From thousands of cuttings grew a golden, glowing masterpiece
The climbing rose I bought may be an imposter but, says our gardening expert Agnes Stevenson, sometimes surprises like these can be a blessing
The rose I planted to grow up the unsightly tree in the front garden is a thing of beauty, but it’s not the rose I ordered. When it turned up it was healthy, vigorous and in tight bud, but now those buds have opened to reveal lipstick-pink flowers I can tell it is definitely not Mme Alfred Carriere, a subtle beauty whose blooms display only the slightest hint of blush. I was all set to dig it up and return it and have the supplier replace it with my original choice, but so many visitors have stopped to admire it that I’ve decided to give it a reprieve. Now, so long as it does the job of climbing high into the tree and covering the more unsightly branches, it can stay. Meanwhile, I have a back-up plan. I’ve taken cuttings from a climbing rose in the garden, the peachy-pink A Shropshire Lad and from the unnamed rambler that covers a wall, and I’m growing them on, ready to take over from the bright pink rose if it fails to do the job. There are more cuttings on the kitchen windowsill, including three different varieties of the highly-scented Azalea luteum I bought from the Glendoick Nursery stand at Gardening Scotland. Ken Cox, who owns the nursery, advised on the selections because they open at slightly different times, providing a longer season of
flowers. I also have dozens of box tree cuttings in the propagator, along with various kinds of hydrangea and lots of scented pinks I snipped off the plants in my mum’s garden. None of these was labelled so the varieties will remain a mystery but, having seen them in flower, at least I know what they will look like. That’s not always the case. Some years ago I visited a magnificent topiary garden in Argyll made from golden yew. “It wasn’t meant to be golden,” the owner told me. It turned out he’d taken thousands of cuttings from an ancient tree, deep in the neighbouring woods, but it was only once they’d grown into young plants and were exposed to the higher light levels in his garden that they showed their true colours. What seemed to him like a setback turned out to be a triumph. All through the winter months, when green yew would have looked dark and brooding, his hedges and topiary figures glowed. That garden convinced me it was possible to grow your own masterpiece, so long as you have the patience. While I’ve got nothing against making a dash to the garden centre to brighten up a patio, developing the skills to grow your own plants is deeply rewarding.