Triple mixed up about soil?

Enthusiasm for gardening is at its highest this month, for life-long gardeners and for those about to stick their trowels and shovels into soil for the very first time. But what soil? It used to be easy: call up someone and get a load of topsoil dumped in the driveway. Then the big yellow bags appeared offering a tidier delivery system for regular soil. Tidy yes, but getting the soil out of the bag with a shovel and into a wheelbarrow does make demands on rarely used body parts.

Most plain topsoil is what was stripped from farmland prior to the building of new homes. It might have started out as good soil, but after being stockpiled, sometimes for years, it becomes compacted. This results in the loss of much of the important microbial life. Adding compost will help restore life to the soil.

Also available in bulk is triple-mix. Recipes vary, but it’s typically a blend of soil, peat moss, and compost from leaf and yard waste, and it’s a good choice for most situations. The only drawback is it tends to settle as the organic matter decomposes and after one season it will need topping up, so maybe allow for this when ordering.

When the opportunity arrived to pick up small, easily transported bags of soil, it became so much easier to tentatively begin gardening by filling a planter or two with bags of soil brought home with the groceries. These small, colourful bags are currently stacked up at grocery or hardware stores like sandbags in anticipation of a flood.

The sight of all these bags must be confusing for the new gardener. I wouldn’t have a clue what to use in my garden or in planters if I was just starting out. Garden soil, three-way mix, black earth, potting soil, and what about the equally attractive bags of compost that buttress those bags of soil? There’s sheep compost, cattle compost, maybe horse or even chicken compost. Whenever I pass by I find myself humming Old MacDonald’s Farm.

Which one to choose? For small raised beds, the three-way mix, much the same as triple mix is fine. With the one labelled simply as garden soil I’d be inclined to add the compost of your choice. Plain garden soil is fine for a garden, but not recommended for planters — a soil-free mix can be better for that purpose.

A soil-free mix is composed mostly of peat moss and perlite, or maybe with wood fibre as an environmentally friendly alternative to peat moss. It may be labelled as potting soil. If unsure, simply check for the bag that’s soft and feels light compared to ones containing more soggy soil. The latter can be lightened by adding peat moss or coir. Major brands are now adding fertilizer or mycorrhizal fungi to the mix, though not essential.

Black earth can be a puzzle, and I don’t know why it’s called earth and not soil. It would be easy to assume that because it’s black it must be nutrient rich soil; however, that isn’t necessarily so as good soil comes in all colours, like the red soil of Prince Edward Island, for instance. Black soil (or earth) could have come from a swampy area or it could have been darkened by adding leaves. Unlike the composts that are produced and sold, there are no requirements for the analysis of plain soils unless the producer does it voluntarily.

Compost is regulated by the provincial government as well as federally through the Canadian Food Inspection Agency. Regulations are set out to ensure heavy metals and other toxic materials etc. are not present. For more information on compost, see The Compost Council of Canada website.

Tulip History

 It wouldn’t be spring without tulips. They pop up like targets in a shooting gallery, in perfectly coordinated clumps, and in great swaths of every colour of the rainbow. That’s largely thanks to The Netherlands where they’ve been growing and breeding more varieties for us to enjoy for the last four hundred years.

But that’s not the beginning of the tulip story. It began, oh, a thousand years ago when someone, wandering through a valley in the Mountains of Heaven, spotted a delightful little wildflower. It would have been familiar to local people but unknown to travelers from Europe. And so began a long journey west along the ancient silk road, the route traders had travelled for centuries carrying goods between East Asia with Southern Europe.

 The Mountains of Heaven, or the Tien Shan Mountains as they’re known, are in the border region between North west China and Kazakhstan. However, the tulips growing there would not have looked like the ones growing in the front garden. Though similar, these wild tulips would have been much smaller and wouldn’t have the unusual colours and forms we see today.

 Whoever that person was, they dug up a few bulbs thinking they’d be nice to take home to Constantinople – now Istanbul, Turkey. At least that’s where the tulip was first recorded as having been cultivated, as early as 1055.

