BONKERS FOR BISHOPS
Bishop of Llandaff is definitely a dahlia with a touch of the divine, writes
I fell madly in love a few months ago. With the Bishop of Llandaff.
My passion is doomed to be unrequited, however, because this pillar of the Anglican church — whom I picture as a crusty, black-robed gent sporting whiskery sideburns — lived in the Cardiff area of Wales nearly a century ago.
But look what he left behind: a dahlia that definitely has a touch of the divine. Its finely-shaped foliage is dark and shiny as an eggplant. The blooms are brilliant scarlet. And although the stems grow majestically tall, they don’t need to be propped up by ugly sticks (as many dahlias do.) My lone specimen — a gift from a gardener buddy, planted in a pot on my deck — kept me in a state of rapture all summer. It wouldn’t stop producing flowers. Hummingbirds that helicoptered in every morning clearly loved them, too.
And this particular dahlia — like other unusual varieties of plants that wind up being adored by gardeners — has a history as tangled as a creepercovered fence.
Originally called (appropriately) Lucifer, it was introduced into the U.K. from France in the 1920s by a Welsh breeder, who promptly dubbed it Dahlia Bishop Hughes. Yet the good Bishop objected — was he a gardener himself? I suspect not — so his name got dropped in favour of his title, the Bishop of Llandaff.
Then the plant-naming pooh-bahs stepped in. “It’s illegal,” they huffed, “to put the word ‘The’ in front of a name of any dahlia cultivar.”
Much hoo-hah ensued. The end result is that now, strictly speaking, we’re supposed to simply call it “Bishop of Llandaff.”
But who cares? Whatever the moniker, the first black dahlia to make its presence felt in the U.K. became worshipped — but also despised as “too garish” — by legions of gardeners.
And if you want to see lots of Bishop of Llandaff in bloom, the U.K. is the place to find them. Dahlias — all kinds — are currently very “in” with the Brits. On a trip to England last September, I was pleasantly surprised to discover these show-offy, tropical flowers, which actually originated in Mexico, gracing gardens everywhere.
Decked out in shocking pinks and purples, they looked fabulous at Hampton Court Castle in Herefordshire (a lovely spot well worth visiting, with almost five hectares of quirky gardens, presided over by a pet cat called Primrose.)
They also kept cropping up further south, in Dorset.
Is the Brits’ new-found love affair with these flowers a byproduct of their sum- mers getting warmer and longer? Or are dahlias simply in vogue again after being dismissed as “unsophisticated and vulgar” for years?
I suspect the latter. For proof, there’s the popular British gardening celebrity, Monty Don. He’s become — belatedly, he admits — a big dahlia booster.
“There was a time when I regarded dahlias as beyond the tasteful pale,” he wrote recently.
“Now I think they’re beautiful, in a happy, carefree way. They bring carnival to the garden.”
They sure do. A Canadian fan, Sue Green, introduced me to the deliciousness of dahlias a few years ago. She pointed out that they’re one of the few flowering plants that will keep on happily performing for us until the frost hits — and it’s true.
Now, even in late September, I’m still savouring my Bishop of Llandaff. So much so, I feel inspired to get more involved with dahlias next year.
If you want to do the same, buy the tubers. Many garden centres sell them, usually after Christmas. You can also find ready-potted dahlias that growers have produced vegetatively (i.e. from cuttings), but these tend to be small, with none of the eye-popping drama of their taller cousins.
Pros like Sue Green start their tubers under lights indoors. I may too. For what an inspiring way to fight off the winter blahs, dreaming about the likes of my latest passion, the beautiful Bishop. soniaday.com