A rose by any other name: Fionnuala Ward on a garden visitor with a life of its own
But I have nothing against roses. I need to make that clear. There is a wonderful rose garden in the
Botanic Gardens
and, like everyone else, I pause on my walk to reach and smell and check for a fragrance.
And the benches in that section of the Bots, which look out over a palette of shades and tones and of blooms climbing and static, are always the most popular.
It's just that I know next to nothing about roses. Although, let's be honest, they do seem a little too cultivated. A little too perfect. So, all right, maybe I'm not their biggest fan.
READ MORE
But the rose in my garden is different. The garden is entirely wild now. It's filled with thistles and nettles, clover and ragwort. But this rose, this one rose, has survived in the midst of it all and I have to admit that I am in awe of it.
A couple of years ago, the wall between myself and my neighbour had to be replaced. The rose's patch is close to this boundary. Very close, and I figured that would be that. Builders trampled in and out. Concrete was poured. A wasteland developed. The rose duly disappeared and I thought no more about it.
But some time later, to the delight of my neighbour, it popped up on her side of the wall. The grass was clearly greener over there. Things were better. Life was less precarious.
It was hard not to take it personally. It was true that I hadn't looked out for this rose but I didn't do it any harm either, leaving it to its own devices. And then, as if sensing that the coast was clear, it reappeared on my side of the wall as well.
This rose was hedging its bets. Burrowing deep under the concrete blocks, it had set up residence in both gardens to maximise its chances of survival.
It's now in bloom. And in keeping with the nature of this rose, this is no ordinary blooming. No common-or-garden effort happening here. There are two offshoots on my side, with only one producing buds but it's the proliferation of buds on this one offshoot that is quite something.
There are eight viable buds on this one branch. Eight. I've checked with my neighbour and, to date, there are none that side. She too has adopted a benign-neglect approach to looking after this rose, so some may yet appear.
I can't help wondering if eight on one stem is a kind of record. The top bud has now opened up to the sunshine. A delicate peach colour, it exudes the loveliest of aromas that wafts around that part of the garden. The stem is long and languorous, bending out and down so that sitting on my chair in the garden I can take in the wonder of this bloom.
There are seven more to go. I'm pretty sure one stem couldn't cope with eight buds blooming at once, so they'll probably go in turn. I've taken to checking the status of these buds every morning, deciding on the ones that look most likely to burst forth next. I have a feeling that they won't all make it but I'm hoping that most will.
I'm keen on having a bee-friendly garden but I know roses are next to useless for bees. And sure enough, while the clover and thistles are alive with whirring and buzzing, the rose remains an activity-free zone. Roses, it seems, are too dense and complicated a flower and the bees just can't get in there to nestle up to the pollen.
But even though, the rose in my garden (and please note how I can't bring myself to claim that it's 'my' rose) is not pulling its weight pollinator-wise, it's welcome to stay.
Truth be told, it's more its garden than mine. I've long since decided that this rose is a combination of delicacy and single-mindedness.
[
Gardening Q&A: How can I resuscitate my dying roses?
Opens in new window
]
If it were a person, it would be a painter or sculptor or, more likely yet, the leader of a fascist resistance. Its tenacity knows no bounds.
And so, with the summer drawing in, I'll keep an eye on proceedings. I'll watch how those blooms develop. And I'll check in on how things are going on the other side of the wall.
But all in an information kind of way. Nothing else. I've no intention of doing anything.
The rose in my garden happily has no need of me.