 When the Ottoman Empire arose there in the fourteenth century, the fortunes of the tulip rose with it. As for the name, it’s possible it came from a Persian word for turban because it resembled the headwear, or it could be because the Ottomans wore the flower on their turbans like an elevated boutonnière. Regardless, the elite of society raved about the tulip and it became a symbol of the Empire, and a material possession that defined nobility. In Turkish culture where it became a symbol of paradise, it gained an almost divine status.

 The Ottomans weren’t the only ones to go crazy about this unusual flower with such deeply saturated petals. When Ogier de Busbecq, the ambassador of Ferdinand I, Holy Roman Emperor, dropped in on the Sultan of Turkey and spotted tulips, he had to have them. No doubt he stuffed a few bulbs in his diplomatic bag to take home to Vienna. This was in the sixteenth century and it wasn’t long before tulips appeared in Amsterdam around the beginning of the Dutch Golden Age. The country had become the leading maritime power of the day and the economy was booming. Of course, those who could afford it wanted the latest and greatest, and artists, like Instagram influencers of the day, were turning out countless paintings to grace the walls of the wealthy. As tulips were frequently depicted in art, this no doubt contributed to a demand for the real thing.

 Dutch breeders began producing ever more colours and forms. Then, in the early part of the seventeenth century what came to be known as the Rembrandt tulip appeared with its streaked, bicoloured flowers. Unlike earlier varieties with more simple hues, this tulip had been afflicted with a virus that had caused the tulip to mutate. It wasn’t called the Rembrandt tulip because the artist had painted them, although many still life paintings by other Dutch masters of the day featured these remarkable flowers in their work; it referred to the city of Leiden where Rembrandt was born, one of the earliest regions to begin serious tulip growing.

 As these unique tulips appeared, it set off a frenzy of trading and the price of rare bulbs rocketed faster than a speeding Bitcoin. The period became known as tulip mania, suggesting the whole country was involved in a huge economic bubble founded on these plants. Fortunes were certainly won and then lost when the market collapsed, however more recent studies have since revealed that it was hardly the market crash of 2008 and it was only a relatively small number of traders that were involved.

 Regardless, the Dutch began breeding and hybridising, producing an ever-wider range of colours and forms from almost black to one that resembles the top of a raspberry ice cream cone. The Rembrandts of today, meanwhile, are free of the virus and that colour shift is now fixed in a limited number of colours.

Other varieties have surpassed them the Rembrandt tulips, especially the fringed varieties with their finely incised petals and the even more flamboyant parrot tulips, with ruffled and ornate petals splashed with flame-like strips or feathery patterns. Why parrot? Possibly it was the feathery petals or the beak-like shape that some saw, although the name might have appeared after the famous seventeenth century French engraver Nicolas Robert referred to them as perroquet de trois couleurs.

 Regardless, this resulted in the Netherlands becoming the major tulip grower in the world, exporting three billion bulbs annually. Over 15,000 hectares of farmland there are now dedicated to producing these bulbs. In spring, when tulips are in full bloom, huge fields are striped blankets of colour, perhaps the inspiration for the paintings of American artist Gene Davis.

 During springtime in The Netherlands those painted fields are amazing, but not for long. Within days the colour vanishes. As though an edict from the Queen of hearts has been issued, it’s off with their heads, millions of them, left to fade away along the furrows. To the casual observer unaware of the process, it must be heartbreaking, and yet it’s an essential step in bulb production that takes place in late April.

 Like combine harvesters on a prairie wheat field, similar equipment criss-crosses the tulip fields, shearing off the flower heads. This stops the plant from producing seed, and instead, energy is directed into growing the bulb in the soil below. By July the foliage has died, and the real harvest begins. In much the same way as Prince Edward Island farmers harvest potatoes, specialized equipment traverses the fields, lifting the bulbs from the soil.

