My nose tells me that there must be a genetic link between flower colour and flower scent, but it’s not something written about at all in the garden literature. Maybe I’d find something in the literature pertaining to breeding for the florist industry, but I don’t know where to look.
All this practical stuff is setting my teeth on edge. When I started out, I’d have been happy if the only physical action resulting from this blog was a slow, contemplative rubbing of the chin and a distant look in the eye.
One of the really big questions is how much garden space should be allocated to good, reliable plant matrix, and how much to seasonal, colourful, ephemeral blast. It’s sort of the same as when you’re dishing up your take-away chinese. How much rice per spoonful of sweet and sour pork? How much background bland to foreground tasty?
How long can it take to decide what to call a post about an incredibly influential Dutch garden designer? Ages, apparently. And I’ve discovered that if I don’t start with a title before I write anything else, it stuffs up the permalink system, and names it by a number.
Anyway, forget all that, and start reading here:
Now don’t get me wrong. Rosemary is an incredible plant. It grows happily in the toughest, poorest conditions, flowers in the dead of winter and instead of giving off airs of one that’s surviving with gritted teeth, has the grace to wrap itself in the rich fragrance of nana-roast.
I was just in the Netherlands at tulip time. It was, of course, mind boggling. I’m convinced that no flower beats the tulip for being just as compelling as an individual as it is en masse.