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Irish Times
2 days ago
- Irish Times
A rose by any other name: Fionnuala Ward on a garden visitor with a life of its own
There is a rose in my garden, a leftover from the previous owner. I've never pruned this rose. I've never watered this rose. But I have nothing against roses. I need to make that clear. There is a wonderful rose garden in the Botanic Gardens and, like everyone else, I pause on my walk to reach and smell and check for a fragrance. And the benches in that section of the Bots, which look out over a palette of shades and tones and of blooms climbing and static, are always the most popular. It's just that I know next to nothing about roses. Although, let's be honest, they do seem a little too cultivated. A little too perfect. So, all right, maybe I'm not their biggest fan. READ MORE But the rose in my garden is different. The garden is entirely wild now. It's filled with thistles and nettles, clover and ragwort. But this rose, this one rose, has survived in the midst of it all and I have to admit that I am in awe of it. A couple of years ago, the wall between myself and my neighbour had to be replaced. The rose's patch is close to this boundary. Very close, and I figured that would be that. Builders trampled in and out. Concrete was poured. A wasteland developed. The rose duly disappeared and I thought no more about it. But some time later, to the delight of my neighbour, it popped up on her side of the wall. The grass was clearly greener over there. Things were better. Life was less precarious. It was hard not to take it personally. It was true that I hadn't looked out for this rose but I didn't do it any harm either, leaving it to its own devices. And then, as if sensing that the coast was clear, it reappeared on my side of the wall as well. This rose was hedging its bets. Burrowing deep under the concrete blocks, it had set up residence in both gardens to maximise its chances of survival. It's now in bloom. And in keeping with the nature of this rose, this is no ordinary blooming. No common-or-garden effort happening here. There are two offshoots on my side, with only one producing buds but it's the proliferation of buds on this one offshoot that is quite something. There are eight viable buds on this one branch. Eight. I've checked with my neighbour and, to date, there are none that side. She too has adopted a benign-neglect approach to looking after this rose, so some may yet appear. I can't help wondering if eight on one stem is a kind of record. The top bud has now opened up to the sunshine. A delicate peach colour, it exudes the loveliest of aromas that wafts around that part of the garden. The stem is long and languorous, bending out and down so that sitting on my chair in the garden I can take in the wonder of this bloom. There are seven more to go. I'm pretty sure one stem couldn't cope with eight buds blooming at once, so they'll probably go in turn. I've taken to checking the status of these buds every morning, deciding on the ones that look most likely to burst forth next. I have a feeling that they won't all make it but I'm hoping that most will. I'm keen on having a bee-friendly garden but I know roses are next to useless for bees. And sure enough, while the clover and thistles are alive with whirring and buzzing, the rose remains an activity-free zone. Roses, it seems, are too dense and complicated a flower and the bees just can't get in there to nestle up to the pollen. But even though, the rose in my garden (and please note how I can't bring myself to claim that it's 'my' rose) is not pulling its weight pollinator-wise, it's welcome to stay. Truth be told, it's more its garden than mine. I've long since decided that this rose is a combination of delicacy and single-mindedness. [ Gardening Q&A: How can I resuscitate my dying roses? Opens in new window ] If it were a person, it would be a painter or sculptor or, more likely yet, the leader of a fascist resistance. Its tenacity knows no bounds. And so, with the summer drawing in, I'll keep an eye on proceedings. I'll watch how those blooms develop. And I'll check in on how things are going on the other side of the wall. But all in an information kind of way. Nothing else. I've no intention of doing anything. The rose in my garden happily has no need of me.
Irish Times
4 days ago
- Irish Times
Green flowering plants to bring calm to your garden
Colour – especially the use of colour in the garden – is a famously subjective thing. For example, hot pink, bright yellow, deep burgundy, or fiery orange will always be anathema for some, while for others they're supremely joyful and uplifting. However when it comes to shades of green, I think we're all in agreement. Green flowering plants in particular have an unerring ability to be the all-important glue in any planting scheme. Just think of the lime-green blooms of lady's mantle, or Alchemilla mollis as it's properly known, which never puts a foot wrong colour-wise (admittedly the same can't always be said for its propensity to self-seed). Its fluffy, long-lasting flower panicles first appear in early June and look as good combined with the violet umbels of alliums, or with shocking pink roses, as they do with acid-orange geums, or bright yellow trollius, the reason why flower arrangers adore them so much. Alchemilla, Lady's Mantle. Photograph: Getty That same quality of supreme versatility is true of trusty Euphorbia characias ssp. wulfenii, whose stately, pistachio-green flower bracts effortlessly co-ordinate with pretty much everything else in the garden, no matter how gaudy its neighbours. In bloom from mid-spring until late summer, the celebrated British garden designer Gertrude Jekyll once described it, with good reason, as 'the grandest of plants', but it's also a trooper with the power to tolerate the hottest and driest of soils. Other garden-worthy, green-flowering. floriferous species of