanulas for my tiny plot - many of which look fairly drab for most of the year. But does that stop me? Make an informed guess... Am I happy with it? You bet!