Autumn snowflakes showing their charm

Press, 12 March 1982, Page 11

Autumn snowflakes showing their charm

S GARDENER'S I- DIARY

Derrick Rooney

Autumn-flowering gentians have been making a good display in a shady comer of the rock garden this week, in spite of the drought. But a spent flower on the lovely, warm blue Crocus pulchellus, which had popped up. had its say. and faded away unnoticed. was a reminder that from now on bulbs are going to be the mainstay of the alpine garden. Most gardeners. I think, associate bulbs with spring, but there are almost as many which have their flowers in autumn.

They include not only crocuses and cyclamen — both of which have already begun and will go on. in their various species, almost nonstop until the end of spring — but daffodils, snowdrops, and snowflakes. The first of these, the autumn snowflake, is flowering now. This is Leucojum autumnale. Compared with its spring-flowering cousins, L. aestivum and L. vernum, which seem like giants among the .pygmies when they bloom among the tiny treasures that come in August and September, the autumn snowflake is a tiny and delicate-looking plant that could breathe charm at any time of the year. it is leafless at flowering time, and the flowers, ethereal white, not a centimetre long, and nodding gracefully on cotton-thick red stems, push up through the hard, bare ground. A goodly clump is the very essence of spring-in-autumn. Leucojum roseum is another autumn snowflake: it comes from Corsica, and is even tinier, even more delicate (in appearance only — constitutionally these bulbs are as tough as old boots), and alas rare. I thought I had it last year, from a North Island nursery, and crowed quietly to myself (and a few friends) when I put the trowel under it in summer, and found that the single bulb had increased to

a satisfying seven or eight, but the triumph was brief, for now that it has flowered it has revealed its true white colours; It is Leucojum autumnale. The grower cannot have flowered it, for at flowering time the two cannot be confused: L. roseum ;is only half the height of its cousin, but the flowers are bigger, lucent pink, and nodding on green stalks instead of red ones. Scillas — commonly known as squills — are (mostly) tiny cousins of bluebells which flower successively throughout, spring, when they are among the

gems of the rock garden. But they have an autumn fling, too. One species is just passing out of flower, and another is coming in. The former, which like the autumn snowflake is leafless at flowering time, is Scilla autumnalis. It is found in many parts of Southern Europe -and the Mediterranean, and although it is not a showy plant (the small flowers are a pale bluishmauve) it is a charming one to grow either in the rock garden, which is getting pretty dull at this time of the year, or in a pot with other alpines. It does not seem to be in

commerce in this country now, perhaps because it is such a wispy thing. The common form has a rather bunched-up inflorescence that looks as if some giant has run his finger up the stem and crammed the flowers into a small space at the top, but a better form which came from a seedcollecting expedition to Turkey a few years ago is grown by a few alpine enthusiasts; it, too, seems to have escaped commerce, but it gets around because it is obligingly easy to increase, and gardeners swap it among themselves. Scilla scilloides, better known under the now-invalid name S. chinensis, is in commerce. It is all-but-indistin-guishable from S. autumnalis, except that it flowers a little later (I have just potted up a few bulbs of the former with emergent flower-buds, whereas the previously potted S. autumnalis is all but finished), and has leaves showing with the flower buds.

To all intents and purposes it is merely an Asiatic Scilla autumnalis, and only a nut like me who cares about minute differences would want both.

Both species are reputed to be very hardy, but I prefer to grow them in pots, because I tend to lose them in the open ground. Among other bulbs, the various forms, deep pink, pink, and white, of Cyclamen hederifolium (formerly neapolitanum) are just getting past their floral best, and soon will be producing the prettily marbled leaves which will remain attractive throughout winter and spring; various forms of Cyclamen coum, which have mostly plain green or only slightly marbled leaves and flower mainly in winter, are coming on nicely — C. atkinsii has already had a few of its biggish, soft pink butterfly flowers. Colchicums are in full

swing, too, and are as infuriating as ever. In summer, when I lift the corms. I seem to have 10 to a dozen different ones; but when they flower in autumn only three or four can be separated from the rest. “Agrippium," a very old garden hybrid with (relatively) tiny corms and bilious mauve-purple chequered flowers, is easy to identify; so is “Byzantinum,” another old hybrid with non-che-quered flowers — it has 10, 12, or more flowers per corm, and the filaments have crimson tips. Colchicum autumnale, usually the first to appear, has white filaments, and the flowers are very pale on first opening, but deepen later. I have a white form of this somewhere, and have recently acquired a doubleflowered purple form, but it has yet to flower. There is a double white form too, but it is among the rarest of the rare, and may not even be in this country.

The gladiolus family has its own autumn leaf, too. This is Gladiolus carmineus. an odd customer from South Africa. I noticed its buds appearing, a month early, yesterday while scratching round with a trowel, looking for snowdrop bulbs. In previous years Gladiolus carmineus has flowered in April, reaching its peak only to be cut down by frost; perhaps the baking it has had this season has stimulated it to make an early appearance. At flowering time it is leafless. The flower stem is only a few centimetres tall, but the flowers are quite large and bright pink. After they fade a single leaf apppears, and goes on growing quietly throughout the winter, though it is scarcely noticeable as it lies flat on the ground. By spring it may be a metre along. As spring passes into summer, the leaf fades away.