euphorbia to consider include the lovely summer-blooming Euphorbia palustris, a hardy herbaceous perennial; and the compact, exceptionally long flowering, evergreen Euphorbia martinii. Euphorbia. Photograph: Getty Hydrangea paniculata 'Limelight'. Photograph: Getty Hydrangea paniculata 'Limelight' is another brilliant garden mingler, with large panicles of flowers that first emerge in July in the most charming shade of apple-green before gradually fading to cream with soft hints of pale pink as the season progresses. This hardy deciduous shrub does especially well in our mild, damp climate, relishing a rich, moisture-retentive soil that never totally dries out. A staple of the late summer garden, it provides the perfect foil for the zingy blooms of late-flowering perennials such as dahlia, crocosmia, helenium, echinacea, hemerocallis and alstroemeria. For growing in a large tub or container, seek out Hydrangea 'Polar Bear', a very similar but more compact close relative. Just make sure to keep it regularly watered, as drought-resistance is most definitely not its thing. READ MORE Blooming hydrangeas paniculata Polar Bear. Photograph: Getty For a sheltered spot, ideally trained against a wall, nothing compares with Itea ilicifolia or Virginian willow as it's commonly known, a plant I first saw in Helen Dillon's Ranelagh garden many years ago. A glorious specimen, she'd propagated it from a cutting taken from a mature plant growing in a neighbouring garden. The latter was very probably planted by the property's illustrious former owner, the famous Irish plant hunter Augustine Henry, who also first introduced Itea ilicifolia into cultivation. Somewhat reminiscent of amaranthus but more refined, this large evergreen shrub's jade-green, intensely-scented, tassel-shaped flowers appear in abundance on the plant in late summer and are a show-stopping sight. Speaking of which, Amaranthus caudatus var. viridis, or love-lies-bleeding as it's commonly known, is another wonderful green-flowering plant for the summer cut-flower patch. Long, dangling, chenille-like flower tassels appear on this half-hardy annual from July onwards, gradually thickening and lengthening as autumn approaches. Those eye-catching, supremely tactile flower tassels (their large leaves carefully picked off) make a wonderfully sculptural addition to an arrangement or bouquet, one of the reasons why it's become one of the most fashionable of bridal flowers in recent years. In my own little flower farm, I grow it in abundance from seed sown under cover each spring. Another personal favourite is Nicotiana langsdorfii, a supremely graceful member of the tobacco family with tall, slender flower stems adorned with tiny, dangling green bells. A brilliant cut-flower, this half-hardy, summer-flowering annual will often politely self-seed around the place when it's happy, while the ripe seed can also be easily home-saved in late summer for sowing under cover the following spring. For something more long-lived, look to Tellima grandiflora, or fringe cups as it's commonly known. Tough as old boots, I grow this hardy semi-evergreen perennial in a dry, north-facing bed where few things will flourish. In late spring its tall, long-lasting, very slender stems of chartreuse-green, miniature bell-shaped flowers emerge, slowly unfurling like ferns. A generous self-seeder in rich, moist soils, it combines beautifully with other spring flowering perennials and bulbous plants including aquilegia, forget-me-nots, tulips and lunaria. Snowball flower (Viburnum Opulus) or Guelder-Rose. Photograph: Getty Other garden-worthy members of this invaluable green-flowering club include the spring-flowering, shade-tolerant, evergreen perennial known as Helleborus argutifolius or the Corsican hellebore; the spring-flowering, shade-tolerant, herbaceous perennial known as Helleborus x nigercors 'The Rockies Pike Peak'; the large deciduous shrub known as Viburnum opulus 'Roseum' or the snowball tree, whose clusters of pompon-shaped flowers emerge lime-green in late spring before gradually fading to a creamy white; and the shade-tolerant, summer-flowering hardy perennial known as Heuchera 'Goldfinch'. Add just a few of these to your garden and you'll be regularly reminded of the power of green to calm, soothe and enliven even the tiniest of growing spaces like no other. This week in the garden To guarantee the widest choice of varieties, start ordering spring flowering bulbs now from online suppliers for delivery later this year. Recommended suppliers include Dublin-based , which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year, Cork-based (small selection of organically produced bulbs) and UK-based . Vine weevil is a common pest in many Irish gardens, especially of container-grown plants or those growing in raised beds where a peat-based compost has been used. This month is a great time to apply a nematode-control (Steinernema) as a soil drench, an organically acceptable way of disrupting this pest's life cycle by killing off its destructive white larvae, which live in the ground and feed on plant roots. It also kills the larvae of carrot fly and cabbage root fly. Stockists include all good garden centres. Dates for your diary ISNA Plant Fair Loughcrew Gardens, Oldcastle, Co Meath; Sunday, August 17th. With stalls by many of the country's leading independent small specialist nurseries. Blight & Bounty': Glasnevin in the Famine Years National Botanic Gardens, Glasnevin, Dublin 9; Saturday, August 23rd and Wednesday. August 27th. Guided tour taking in exotic imports, orchid innovations, symphonies in iron and glass and the discovery of potato blight. Pre-booking through essential, tickets €5. Irish National Vegetable Championships The Showgrounds, Moate, Co Westmeath; Sunday, August 24th (10am-5pm). The annual competition takes place as part of the Moate Agricultural Show and includes a new junior category. See for schedule and downloadable entry form.
