As I write, in keeping with the aphorism, March is showing leonine tendencies having been peacefully ovine at the outset. My birthday is located at the beginning of the month on March 4th, which is “the most commanding day of the year,” according to our old dairyman. A pun that was never quite funny enough.
Spring is the time for meteorological aphorisms and coming from a farming background these sayings had some practical significance. Now that I have substituted gardening for farming there is still some utility in knowing what to expect. My grandfather would say, “February fills the dyke, be it black or be it white,” alluding to the tendency for huge amounts of precipitation of either type in that month. There is a codicil to that saying of which I was unaware as a child; “But if it be white, It’s the better to like.”
https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/february-fill-dyke/pwGPaRuoX83Vdw?hl=en
This year we had both. Dreadful Somme-like mud and flooding followed by hard frost and heavy snow – which was certainly preferable. When walking an energetic Vizsla conditions underfoot are crucially important and it made me think of another longed-for sign – March dust. The lengthening day, the waxing of the Sun’s power as its angle to the Earth steepens added to a bit of wind-induced evaporation produces that welcome indication that the land can be worked again. The blackened sods pale and the mud on tarmac and paths slackens its grip. Dust blows about in the dazzling light. At least that is the theory. Climate change may modify these old adages.
Not having to ‘work the land’ these days, such considerations are less relevant to an urban existence. Perhaps they are less important to farmers too as so many cereals are now sown in the autumn to germinate before winter and so get off to a flying start in spring. To a gardener the progress of the early year is marked instead by flowers.
It’s important to have something to cheer you in the depth of winter, but to me there’s something slightly depressing about winter jasmine and its screaming yellow successor, forsythia. I much prefer witch hazel with its little streamer-like petals and fantastic orangey smell – and it looks so nice with a bit of snow on top.
Another mood-enhancer in the shortest days is winter (or sweet) box, Sarcococca confusa. Oddly, its scientific name means ‘flesh berry.’ The sweetness refers to the exotic scent of the inconspicuous flowers which are borne in mid-winter. I planted it at the front door to greet winter visitors and in the back garden as evergreen punctuation. Its habit is looser than Buxus but vigorous even in quite deep shade. Sarcococca originates in South East Asia and our Chinese neighbour says the scent makes her nostalgic.
The spring sequence of herbaceous plants that exploit the light passing through bare deciduous trees begins with winter aconites and snowdrops. Our snowdrops are spreading rapidly through the lawn but I haven’t the heart to mow them down before they die back naturally. This makes for great untidiness in late spring and early summer.
Iris reticulata is found from the Caucasus to northern Iran and is presumably an alpine species. The flowers are evanescent and the leaves very fragile. Like the muscari grape hyacinths it is a welcome relief from all that yellow. Apart from the omnipresent snowdrops, I have more hellebores than any other winter flowering perennial. Most of these are the early-flowering ‘Christmas Rose’ types whose drooping heads have to be tilted up to see their full splendour. The later-flowering Lenten Roses don’t seem to do so well with me. I like to cut off last year’s leaves to get the full benefit of the flowers.
Daffodils are underrated in my opinion, probably because they are ubiquitous. I like the green ‘non-scent scent’ of the big ones. Many dwarfs and poetica species are properly scented. One miniature daffodil has been following our family around for a very long time. Originating in my grandfather’s farm – which is now lost under the satanic mills of Grangemouth oil refinery – they were introduced to several of our family’s gardens. They are very short, with swept-forward tepals and coronae. The leaves are greyish green. I think they are a variety of Narcissus asturiensis but this is an amateur ID. They did not appreciate the woodland nature of our garden and I am now on a salvage mission, growing them on in pots with fresh compost every year in the hope that they will grow forth and multiply.
Returning to shrubs, the witch hazel is now past – although we have excellent autumn colour to look forward to. The hybrid Camelia x williamsii is just getting into its stride. Old photographs show it as a shin-height shrub when we moved in 28 years ago. It is now towering over us. I suspect it is the variety ‘Anticipation’ and it was always a favourite of our daughter. The huge peony-like flowers drop off without wilting in a strange unnatural way, carpeting the ground in puffy pink blooms. I once floated a few of the shed flowers in a bowl as a table decoration for a dinner party. It intrigues me that another member of the family, Camelia sinensis, is the source of tea. The shrub flowers and is hardy even in Scotland. Scottish-grown tea is available.
The gaudy star of the show, waiting in the wings, is our magnolia. Magnolias are ancient plants from the dinosaur era and they evolved before bees. The theory is that they were pollinated by beetles. They have a strong association with France. Magnolias as a group were named in honour of the French botanist Pierre Magnol (1638 – 1715). Our variety is a Magnolia x soulangeana. This is not quite so ancient having been bred by Étienne Soulange-Bodin, a doctor and cavalry officer in Napoleon’s army. He was superintendent of the Empress Josephine’s gardens at Malmaison.
I desperately wanted a magnolia of my own having suffered from magnolia-envy for many seasons. I bought the potted sapling at Hopetoun Garden Centre. The label said it had pale lemon, almost pure white, scented flowers. It did not prosper in its first location, so I moved it. Although it did flower and the blooms were spectacular I noticed that some branches had died. Despite this, vigorous shoots remained and I persevered. The tree gained in strength and began flowering profusely. Being red/green colourblind it took me a while to notice that the flowers had changed in character and now had a red flush at the base of the petals and no scent. It eventually dawned on me that the tree had been taken over by the rootstock it had been grafted onto.
We are past the vernal equinox now and the clocks have been put forward for arcane reasons I can never understand. Something to do with the milking and Scottish schools… At least in this lockdown year there was no boozy dinner party to compound the effects of ‘losing an hour’ as my mother used to call it. April is imminent. So often a ‘cruel’ disappointing month relapsing into cold weather and damage to the tender shoots of recovery. April ‘showers’ are such a euphemism. Perhaps, like last year, we will be lucky and have one of those warm springs that comes on all summery and incongruous before the leaves are fully out.
The Bohemian Waxwing 