There has been a long spell of dry, sunny weather. Some days are cooler than others, and some are windy, but I’m in the unusually lucky situation of being able to sit in the garden, with my design work every day. Often, when I’m developing a new sample, I’ll listen to audiobooks or podcasts while I knit, but at the moment I’m working on a colourwork allover with five sections (the back, two fronts and two sleeves) where the pattern must be kept “separately correct” while integrating the shaping. This is a mind-mashing challenge, requiring the patience of slow knitting: there’s no point drifting off into autopilot, because something will inevitably go awry. I find that there’s something in this intensity of focus that heightens all the other senses, and when I’m knitting in this way I’m often hyper-aware of sound: the breeze blowing through the garden, the trickling burn flowing past the garden, the walkers and cyclists travelling above me on the bridge, and the birds — especially the birds. One thing I have never regretted is the wonderful series of courses I took in 2020 with the BTO (British Trust for Ornithology), including one in which I was taught to recognise bird songs and calls. At one point on Saturday morning, I stopped knitting to properly notice all the birds I could hear, and in the course of ten minutes counted eighteen different species by listening to their calls. Now the migrants are here in force, the garden really is a sonic riot, with mellifluous blackcaps, quizzical willow warblers, and rattly sedge warblers all interpolating their mates. I enjoy listening to these summer visitors: the warblers on their branches and the swallows and house martins chit-chattering about the phone wires, but more than these I love to hear the birds who live in my garden all year round, and whose individual songs I can now recognise: the wrung-out, territorial, ringing robin, who followed me through days of autumn bulb planting, and the blackbird, who I call Harold, who wakes me every morning with extraordinary, syncopated melodies you can actually sing along to. Harold clearly enjoys his own crazy virtuosity just as much as I do, punctuating his phrases with the occasional note of appreciative surprise that definitely sounds like a “wow.”
I had meant to tell you about the tulips, so here they are.
I think we are probably approaching peak tulip, but Queen of Night is still throwing up tall stems and rich, dark blooms . . . .
. . . both in the beds, (where I’ve been caught weeding by a sneaky paparazzo) and the pot “lasagnes” where I seem to have planted Queen of Night on several bottom layers, and where they are just now popping up.
I doubt any garden designer would put together this particularly higgeldy piggeldy combination – in which you can see Françoise, Belle Époque, and Queen of Night, with a couple of random Gröenlands against a background of Apricot Foxx – but honestly, I love it.
One of the things I did not appreciate (never having grown them before) is the way that some tulips change colour quite dramatically over the period of their flowering.
For example, from its deep and definite pink in bud, Rosy Diamond, has grown paler and more streaky . . . .
. . . with almost white-tipped petals . . .
. ..that lend the whole flower head a fragile, near-brittle appearance, something like iced flowers on a cake
Rosy Diamond’s sugary effect is enhanced rather than diminished by its contrasting tub companion, Créme Upstar.
. . . which began flowering in a very creamy yellow shade, but which has begun to fade into its own pink blush.
The orange coloured tulips have also really changed in hue
Apricot Foxx started out very peachy, but, as time has gone on, has developed an almost two-tone appearance combining lemon and red-pink.
I do not know whether these pigment changes are due to environmental or genetic factors (I must read more), and did wonder about the effects of UV light, but it is interesting that the colours and markings of other tulip varieties have not altered at all, but remained stubbornly consistent . . .
. . .such as the always glorious Blushing Girl . . .
. . .as well as tulips of the Viridiflora type . . .
. . . whose green-streaked range I’ve really been enjoying. This one is China Town – which came up late . . .
. . .and seems to be lasting very well.
In a very sunny spot in the garden, a group of Gröenland flowered rather early, and I’ve enjoyed their undulating, deep pink petals at all stages, perhaps particularly now they are going over.
But there is a different pink variety in the garden which I think might well be my secret favourite – out of all the different tulips I have planted this year – here it is.
I’ve seen bulbs of this variety sold under several names – Mistress Mystic, Mistress Grey, or simply Mistress.
The petal tips are the palest of pale pink, brushed with darker pinks and mauves.
It’s a single Triumph type with six petals, which, seen from above look like two interlocking triangles . . .
. . . and which, viewed from below, lend the tall cupped flower a particularly elegant appearance.
This is quite a distinctive tulip. There’s something both definite and indefinite about it – its undeniably formal structure being countered by the smoky delicacy of its tints. I don’t know about “cashmere” or “old corsets” but I do think that this type of dusky pink is a very good colour for what spring feels like in Scotland. This tulip looks beautiful in sun or shade, and whatever the weather is doing, always seems to catch the light and project it beyond itself.
I planted a group, in grass, all the way around the rusty iron structure which contains an electricity pole, standing in the middle of what’s currently a lawn
These gorgeous blooms have totally transformed a rather unprepossessing part of the garden into something of a feature.
As I walk along the path over the bridge on my way home with the dogs, I always look down into the mill garden, and my cheering circle of Mistress tulips is the first thing that I now see.
I’ll plant more of these next year, I think.
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