To aid the process in heavier soils the bulbs are planted between layers of net that are then simultaneously rolled up by the machine for reuse, just one stage in a highly automated mobile industrial operation. The netting isn’t needed in sandy areas as bulbs are more easily released from the soil.

 The bulbs are then conveyed along, any remaining foliage and leaf litter is removed, soil is shaken free, and the bulbs are washed before they’re loaded onto convoys of trucks. The next stage takes place in a processing facility where the bulbs are again washed and sorted, and smaller offshoots are separated from the main bulb.

 These small ones will be replanted to produce future crops. Further along the line, the flaking, papery layers similar to onion skin are removed. The bulbs continue along a conveyor belt where they’re scrutinized by teams of seasonal workers, the only part of the process that isn’t automated. This is where diseased or damaged bulbs are tossed aside, and any stray roots are removed by hand. After a final wash and dry the bulbs are sorted and stored until it’s time for export when they’ll arrive in stores here in September ready for fall planting.

 The sight of the tulip fields in the Netherlands is a magnificent, though short-lived sight, and there are several locations where they can be viewed. The most famous area is along the North Sea dunes, between the cities of Leiden and Den Helder, but there are other places in The Netherlands where tulips and other spring flowers can be seen in full bloom for weeks. The most famous of these is Keukenhof near the city of Lisse, an hour’s drive from Amsterdam.

 Keukenhof, formerly part of the nineteenth century estate of Baron and Baroness Van Pallandt, is a 32-hectare park that is only open for a couple of months each spring when it welcomes close to a million visitors who arrive to view the glorious displays. These are created each fall when four and a half million tulip bulbs in a hundred varieties, plus another three million or so other flowering bulbs are planted.

 And then there’s the fragrance. Fewer than 20 percent of tulip varieties are fragrant, mainly in shades of orange, but at Keukenhof there are plenty of other sweetly scented flowers. A half dozen hyacinths near the patio are always a delight, but when a breeze carries the output of a thousand, it’s incomparable.

 A trip to see and experience this is certainly worthwhile, however there is a comparable display much closer to home and that’s the Canadian Tulip Festival held annually in Ottawa. In 2021 it will run for ten days from May 14 to May 24.

The festival began when the Dutch royal family sent 100,000 tulip bulbs to Ottawa in 1945 after the second world war ended. This was in gratitude to Canada for providing refuge for the future Queen Juliana whilst The Netherlands was under Nazi occupation.

 The royal family continues to send 10,000 bulbs each year in addition to 10,000 more from the Dutch Bulb Growers Association. The Festival also commemorates the unforgettable role of Canadian troops in the liberation of the Netherlands. Although the Netherlands is the primary producer of tulip bulbs, Canada has a small share of the market.

Vanco Farms in Prince Edward Island is enhancing the red soil of the province by growing tulips instead of potatoes. Besides producing bulbs for gardeners, the farm also grows millions of tulips for the cut flower market. After harvesting, the best of the bulbs are stored in large coolers under winter temperatures. When introduced to a warm greenhouse and planted, the bulbs are tricked into believing spring has arrived early. By planting successive crops blooms are produced from January to May to fill bouquets for stores throughout the Maritimes and Quebec.

In the garden is the place to see them growing, bringing colour to our world as winter fades. That pretty wildflower from Asia, after a journey of a thousand years from the Mountains of Heaven, and enhanced through centuries of breeding, has found a home in Canada.  It just wouldn’t be spring without tulips.

Daffodils Dancing

Winter truly ends with the appearance of the first bright, yellow daffodil. Daffodils evoke joy in spring, and maybe a tinge of regret that someone forgot to plant bulbs the previous fall. Oh sure, there were snow drops as early as January, followed by crocuses, even an eager tulip, but for me, it takes a daffodil; they’re much cheerier, nodding and waving a greeting. As Wordsworth described them in his classic poem, “tossing their heads in a sprightly dance, fluttering and dancing in the breeze”.

