As Wyn Drabble tends to his roses he remembers their backstories.
As Wyn Drabble tends to his roses he remembers their backstories.
OPINION
Except for the few that were here when we moved in, my roses have backstories.
As I tend to them – not always as well as I should – their provenance blooms in my brain. Don’t worry, I’m not going to take you through 120-odd backstories but I’ll sharea few so you get my drift, so you have sufficient evidence that I might be off my rocker.
For example, I have just come in from tending the only one which I have named and it is in memory of the late mother of a friend.
The rose variety is Queen Elizabeth and Elizabeth was the second name of the mother. After she died and the house was going to be vacated, I dug it up and brought it home to replant and care for it. The mother used to enjoy a gin – just one – before dinner and in it she would ask for “just a little drop of tap water.”
Every time I water her now, I tell her what I’m giving her. I did once give her a tiny nip of gin as well (yes, really) but on reflection thought that might be a little excessive so now it’s only ever “just a little drop of tap water.”
A couple of the roses, Blackberry Nip and Happy Child, were end-of-year presents to Mrs D – one from a parent, one from a group of girls – to thank her for a year’s effective teaching. As I prune or water them, I always remember that, even though I didn’t personally know the givers.
Another, Oranges and Lemons, was a gift from two young visitors from the Czech Republic. They had parked just inside our gate then ambled up the long drive to ask for permission to sleep there in their van overnight.
Of course it was granted but we asked them to bring the van right up to the house for increased security then we invited them in to share dinner. Their English was limited but we muddled through and had a happy night the details of which I remember every time I point the hose at the plant.
Wyn Drabble.
Just beside Oranges and Lemons are three big Westerlands which bear bright orange flowers. As I water those, I always remember how they came about.
For their particular spot I wanted orange flowers and as I drove to town once I saw a fence with a wall of orange roses spilling over it. The owner was outside so I was able to stop the car and ask what the variety was. It was Crepuscule (named after the crepuscular rays of the sun).
That variety proved unprocurable so I settled on Westerland as being close in colour. I relive that story every time I tend to them even though they often attack me with their excessive armour of thorns.
Two I’m most proud of are ones I propagated from cuttings myself. One I grew from a cutting of what is probably my favourite rose, Blue Moon. The new one is in a pot but each year when it flowers I point out its parent plant at the top of the garden. Yes, I talk to plants.
The other one annoys me – I’ve even directed bad words at it – simply because I don’t know its name and it irks me having roses I can’t identify. I’ve spent countless hours trawling through rose books and websites without success. I’ve even asked it straight out.
But the cutting has flourished into a huge healthy bush so I’m still happy to take the win, as they say in sport. I even reward it with a drinks break from time to time.
