February Snow

In my last post I was celebrating the earliest flowers of the new year. Then yesterday it began to snow. The big goosefeather flakes melted almost as soon as they hit the ground, but this morning we woke to a heavier fall that had smothered most of the smaller plants.

The large box in the upper right corner is covering Euphorbia 'Glacier Blue' in the hope that it will survive these below-zero temperatures. Like most variegated plants it's on the tender side and I've had to replace it a couple of times after weather this cold. I'm afraid too, that Hellebore 'Cherry Blossom' that I featured in my previous post will have collapsed and won't recover - at least not this year, though its roots will probably survive.

What always amazes me is the hardiness of Narcissus 'Rijnveld's Early Sensation', also featured in my last post. Although flattened by the snow, it has already shoved its way through the white blanket and is carrying on flowering as though nothing has happened.

On the left of this photo a double snowdrop is also emerging. Its triumph is likely to be brief however: if the snowfall continues it will be submerged again pretty quickly.

February Snow

In my last post I was celebrating the earliest flowers of the new year. Then yesterday it began to snow. The big goosefeather flakes melted almost as soon as they hit the ground, but this morning we woke to a heavier fall that had smothered most of the smaller plants.

The large box in the upper right corner is covering Euphorbia 'Glacier Blue' in the hope that it will survive these below-zero temperatures. Like most variegated plants it's on the tender side and I've had to replace it a couple of times after weather this cold. I'm afraid too, that Hellebore 'Cherry Blossom' that I featured in my previous post will have collapsed and won't recover - at least not this year, though its roots will probably survive.

What always amazes me is the hardiness of Narcissus 'Rijnveld's Early Sensation', also featured in my last post. Although flattened by the snow, it has already shoved its way through the white blanket and is carrying on flowering as though nothing has happened.

On the left of this photo a double snowdrop is also emerging. Its triumph is likely to be brief however: if the snowfall continues it will be submerged again pretty quickly.

February Flowers

Perhaps it's the restricted life we are all experiencing in these days of pandemic, but the garden seems to be waking up more slowly this year. Maybe it's only that we've had more overcast skies than normal and, according to January statistics, more rain.

Still, now that we're a week into February a few reliably early bulbs are already creating some small patches of colour. First to open as usual are the winter aconites, which aren't aconites at all, but a member of the buttercup family called Eranthis hyemalis. Once you know the connection, the resemblance is obvious.

The earliest ones shoulder their way through the soil in spite of pouring rain and marauding slugs,

... and are quickly joined by the rest.

Given time, they make a cheerful carpet, like these at VanDusen Botanical Garden. 

Snowdrops follow soon afterwards. They are the best known of the early bulbs and collectors can choose from  around 20 different species and well over 2,000 cultivated varieties.

Mine are nearly all the very common Galanthus nivalis, but I do have one with

 distinctive green stripes on the outside petals. 

It's called 'Rosemary Burnham' and the reason I grow it is because it was discovered in the garden of a well-known Vancouver gardener whose name it bears.

Even before the snowdrops, Narcissus 'Rijnveld's Early Sensation' opened its first flowers in January. Apparently it has sometimes been sold under the name 'January' and it certainly lived up to that this year. I like the way that the backs of the petals keep some green shadings from when they were just buds.

Not many of the hellebores are in bloom yet, but 'Cherry Blossom' is ahead of the rest. One of the strongest, it reliably produces a generous cluster of striking and colourful flowers.

As the flowers open, they straighten their shoulders and look up, a desirable characteristic that is lacking in some of its family members, especially the double forms. 

Last but by no means least come the snow crocus, earlier and, to my mind, much more elegant than the later, larger Dutch crocus. They come in various colours and I've planted several different kinds. Even on cloudy days when they refuse to open, their small bright spears are a welcome sight.

February Flowers

Perhaps it's the restricted life we are all experiencing in these days of pandemic, but the garden seems to be waking up more slowly this year. Maybe it's only that we've had more overcast skies than normal and, according to January statistics, more rain.

Still, now that we're a week into February a few reliably early bulbs are already creating some small patches of colour. First to open as usual are the winter aconites, which aren't aconites at all, but a member of the buttercup family called Eranthis hyemalis. Once you know the connection, the resemblance is obvious.

The earliest ones shoulder their way through the soil in spite of pouring rain and marauding slugs,

... and are quickly joined by the rest.

Given time, they make a cheerful carpet, like these at VanDusen Botanical Garden. 

Snowdrops follow soon afterwards. They are the best known of the early bulbs and collectors can choose from  around 20 different species and well over 2,000 cultivated varieties.

Mine are nearly all the very common Galanthus nivalis, but I do have one with

 distinctive green stripes on the outside petals. 

It's called 'Rosemary Burnham' and the reason I grow it is because it was discovered in the garden of a well-known Vancouver gardener whose name it bears.

Even before the snowdrops, Narcissus 'Rijnveld's Early Sensation' opened its first flowers in January. Apparently it has sometimes been sold under the name 'January' and it certainly lived up to that this year. I like the way that the backs of the petals keep some green shadings from when they were just buds.