Wordsworth claimed he saw ten thousand at a glance. This may be so, but I doubt it rivals the numbers planted at the East Texas ranch of the late Mrs. Helen Lee. She used her Texas oil fortune to plant daffodils by the boxcar, millions of them, scattered over approximately 20 acres.

A few years ago a local man decided to become a guerrilla gardener and began planting daffodils on grassy banks along the Conestoga Parkway in KW. Since it was technically illegal to trespass, he did this under cover of darkness, and his name was never revealed — he called himself the Unknown Gardener. To further brighten the day of commuters, he planted the bulbs in the form of happy faces that may still be seen today.

Happy face or random clump, daffodils will always prompt a smile. In England as a child, I rode a bus to school that stopped each day beside a cottage with a hillside garden that merged at its upper end into woodland. Daffodils grew there in profusion. Each day I looked forward to seeing the springtime progression as they sprouted, flowered, and then vanished, overtaken by taller grass. Now, when the clump of yellow daffodils in my garden appears, I can’t help recalling an image that’s stayed in my head for half a lifetime.

Yet after a recent springtime visit, that image has been eased aside slightly by one that is suggesting maybe there can be too much of a good thing. At some point over the years (many years), someone decided it would be a good idea to plant daffodils along roadsides throughout the country. Some say it began in the dark days of postwar Britain to brighten up the place in the 1950s; however, I don’t recall any particular abundance in my youth. Regardless of when and where it began, the idea spread.

It became a pastime for many. Town councils large and small joined in, some with planting schemes of their own, others donating thousands of bulbs to charitable organisations. The daffodils grew and spread like dandelions, snaking mile upon mile across the country. The sight was amazing — at first. I soon began to picture them as yellow snowbanks, and I confess that after a couple of weeks driving the highways and byways of Northern England, even I was ready for a change of scene, or at least a change of colour.

Despite the popularity, so many were planted it’s feared they’re now becoming a problem for the country’s native species of daffodils, the ones that inspired Wordsworth's poem and the same ones that even Shakespeare mentioned in The Winter’s Tale — “When daffodils begin to peer”. They’re under threat now due to cross-pollination between the non-native species and the many hybrids, especially the larger, brightly coloured ones. The original, more delicate British species are becoming a rare sight in the wild. To counter this, heritage groups are undertaking mass planting campaigns using native species in historic gardens where they can be protected (the roadside battle is lost).

This over abundance isn’t likely to be an issue in Canada as we have no native daffodils. I feel I should point out that the daffodil is not native to Britain, either. Known since antiquity, it’s believed to have originated in North Africa and southwest Europe on the Iberian Peninsula. Somewhat isolated in Britain, the original introduction, perhaps brought by an early traveler or Roman invader, was able to naturalise undisturbed for centuries. At some point it became the national flower and a symbol of Wales where it’s worn on St David's Day each March 1st, potentially supplanting the leek, which has long been the national symbol of Wales. This may be due to some innocent confusion because in the Welsh language, the name, Cenhinen, is almost the same for both plants.

In English, we call them daffodils, but are they? Is it daffodil or is it narcissus, the other oft used term, or are they different plants? The simple answer is no; all daffodils are narcissus. Daffodil, or at one time daffadowndilly, has simply become the common, accepted name. The scientific name for the familiar, trumpet-like daffodil is Narcissus pseudonarcissus. Smaller daffodils, known as jonquils, are Narcissus jonquilla. Rather than a single bloom, jonquils tend to have clusters of fragrant flowers and dark green, tube-shaped leaves, like chives, unlike the seamed, sometimes triangular stems of daffodils.

The name, of course, is from the Greek myth of Narcissus who was turned into the flower of that name, and consequently, it’s perceived as a symbol of vanity. In the East however, it’s seen as a symbol of wealth and good fortune.

Another flower sometimes called a daffodil is the paperwhite, Narcissus papyraceus. It’s typically grown in wintertime as a houseplant — if you can stand the intense fragrance. Unlike regular daffodils, it can’t survive the winter outdoors.

