Your garden doesn't have to lack colour at this time of year. Jane Powerspoints out the flowers that thrive in the off-season
Shrubs and trees that flower during these chill months are a welcome spirit booster. The winter cherry (Prunus subhirtella ‘Autumnalis’) has one of the longest seasons. It starts putting out its papery blossom in November, and continues to froth up intermittently until March or April.
On a blue-skied winter day you’ll find its confetti-like petals being nuzzled by big-bottomed bumblebees, and the odd honeybee. The latter come out only on really fine days, as they have large larders to keep them sustained during cold weather.
Not so the bumblebees, who have laid up minimal supplies and must grab what they can when it is clement enough for flight. The only bumblebees that survive from one year to the next are the mated queens, who start off new colonies in early spring. They are supposed to hibernate, living off their body fat, but perhaps their sleep is interrupted in our milder winters.
In any case, there are plenty around this month. And they depend on early flowers for nectar and pollen to feed themselves and – a little later – their new families. The blooms that gladden our eyes at this time of the year are life savers for them.
Another plant that flowers for a long season is the leggy shrub with the lengthy name, Viburnum x bodnantense ‘Dawn’. Its clusters of tiny shellpink trumpets exude a sweet fragrance that often wafts unexpectedly into your cold winter nose as you rush past – adding a surprise treat to the day. It can grow into a very large shrub indeed: those in the Welsh garden, Bodnant (which supplied this cultivar with part of its name) are tree-sized. But it is a slow mover. If pruned after flowering, it is easily kept in shape. Remove old, weak and awkward-looking stems from the base of the plant, and you will maintain the shrub’s upright and lean profile.
When not in flower, this viburnum is not particularly interesting, which shouldn’t trouble gardeners with large patches. In a smaller garden you can enliven its stolid dark green form with an annual climber such as the yellow canary creeper (Tropaeolum peregrinum), or tender perennials such as the Chilean glory vine (Eccremocarpus scaber) or purple bell vine (Rhodochiton atrosanguineus).
Wintersweet (Chimonanthus praecox) has curious, translucent yellow blooms, with bases that are stained purple. “Drab little flowers”, according to the late plantsman and writer Graham Stuart Thomas. And indeed they are, but the smell – of violets and spice – carries a distance. This fountain-shaped shrub comes from China, and its petals are used in that country to flavour green tea. It waits a few years before it flowers, so I suppose you might call it an “investment plant”. Refrain from pruning when it’s young in case you disrupt its inclination to flower.
Witch hazel (Hamamelis) is sometimes confused with wintersweet: they both begin with “w” and have odd-looking yellow flowers that appear in winter. Moreover, it is also scented, although its aroma is not as strong nor as sweet. The flowers are more spidery and ragged, with the petals resembling julienne strips of lemon or orange peel.
They are reputed to like only acid or neutral soil, but Val Bourne in her excellent book, The Natural Gardener, says they will do nicely in limey conditions if you add lots of organic matter to the soil, and give the roots a cool and shaded run. The popular ‘Pallida’, she says, is one of the most fragrant.
There are over three dozen cultivars of witch hazel, almost all of which have arisen from one or two Asian species. The common name, however, comes from North America, where there are two species (including H. virginiana, the source of the astringent lotion). Its moniker arose because the twigs were used for water divining by early colonists, and the leaves resemble those of the true hazels (Corylus). Prune witch hazels immediately after flowering to keep them from becoming overlarge.
Most witch hazels have good autumn colour, so you get two seasons of interest. But it is their cousin, Parrotia persica, that is one of the stunners of the end-of-year garden – when its foliage becomes a multicoloured shimmer of gold, orange, red and maroon. It is also known as Persian ironwood, as its timber is dense and hard, no doubt because it is a slow grower. In January (around now) its dainty chocolate-coloured suede buds split open to reveal bundles of cherryred stamens. No petals, just stamens, and alas, no scent, but it is a botanical curiosity that cheers me up when I remember to seek it out at the end of our garden. Parrotias need no pruning, except for trimming the occasional over-enthusiastic side shoot.
They usually form a huge mound of a shrub, having a tendency to grow out rather than up. If you want your parrotia to have a more upstanding habit, gently tie the topmost shoot (the leader) to a bamboo cane so that it is vertical. This encourages “apical dominance”, a natural mechanism that inhibits the side shoots from growing.
All of the above plants bloom on bare wood,giving the flowers a poignant look of fragility, as they go it alone with no leaves to protect them or keep them company. Don’t be fooled. Any flower that pokes its head out at this time of the year has its loins well girded, and is as tough as old boots. Plants that bloom in January and February are adapted to cope with the cold, wet and wind: their flowers are small or waxy-petalled, or are protected in some other way against the extremes of winter.
There are many evergreen winter-flowerers as well. And although, to my mind, they don't usually have the same spare elegance as the bare branchers, many have wonderful scent. One of the best-smelling is Daphne bholua ‘Jacqueline Postill’. As with most daphnes, it remains relatively compact, so it’s a good shrub for smaller gardens.
I must leave you with one of my favourite winter bloomers, an evergreen climber from the Balearics. Clematis cirrhosa var. balearica is also known as the fern-leaved clematis, because of its pretty, dissected foliage. Its pendulous creamy blooms are splashed with wine. It’s supposed to remain smallish, and if you need to prune it, do so after it finishes flowering in spring.
Otherwise, yours will be like mine, travelling off into the vasty heights of the neighbour’s laurel, and flowering where I can admire it only from afar.