From Seed

Lobelia seedlings

I'm trying to grow a few things from seed.

I suppose growing from seed is the ultimate expression of the gardener's urge, if such a universal thing exists. If it does, it probably comprises nurture and control in pretty much equal measure. The gardener wants to guard and nourish life, of course, but he also wants to direct it, to force it. The gardener is necessarily involved with both the natural and the unnatural.

Buying established plants from the garden centre is fine. You can select well-fed and likely-looking specimens and be more or less assured of success, if only in the short term. Ultimately, though, what you bring home from the garden centre will always be someone else's plant. No matter how well it settles in, it will always be a visitor, a guest.

Growing from seed, even though the seeds are bought in just the same way as the plants, somehow gives a greater sense of connectedness and originality, or at least I imagine it does, when it works. I'm trying to propagate quite a few plants from seed at the moment, and only the trailing lobelias pictured above have shown any signs of germinating so far.

There's a trade-off, of course. Any plants that do well will be particularly cherished, will feel peculiarly mine. The fates of those that fare badly or die can't be blamed on the uncertain tenderness of Woodies and its army of disinterested adolescents.

We'll see.

Among the Rocks

Iberis sempervirens

The rockery began life last November, when I fashioned a modest hillock of scree in a neglected corner, using lovely, weathered chunks of granite from the nearby Wicklow Mountains. Whatever other merits it may attain, the rockery serves the purpose of concealing a stump that is all that remains of the leylandii that onced darkened the entire garden.

Last weekend, I began populating the rockery with some likely-looking candidates I got for €2.50 each in Avoca. I'm not sure if the plants I chose are proper alpines that would pass muster with rockery purists, but they certainly looked the part to me.

Aside from the iberis pictured above, I also planted a nice rock rose (Helianthemum nummularium 'Lawrenson's Pink') and an Irish moss (Sagina subulata) and something else whose name escapes me. They've got quite a bit of filling out to do before they begin to do justice to the spaces I've placed them in, but at four healthy plants for a tenner, I don't think I can complain.

Mistaken Identity

Iris reticulata

It turns out that the shoots I mistook for narcissi earlier are in fact irises. I know there are narcissi somewhere in the same bed because I planted the bulbs at the same time last October as part of an ambitious naturalisation scheme.

I realised my mistake when I noticed a flash of vivid indigo on the way to the car today and discovered this exquisite little thing.

The forecast is for clear skies and bad frost tonight, with temperatures as low as -2° C. I hope the first of the irises doesn't suffer too badly.

Winter Light

When you're taking photographs in the garden, you'll take any light you can get, even the acute, steely light of a January saturday. In fact, it has advantages. Its low incidence creates long and deep shadows, and can reveal crisp forms that might be lost in the high, flooding light of summer.

Prunus subhirtella 'Autumnalis', true to its name, has been blossoming shyly since November

Lavendula angustifolia 'Munstead' looks somehow skeletal in the wintry light

Alstroemeria

I'm not sure of the variety of this alstroemeria, but it laughs at winter. It's flagging a little now, though.

Acer japonicus

We planted three of these acers five years ago, and they've made only the slightest progress. Still, they seem to be budding contentedly again. Is it just me or do those shiny little bud pairs look like spider eyes?

In Leaf, In Bud

There's quite a bit of new green to be seen now. Unfortunately, I'm not the only one to have noticed. As can be seen from the picture below, the aphids are already feasting on the shoots, of which there are already quite a few, being thrown out by Rosa 'Iceberg'.

Rosa 'Iceberg' and some of its fans

Elsewhere, roses like Rosa 'Margaret Merrill' are beginning to leaf out, undisturbed for the moment by tiny green diners. Liliana, the former owner of this sturdy rose, will be pleased to know it is showing every sign of doing well again this year.

Rosa 'Margaret Merrill'

Spring flowers, too, are in an advanced state of preparation. The plentiful buds of Camellia williamsii are swelling steadily, and today some unmistakable blushes of pink were visible.

Camellia williamsii

Settling In

When I planted our Magnolia soulangeana last March, Sinéad thought the spot I'd chosen might get too much morning sun, which the helpful horticulturalist at Avoca had advised might scorch the flowers. Well, there's not much point in buying a tree for its exquisite, ivory-and-pink flowers if you're just going to blowtorch them with sunlight every morning, so I duly hauled M. soulangeana out of the capacious hole I'd dug for it, the hole I had meticulously shaped and lovingly bedded with ericaceous compost.

I reinstated it in what we judged to be a spot sheltered from those matitudinal death rays, just outside our kitchen window. A day of digging and lugging over, I sat down on the patio with a well-earned Grolsch for the ceremonial Surveying of Handiwork, comforted by the knowledge that the beautiful blooms to come would be safe from solar ravages.

What we hadn't counted on was the side passage (small garden, small house; small, semi-detached house, in fact). Hardly a week later, I came out one morning to discover that the side passage that was, like some kind of horrible private Newgrange, conducting bright, malevolent lances of sunlight right to our prized new magnolia, a couple of whose flowers were already developing unsightly brown scorch marks.

You can see where this is going.

After a couple of hours of digging and grumbling and muttering sotto voce about whose bright idea this had been, M. Soulangeana was back in its originally ordained hole.

In spite of receiving a great deal of love and attention, though, it seemed to sulk throughout the following summer, autumn and winter. Its leaves never seemed quite healthy, and most quickly succumbed to some degree of brown or black spotting. I had read that magnolias could be moody and sensitive to transplantation, so I kept watering, gave it the odd dose of ericaceous fertiliser and let it be.

It now seems to be budding in earnest. Perhaps it will do well after all.

Beginnings

The grip of winter is still tight, but already the first of the new green is emerging, in the form of these tiny, shy shoots of narcissus. I'm afraid the plant label bearing the species name was carelessly filed after their planting in October, but I chose them for their all-white colouring and smallish, delicate appearance.


The plant to the right of the shoot is a diascia that was a gift from a former colleague (hi, Gerry). It hasn't quite settled in, but then it was planted at an odd time of year (last June). I'm sure it will come into its own this spring.