Now that that’s sorted, I’ll continue to refer to the springtime garden plants as daffodils. Mention the name and predictably, most people will think of the familiar, bright yellow flower; however, daffodils are available in all shapes, sizes, and hues. They can be white or whitish, greenish, yellow of course, pink, and orange. Colours are then mixed and matched between the two parts of the flower head, the perianth (petals) and the corona (cup).

This is mainly thanks to the Netherlands, where daffodils have been cultivated as far back as the sixteenth century. Today, along with tulips and other bulbs, they’ve become the country’s chief export. In addition, growers and hobbyists everywhere have been breeding new strains. Depending on who is counting, there are as many as 200 different daffodil species and subspecies and a further 25,000 registered cultivars (cultivated variety), including the more flamboyant strains that are causing the problem in Britain.

The best known and most popular variety is the King Alfred. He’s the one said to have burnt the cakes, but there’s no mention of him growing daffodils. The name was chosen by Englishman John Kendall, clearly a long time monarchist. It was first introduced in 1899 when it was immediately awarded a First-Class Certificate by The Royal Horticultural Society, which likely had a bias towards regal names (Kendall was no fool). Regardless, the society was impressed by the rich golden hue of its much larger blooms.

Sadly, Kendall died in 1890 and never saw the astonishing result of his humble breeding program. Successfully promoted and marketed by his sons, for the next fifty years King Alfred the daffodil ruled until production declined in the 1950s when newer, improved varieties were introduced.

Millions of King Alfreds are still being planted and remain available today. You may be watching them bloom in your garden right now, yet it’s unlikely they’re the original. I’m afraid the king is dead — though the name lives on.

So popular was the King Alfred, the name became synonymous with large yellow daffodils, much like Kleenex is commonly used as the name for any tissue. Growers retained the name, and although limited numbers of the original are still produced, it’s been gradually supplanted with superior varieties like Golden Harvest or Dutch Master. These and others are now sold as King Alfred “types”, what you might call floral Elvis impersonators.

They’re big and showy with a golden yellow trumpet — and thanks to Wordsworth and his host of golden daffodils, this is what most people will think of when they picture a daffodil. It represents a country, has Kingly connections, boosts the Dutch economy, was a poet’s muse, and in recent years has become a symbol of hope for all affected by cancer. April is Daffodil Month when the Canadian Cancer Society will be launching their annual fundraising campaign, another reason to appreciate daffodils.

Despite my misgivings after being overwhelmed by the abundance growing along British roadsides, I still love daffodils, even prefer them to tulips, their spring rivals. There’s something about the wild nature of them that’s appealing. Some varieties of tulips will naturalize, but daffs are masters at establishing communities that last for years, as seen by those yellow snow banks in I saw in England. And if there’s one major advantage over tulips, squirrels won’t dig up the bulbs and eat them, and nor should you. Despite having been used in traditional medicines since antiquity, and the bulbs do contain potentially useful compounds, they are poisonous if eaten, so don’t confuse them with onions, but do plant them.

Now is the time to admire the beauties that will be appearing this spring. And it’s the time to mark the calendar or set an alert as a reminder to plant lots come fall, hosts of them, but go easy on the snowbanks.

Blue, blue, my world is blue

 Blue, blue, my world is blue. No, I’m not feeling down, even if the garden is sleeping. Those words are from a song from way back that has stuck in my head and comes to mind whenever I look at blue flowers. Blue is rare in flowers, true blue, that is. Peer closely and there’s typically a hint of purple in tiny streaks throughout the petals or concentrated near the centre. I call it catalogue blue where the blueness is promoted with a glossy picture that’s as blue as can be.

However, take a step back and blue flowers will look blue enough. It’s a favourite of many gardeners and well sought after. There are many plants with varying shades from the elusive blue poppy to the blue hydrangea, except the former does not do well in the heat and humidity of southern Ontario while the later will keep its pinkness in our alkaline soil. And still gardeners will take on the challenge to grow them.

