My gorgeous bearded irises - all blues, lilacs and a
sumptuous black (last pic) - are from specialist nurseries (probably Tempo Two) while a
few pure white ones came from my sister.
But why do I have one or two dull purple ones with touches
of brown, like those I remember in my childhood home? Did Mum give me this one?
I'm afraid there's no room for sentiment: these will be pulled out (along with
a dull yellow iris and a brown, yes brown, iris). Besides, I think they came from
my sister, and were thought to be white ones (oops).
Similarly, many of my daffodils are (more) recent
acquisitions in sulphurs and whites - and not so many of the gold `King Alfred'
style.
There's one exception, and I'm loving it.
Once Dad sold the house, he (finally!) let us take a
little of the bulbs and perennials in Mum's garden. (It was autumn so I now
have a few nerines, one of the autumn-flowering bulbs that don't do well here.
How I yearn for some of Mum's snowdrops (Galanthus)!)
One of the best plants I dug up (but replanted most) was
good old Gladiolus `The Bride' (above) which
I've loved since the 1980's, when it was fashionable. It remains my favourite
among the `cottage gladioli', those sweet flowers only one step away from the
species, shorter with smaller flowers than the Dame Edna type, all in perfect
proportion.
(Gladiolus carneus,
blushing bride gladiolus, is in naturalistic clumps in the silver-and-raspberry
bed, flowering profusely amidst the pink perennials and silver Artemisia's. Maybe
this is bulb easier to grow?)
Mum had a story about her petite gladioli. She'd started
to plant the garden before house building commenced, and one of the builders
asked her: What was that attractive plant? `That's a species gladiolus [close
to it, anyhow!] before they started breeding and improving them [into the large
Dame Edna-type hybrids].' Wonderingly, he replied: `Why did they ever bother?'
Yes indeed-y. (Cue clashing cymbals.)
But then she and I always liked small flowers.
Gladiolus `The
Bride' isn't petite, to be honest, but significantly smaller than Dame Edna's
favourite flower; they are certainly large enough for panache, especially in my
large clumps.
Gladiolus x
colvillei `The Bride' was a wonderful hybrid that arose by accident in
1871; long enough ago that I'm calling it an antique flower. It's still close
to its South African forebears; it's like a granddaughter that's married into
the aristocracy. (Gladiolus x colvillei was
bred in 1823 or earlier, in the UK, from South African species G. tristus and G. cardinalis. While gorgeous (petite lemon flowers on upright
stems), G. tristus can be weedy in
Victoria and Tasmania. Aren't all the best bulbs a bit weedy? (Don't start me
on that horrendous bulb, often for sale, Nectaroscordum.
It's a monster! Don't plant it! - you have been warned.) OK, not Onion Weed (Allium triquetrum); no one (sane) could
want to plant this smelly, well-named thug.)
This spring `The Bride' gladioli have opened myriad milky
blooms; they are not too tall; and like the best plantings, there's 3 clumps
near each other with other sweet plants around them, to give year-round
flowers. Maybe they are doing well because they were large corms compared with
ones I've bought in the past.
And it reminds me of Mum - and her last garden.
Jill Weatherhead is
horticulturist, writer, garden designer and principal at Jill Weatherhead Garden Design
who lives in the Dandenong Ranges east of Melbourne, and works throughout
Victoria. (www.jillweatherheadgardendesign.com.au)
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