Garden Tales – Stories of Spring

Since arriving at this most verdant and deep world of horticulture, an intrigue has lingered somewhere at the forefront of my mind, one which may seem peculiar to some, but one nevertheless I feel compelled to explore. I am still in the infancy of my horticultural learning, however, from conversations with incredible, pioneering professionals in the field, I suspect even those with decades of experience would consider themselves forever in the pursuit of knowledge. And really, it is these people, and those like me, taking their first steps down the garden path, who have placed this intrigue within me. By this, I am referring to how our minds perceive our gardens and the plants which inhabit them. And after much thought, I have come to a conclusion… the garden is a book.

To some, arguably those more scientific in character, the garden is an encyclopaedia, a great list of names, processes, strengths, weaknesses, where words like ‘actinomorphic’ and ‘sclerenchyma’ aren’t just difficult to fire off the tongue, but part of their own joy and wonder as they read the garden. There are those of the aesthetic of heart, who read the garden as an art book, one of those heavy tomes you find on coffee tables, where shape, form, colour and texture are the principal paragraphs of their own garden reading. Others, perhaps see the garden like a self-help guide, or a collection of softly worded poetry, where what and why is secondary to how the garden makes us feel. I’m sure I could go on. Well, I know I can, but before I start comparing horticulture to the works of Dostoevsky, I will stop and tell you how I read the garden.

For me, the garden is a book of stories. I think in some way; it was a story which first engaged my interest in plants and the little places of paradise we create. My passion without secateurs in hand, has always been for reading. Admittedly, I am a voracious devourer of old fantasy and science fiction, the sort scoffed at by the proudly literary. Yet, this is my truth, and I have spent many evenings reading tales linked to the plants we find in our garden… fictions found somewhere between folklore and history, you can decide on that. And so, I would like to share some stories from my own garden book, taken from the pages of Beth Chatto, with the blooms of spring our beloved protagonist.

Primula vulgaris, our familiar spring-welcoming yellow primrose. Such joy these clumps can bring after what can seem like everlasting winters. These plants thrive along edges of woodland paths and are a delightful provider of nectar and pollen for our awakening garden residents. This flower has long been entwined with Beltane in Ireland, as a ward against faeries and those otherworldly creatures which harbour nefarious intent. However, East Anglia has its very own story associated with this primula! It is said, if the primrose flower was taken into a house belonging to a keeper of poultry, it must always be more than the number thirteen. If one failed to adhere to this, their flock would only lay the lesser number of eggs that season. I have even read of the shrewder tycoons of the egg world, sending the children of business rivals’ home with just a single primrose, such was the credence of this belief.

Fritillaria meleagris, or, snake’s head fritillary, one of my absolute favourites! Our story associated with this plant takes us across the Aegean Sea and back over three thousand years into Greek mythology. When I see the purple, brooding heads of this spring flowering plant, I recall the ancient warrior Meleager, a member of the Argonauts, but perhaps more famed from the story of the Calydonian boar hunt. The Fates (who seemed to cause nothing but trouble if you ask me!) predicted that Meleager’s life would not end unless a piece of wood was burned. However, following a deadly dispute with his uncles, defending his love Atalanta, his own mother who had once protected this fated wood, sent it to the flame. The story goes on to tell how Meleager’s sisters never stopped weeping for the loss of their brother and were eventually turned into guineafowl by Artemis. These sun loving chequered bells are almost the perfect accompaniment to bear the name of such a tragic tale.

Myosotis, the family we colloquially call forget-me-nots. How entire oceans of these flowers wash across our garden at Beth Chatto in the spring, it is truly a sight to behold! Alas, another sorrowful tale is rooted here. The story behind these delicate blue blooms and their whimsical variations stems back, as always, to love. It is said a lover upon the riverbank attempted to pick a bunch of these charming flowers for his sweetheart, only to be swept away by the current. His final words, as you are expecting, were, ‘forget me not!’ If he had said ‘Throw me a buoyancy aid!’ then perhaps we wouldn’t attribute such heartfelt longing to this garden wonder.

Paeonia daurica subsp. mlokosewitschii, the beloved Molly the Witch, with her bronze buds transforming into lemon bowls of splendid beauty as spring takes hold. I’m making a bit of a reach with this next story, as again we are off to Ancient Greece, but if you can forgive me and accept, we are looking at Paeonia as a whole, it will be easier to stomach. We have two stories to recollect upon seeing this genus in our gardens, both with similar outcomes. First up we have the tale of Paeon, physician to the gods, and student of Asclepius, god of medicine. According to unverified accounts, Paeon was such a skilled healer, that his once master Asclepius become enraged at seeing his student cure Hades following a routine colonic irrigation (this is embellishment but let me have it.) To save his life Zeus turned Paeon into a peony, because at the time this was easier than waiting for Asclepius to calm down. There is a similar tale about the nymph Paeonia, who Aphrodite transformed into a peony after catching Apollo up to no good. At Beth Chatto we do not sell our peonies until at least five years from sowing. Some say, this is to make sure the flowers don’t suddenly turn back into physicians or nymphs!

I believe the garden will always be a book of stories to me, yet I think it is important to figuratively read diversely whenever in the garden, and to dip your toe into genres you seldom explore. But I wish, one day the stories will be my own, entangled with the roots of memory, of brilliant people, challenging times, and most of all, with love and tenacious hope for a better, most beautiful future. If you are able to visit us this spring, then there is a good chance you will see all of the above. And, if you wish to introduce some of these stories into your own garden, you can always look on our website for when they become available. I look forward to sharing more Garden Tales with you all next season, with… Stories of Summer!

Written by Rob