An easier one is the popular morning glory called ‘Heavenly Blue’ often seen climbing fences, trellises, and sometimes hydro poles. It can each three metres (ten feet) and it puts out fresh flowers daily from summer to fall.

 I do love blue flowers and I have one blooming right now, indoors, and the flowers are as blue as Homer Simpson’s pants — okay maybe not that shade, and they do have the tiniest hint of purple. It’s not the morning glory although it is in the same family, and commonly known as dwarf morning-glory.

The name is Evolvulus alsinoides, and despite being a distant cousin to the more familiar morning glories, it makes no attempt to climb anything but it might trail a little. The plant is a hybrid from Proven Winners called Evolvulus ‘Blue My Mind’, although there are similar plants from different producers with names like ‘Beach Bum Blue’ or ‘Blue Daze’.

 I grew it outdoors in summer in a planter and I liked it so much I brought it indoors for winter where it’s now happily flowering away. Come spring I’ll return it to the garden because it’s a tender perennial sold as an annual, as are many plants. It has to be growing a few zones to the south to stay alive outside through winter.

 Mine didn’t flower as well outdoors as it has in past years because this summer was cooler and wet. That’s not surprising since this plant loves sun and heat but not the cold. In the wild it grows like a weed in a band of tropical and warm temperate regions around the globe, in habitats ranging from marshland to deserts.

Evolvulus is not a large plant, only growing to a few inches high, and outdoors it will do best alone in a planter where it doesn’t have to compete with more vigorous plants. It loves hot sun and when growing well it can survive for a while should someone forget to water it.

The flowers are much the same shape and colour as the heavenly blue morning glory, but they’re much smaller, about the size of a dime or maybe a nickel — remember real money? The leaves are small, too, greyish green and hairy if you look close enough. You’ll see them when you’re peering closely, trying to spot that bit of purple. If I had favourites (oh no, not me), this one would be high on the list.

Blue, blue, my world is blue — rhymes much better than purple. Paul Mauriat’s ‘Love Is Blue’ was fourth in the 1967 Eurovision Song Contest. Darn those ear worms.

Spring is Bouncing About

Finally, I am able to see part of my garden again. Most of the snow has almost left, revealing a very grubby scene. I cleaned up the patio, tidied the shed a little — just enough to be able to get past the doorway. I even did a little pruning when I tentatively approached my climbing rose, snips in hand. We don’t get along. A snip here and there at a couple of wayward canes and I was soon reminded that full combat gear is essential.

Sure, it looks lovely in full bloom, but winter reveals a bad tempered monster fully intent on crushing the arbor. It’s the Jekyll and Hyde of my garden. I have to cut out old, woody branches, plus dead or damaged ones. I try to remove all the weak, stringy shoots, if I can get at them, and I must shorten the healthy ones that are trying to snag my neighbour’s gazebo. The trick is to bend a few healthy canes horizontally to encourage more blooms.

It’s all worthwhile in the end, but it’s rarely a painless process when every thorn is out for blood. They’re only wannabe thorns as technically they’re prickles — outgrowths of the stem surface rather than true thorns. Call em what you like, they’re still nasty, but I’ll forget that come June when the arbor is a mass of pink blooms.

I have other shrubs that need attention and are far less trouble, but I couldn’t get near them until the snow melted. Most shrubs and trees are best pruned while dormant, especially deciduous ones, and right now they’re about to wake up. A little pruning after leaves sprout won’t cause harm, it’s just easier to see what needs trimming — dead, diseased, and wayward branches. They should be cut out, and if the shrub needs shaping at all, now is the time to do it unless it’s a spring flowering shrub.

Here’s the standard reminder: Do not prune spring flowering shrubs until after they’ve finished blooming or you’ll be removing flower buds and it won’t bloom at all.

It’s easy now to check online for pruning requirements of specific plants, but it’s essential to know the species or variety. For instance, I often hear of problems with hydrangeas not blooming. Sometimes it’s due to environmental conditions, but it might just be because someone with a sharp pair of snips and misplaced enthusiasm has lopped off the flower buds.