Irish Times
10-08-2025
- Irish Times
Gardening feels like outdoor housework to me but my wife is caught in its grip
At first, it was one of Herself's notions; one of those I-must-do-that-someday ideas: fill the house with plants. Make the garden beautiful. Put in raised beds. I would nod supportively, partially because I wasn't sure what a raised bed was. Not that the garden is ugly. The original owners of our house seem to have been skilled gardeners. Different plants burst into colour at different times of the year, while out the front there's a bottlebrush tree that blooms pink and then mauve. We routinely see passersby taking pictures of it. Occasionally they knock on our door to ask what it is. We have toyed with the notion of erecting a sign. I am indifferent to gardening. I'll do the jobs I'm told to do, but to me it feels like outdoor housework. And I assumed that Herself was the same, except something was itching at her: a sense she should have an interest in plants; almost like she owed it to the house. Yet at the same time, part of her regarded gardening as an Old Lady activity: the sort of thing people end up doing because they can't think of any other way of filling their time. Perhaps this ambivalence was sensed by the houseplants she first attempted to nurture. A lot of them died. But, like a B-movie evil scientist, she continued her crazed experiments. Some remained green, some quickly turned brown, and she would regularly bemoan her inability to keep things alive: as if this was a moral failing on her part. As if the plants knew her heart wasn't really in it. READ MORE Or so I assumed. Because as she continued and even extended her efforts, I didn't notice the slow change that was taking place within her. It still seemed like a chore she felt she had to perform, until the day she announced to me that she would like a raised bed. When I say 'announced', I really mean 'instructed'. Construction projects are my department, so after a bit of googling and measuring and conversations with Herself that involved a lot of sighing and head-shaking on my part, I built one. It was fun to make, but surprisingly expensive: especially the soil-filling part. Nature costs a lot of money. The plants that she eventually installed there cost even more. I only know this because when I asked, she deflected the question and once again presented her gardening habit as just another aspect of domestic maintenance. But I was starting to suspect otherwise. The plants in the raised bed were not only lovely, but very much alive – and I noticed now that this success had been replicated elsewhere, in dozens of pots inside and outside our home. I noticed too how much time she was spending watering or pruning, and at odd hours. She'd get out of bed and the first thing she would do was reach for the secateurs. I was starting to feel like a gardening widower, while she suddenly seemed like a gambler who has had some luck with the horses, and can't help but continue to chase that dopamine hit. [ From the archive: Confessions of a millennial house plant addict: Cacti are the new cocaine Opens in new window ] I may have been in denial. But I didn't fully realise the depth of her compulsion until we took a trip to that most benign-sounding venue: the garden centre. Ostensibly, it was to buy a bench. But it quickly became apparent that she had little interest in that. I did the bench-buying, while she danced among various shrubs, almost squealing with delight as she filled her trolley. Once again, she wouldn't tell me how much she paid, and it was only when we got home that she admitted that she doesn't know where these new shrubs will go. She doesn't have the room for them. They crowd around our back door, as if seeking Herself's nurturing hands. And they look at me and seem to be thinking: we don't need him. [ Five life lessons my garden taught me: Nature often has a quiet but not unkind laugh at our expense Opens in new window ]
