There have been complaints. There have been mutterings that John’s comments are longer than my posts.
Be careful what you wish for.
Yesterday I cranked up the new charabanc and chauffeured a select few to RHS Rosemoor. It couldn’t have been a better day. A glorious morning, sunglasses on, unruly passengers sedated with liquorice and blackcurrant sweeties, hyper-drive engaged and off we headed down the frost edged roads of Devon. Soon, with little if any screaming, we safely landed and those of us who had remembered our membership cards entered with little drama.
After obligatory reviving coffee, we headed out into the sunlit garden, trying hard not to squeal in anticipation (that might have just been me). And what a treat we had.
We had cleverly (fluke-ily) coincided our visit with a sculpture exhibition. So our horticultural journey was interspersed by octopuses, birds of prey and dinosaurs.
But it wasn’t all metal, plastic and carved wood, as wonderful as it was. There was plenty more to see.
Around every corner a parrotia was in full flower, hellebores were getting into their stride and the snowdrops were not waiting for the appointed Snowdrop Day. Daphne bholua ‘Jacqueline Postill’ filled the air with syrup. A cultivar new to me, Daphne bholua ‘Garden House Enchantress’, was equally as fragrant, also being enjoyed by an early rising honey bee. The sarcococca and witch hazels were in full flourish, my favourite being the dusky Hamamelis × intermedia ‘Diane’.
And we watched staff lay out the new Devon heritage orchard as the sun thawed the icy ground.
Then I spotted a shrub at the back of a border, a mystery, one I didn’t recognise, the label hidden by vegetation. I really needed to know what this was. Really, really, really. Being the evil temptress that I am, I encouraged (mainly by pinching) one of our innocent party to investigate. Just as he was returning hot foot from his illicit foray a faithful RHS employee appeared. To this day I can only imagine she teleported in as I was on full security alert. We even had a warning sound (“hoot, hoot” since you ask). But there she was, suddenly scolding. Of course she was quite right, you shouldn’t walk on the borders, for all sort of reasons. I confessed that it had been all my doing and I had persuaded the Perp to do the devilish deed. I am not convince this helped. As it is, I can’t remember the name that he shouted out to me. My head is yet again hung in shame.
Soon after we spotted this flowering cherry, two pink flowers, standing proud and rebellious amongst the white. Surely we need a rebel, every once in a while. Or perhaps more often.
I can’t tell you the exact name of this tree as I couldn’t read the label properly. Strangely there were no volunteers to venture forth and uncover it.