Mop head, lacecap, and oakleaf species all bloom on old wood, that is, stems that have been on the plant since the previous summer, so prune immediately after blooming (if neccessary), but no later than the end of July.

Paniculata and Annabelle types set flower buds on new growth and can be pruned in fall, winter, or early spring. The so called endless blooming varieties can be pruned almost anytime.

A similar situation exists for clematis. Again, some bloom on old wood, some on new, and some on both old and new, which means there are three different pruning methods. It’s usually noted on the tag, but if that’s long gone, to correctly identify the type, simply observe how and when the flowers appear. 

Fortunately, pruning at the wrong time won’t kill clematis, not when it’s well established. If it’s an out of control, straggly mess and doesn’t flower at all well, it may be worthwhile to have a fresh start by cutting it back severely. This may result in fewer flowers this year but it will recover.

The bottom line for any pruning is 1. Know the plant. 2. Only prune if necessary. 3. Be absolutely sure because you can’t glue branches back on the tree.

Spring arrives with bagpipes playing

 First it was the snow drops, poking through the snow, though hardly a harbinger of spring as they sometimes bloom in January. A little patch of yellow crocus is next to appear, followed by the hellebores. Depending on snow depth, they’re eager to flower as soon as the snow melts.

In my garden I have another plant that’s in the race to announce spring has arrived. It begins to flower even before the crocus or hellebore. It’s Erica carnea, better known as heather or winter heath. When the snow bank beside the driveway first receded back around the middle of March, grubby little specks of colour were already visible, although to the casual observer in the rush from warm car to warm house it could easily have been mistaken for a piece of faded debris.

After a few sunny days and enough rain to rinse off the winter layer of dust and grime, it’s now blooming beautifully. When the weather finally warms up it will be buzzing with pollinators, an early food source for them, same as crocus.

I have two varieties, 'King George', with flowers that open as a pale pink, deepening as the season progresses and 'Springwood white'. By crossing Erica carnea with a related species, Erica Erigena, many cultivars have been developed in shades of pink, purple, and red. These are in a series called darleyensis but the full range is rarely available. I’m happy with the two that I have.

The evergreen leaves of Erica are small and pointy with bronze tips. When in bloom, the leaves are almost hidden by the masses of tiny flowers that last well into May. After flowering is finished, it can be pruned to create a bushier plant, something I’ve never felt the need to do. New flower buds are produced in late summer to early fall.

Now this is not the heather that turns the highlands of Scotland purple each summer, although you could easily pretend that it is. That plant is Calluna vulgaris, known as common heather and it is in the same family.

Calluna grows almost to the height of a swirling kilt on the acidic, peaty soils of Scottish moorland. It also likes more than a wee dram of moisture and there’s no shortage of that in Scotland. As they say there, if you can’t see the hills, it’s raining; if you can see them it’s going to rain, but when the heather is in bloom on a summer’s day, the hills are glorious.

The heather of Scotland is hardy enough to grow here if given the same conditions, however, the soil around Southern Ontario, being mostly neutral on the pH scale, doesn’t suit it. Even though ericaceous, the term used to describe acidic soil, comes from the plant genus, and despite being in the same family as Scottish heather, Erica carnea can tolerate slightly alkaline conditions.

Same as it’s highland cousin, Erica likes its share of moisture, providing the soil drains well, but it doesn’t grow near as high as the Scottish heather. My patches are in full sun and aren’t much higher than an old shag carpet, which makes it an excellent good ground cover that crowds out any competition.

Rated as a zone 5 plant, it is hardy enough, and it’s always done well in my garden, but without the protection of deep snow, would be best covered in winter with evergreen boughs or a coarse mulch. Deer are said to eat it, so I would think rabbits would too, but they haven’t bothered mine. Given the right conditions, heather will look after itself.

When I pause to admire my heather, I swear I can hear bagpipes playing in the distance.