Not many of the hellebores are in bloom yet, but 'Cherry Blossom' is ahead of the rest. One of the strongest, it reliably produces a generous cluster of striking and colourful flowers.

As the flowers open, they straighten their shoulders and look up, a desirable characteristic that is lacking in some of its family members, especially the double forms. 

Last but by no means least come the snow crocus, earlier and, to my mind, much more elegant than the later, larger Dutch crocus. They come in various colours and I've planted several different kinds. Even on cloudy days when they refuse to open, their small bright spears are a welcome sight.

Ringing In The New Year

 The lowest point in the year is also the lowest moment in my garden. Yet to my eyes it's still beautiful, never more so than when an overnight frost dusts the ground and the few remaining plants with white.

Colour comes only from Mahonia 'Winter Sun' just outside the back fence. One of the few evergreens I grow, its size (large) and colour (bright gold) would make it a dominant feature at this time of year even if it had more competition.

While I enjoy these winter treats, I wait eagerly for the first signs of new life, and usually by mid-month I get my reward. This year a rare sunny day on January 16 brought the first winter aconites and snow crocus into bloom. The aconites are always a surprise as their stems almost unnoticeably shoulder their way through the soil, and lever themselves upright before suddenly revealing the tiny buttercup-like flowers with their frill of green.

By contrast, the crocus leaves have been visible for some time, and it's just a question of waiting impatiently for the flowers to accompany them. First to open was a lone yellow one by the back steps where the sun is strongest.

Once I saw it, I went looking for others and found several 'Firefly' also in bloom, but still in too much shade to open.

If we can just expect a few more sunny days, more of these little harbingers of spring will be popping up all over the garden.

Ringing In The New Year

 The lowest point in the year is also the lowest moment in my garden. Yet to my eyes it's still beautiful, never more so than when an overnight frost dusts the ground and the few remaining plants with white.

Colour comes only from Mahonia 'Winter Sun' just outside the back fence. One of the few evergreens I grow, its size (large) and colour (bright gold) would make it a dominant feature at this time of year even if it had more competition.

While I enjoy these winter treats, I wait eagerly for the first signs of new life, and usually by mid-month I get my reward. This year a rare sunny day on January 16 brought the first winter aconites and snow crocus into bloom. The aconites are always a surprise as their stems almost unnoticeably shoulder their way through the soil, and lever themselves upright before suddenly revealing the tiny buttercup-like flowers with their frill of green.

By contrast, the crocus leaves have been visible for some time, and it's just a question of waiting impatiently for the flowers to accompany them. First to open was a lone yellow one by the back steps where the sun is strongest.

Once I saw it, I went looking for others and found several 'Firefly' also in bloom, but still in too much shade to open.

If we can just expect a few more sunny days, more of these little harbingers of spring will be popping up all over the garden.

CHEERFUL REDS

 It's been a while since my last post. No excuses, just the general lethargy brought on by the pandemic swirling around us.

The garden doesn't care about human pandemics, however, and has been a source of pleasure as always. I can't remember being so excited by red flowers in other years, but this summer and fall they've provided some of my most cheering moments.

My self-seeding poppies always surprise me with their variety of colours. Although they all started out as doubles, they now come in single, double and semi-double forms. Not the reds however, which are determined to remain double. This year they were as brilliant as ever, but one that was slightly less double than the rest stood out with a subtle touch of black in its heart.

An Echinacea that I recently acquired was another bright exclamation point. I can't remember its name but I'll annotate this post when I find it again

I've had Lobelia cardinalis 'Victoria' for years, loving its value as a late summer bloomer and its combination of scarlet flowers with purple foliage,

...but this year I acquired the species parent, which has grass-green leaves and is perhaps even more attractive.

A surprise this summer was the reappearance of a plant I thought I'd lost, Alstroemeria psittacina.

It only produced one flower stalk, but I'm hopeful that it will give an improved performance now it has turned up again.  When the stem broke, I brought it inside where it continued to delight us for almost two weeks before fading. Psittacina means "parrot-like", which suits it very well.

I have several clematis on the east fence, including what I believe is the only red variety, Clematis texensis 'Gravetye Beauty', 

All the texensis varieties flower from midsummer on and produce fluffy white seedheads after the flowers die. You can cut the whole plant down to about knee-high once the leaves turn brown, so there's no risk of broken stems from wind or snow and no tangle of dead leaves hanging around over the winter months. It will spring again in spring and reach a height of about 10 feet by the time it blooms.

Finally, the wonderful transformation of Hydrangea serrata 'Beni' has made it my favourite plant for this year.

'Beni' means "red" in Japanese and when this little shrub began to bloom, I thought I'd got a mislabelled specimen. Here it is in early June:

In early August:

And in late August:

By this time, there's just one last white flower and the leaves are becoming suffused with purple.

By September, the whole plant is truly living up to its name:

Two late entries in this post, both added at the end of December:

First, the fallen leaves of Rosa pimpinellifolia, whose praises I've sung for its year-round contribution to the garden. Even at the end of the year, its fallen leaves create a carpet of colour on the ground.

In the same bed, a sturdy red chard is as as ornamental in the garden as it is useful in the kitchen.