Being a Dad is one of the great joys of my life. Child raising isn’t without its challenges, of course, but neither is it without some happy by-products. As a parent, I’ve had the pleasure of reading lots of kid’s books and watching the occasional kid’s movie. The best of these are brilliant works of art, and while I’ve got a soft spot for oldies like Mary Poppins (love the chimney sweep scene) my favourite so far is the 2006 film version of EB White’s classic fable, Charlotte’s Web.

One of the major themes of the movie, or at least the theme that gets telegraphed most insistently, is the idea of finding the miraculous in the commonplace. The closing song leaves little doubt about the “ordinary miracle” concept, and while the same theme is present in the book, EB White takes a less sentimental approach.

The novel’s title character, a spider named Charlotte, befriends a runt pig and saves him from the axe by writing a series of well chosen adjectives in her web above the pig’s pen. Charlotte describes Wilbur the runt as “some pig”, “terrific”, and “radiant”, and by the time the word “humble” appears in the spider’s web one morning toward the end of the book, crowds are flocking to witness the miracle first hand. As a consequence, her friend’s bacon is spared from the smoke house, and Wilbur lives to see winter.

What fascinates me about EB White’s story is the suggestion that people are drawn to the extraordinary sight of words written in spider silk, yet they overlook the real miracle – the web itself. There’s nothing grand about the sight of a dew laden web, catching sunlight on an autumn morning, but the incredible strength of the threads and the precision of the structure makes a spider’s web one of nature’s truest marvels. Every time we walk past such wonders without a second thought, we do ourselves a disservice.

Gardeners claim to love the natural world, but we’re as guilty of overlooking ordinary, everyday miracles as much as anyone. The problem stems from what amounts to a perpetual quest for the newest, the brightest, and the boldest. It’s exacerbated by some of the big garden centres and the broader horticulture industry, both of which are obsessed with the development of new plants with showier flowers that become further and further removed from their wild ancestors. We miss far more than spider webs.

I think there’s plenty we can learn from children. A child development expert could explain why, but I’ve noticed that kids are innately aware of, and get incredible joy from, the small details in their surroundings. When my kids pick a flower for their mum, they usually choose something insignificant, and unspectacular. When they appreciate autumn colour, it’s through a single leaf, not an entire tree. When they pick a piece of fruit from the garden they rarely salivate over the largest specimen. In a child’s world, little things are extraordinary.

One of the plants my kids enjoy the most is the common sweet violet, Viola odorata. We’re growing it as a groundcover on either side of semi-shaded path leading to our back door, where it also adjoins the kid’s sandpit. When the plant is in bloom from early winter to spring, the flowers get picked constantly for everything from making perfume to decorating volcanoes to sprinkling over miniature ponds. There are hundreds of other flowers to choose from in the garden. But it’s a purple wonder the size of a thumbnail that my children gravitate to.

I share the kid’s enthusiasm for violas. My favourite cool season flower is the humble Johnny Jump Up, Viola tricolour, a plant that earned its common name because of a tendency to self seed and pop up spontaneously in the garden. Its other common name is heartsease. This refers to the plant’s historical use as a medicinal herb, but I think it perfectly suits Viola tricolour’s ability to inspire cheer on the bleakest days of mid-winter. I also grow the larger flowered pansies (which are viola hybrids), but for me, a clump of happy looking Johnny Jump Ups is pure gold.

The 19th century American philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote that “the invariable mark of wisdom is the ability to see the miraculous in the common”. I’ll leave it for others to judge whether I’m wise or not, but as a gardener, and a dad, I think it’s vital that I learn to see with eyes attuned to nature’s common glories. If I can pass such wisdom onto my kids, and they pass it on to their own children, I’ll die a very contented man.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 4th June 2011. Photo by Justin Russell – common violet, Viola odorata.

All gardeners, at some point or another, are affected by what I like to call irresistible plant urge syndrome. The symptoms go a bit like this. You stop by your local nursery with no particular intent other than to have a browse. Out of the corner of your eye you spot a plant that’s been on your wish list for years, but have never been able to find a place in the garden for. You purchase the said plant and take it home, only to find that there’s a good reason it was stuck on your wish list – you don’t have a place for it. Undeterred, you convince yourself that you’ll make a spot available in the not too distant future, and will leave the new plant in its pot with a number of other plants also waiting to be planted into the garden.

The poor old plant sits there in horticultural purgatory for the next year, where it gradually deteriorates, becoming pot bound and turning yellow. One hot summer day you forget to water the plant and it dies. You throw the contents of the pot onto the compost, and resolve not to buy the same plant until you have a position in the garden ready to go. One spring day a few months hence, you stop by your local nursery and…all serious gardeners know how the story ends. Irresistible plant urge syndrome. I’ve had it, and still get the occasional relapse.

I’m doing my best, though, to resist the urge to buy plants on impulse. Instead, I’ve resolved to work with the plants I’ve already got in the garden, taking cuttings from favourites, dividing others, and where necessary, digging some up and moving them to a more favourable position. I find plant relocation particularly satisfying work for some reason. Maybe it’s because I’m making the most of what I’ve got, fine tuning rather than longing for more, and at least part of the pleasure is that the work is done mostly in autumn.

The weather for the last three days has been absolutely superb in my garden. We’ve woken to frosty mornings followed by perfectly clear, still days, with enough warmth left in the sun to wear a short sleeved shirt. There’s also plenty of warmth left in the soil. This warmth is a legacy of summer, and it will gradually decrease over the coming months until the soil reaches its lowest temperature in early spring.

The benefit of transplanting in autumn is two fold: first, the warm soil means quick recovery of damaged roots. Secondly, the cooler air temperatures mean that the plant loses less moisture through it’s foliage. Put simply, a plant moved in autumn is under less stress.

Even so, there are a few rules to follow to give a relocated plant the best chance of success. Start by identifying which plants move well, and which don’t. Those with a deep and woody root system, such as many natives, tend to be much more difficult to move than plants such as camellias or citrus, which have a fairly shallow, fibrous root system. Clumping perennials such as agapanthus, bearded iris, cannas, sedums, kniphofia and catmint, for example, are perfect candidates for division and relocation.

For plants that are small enough to be dug and moved by hand, you should begin by cutting the foliage back by at least half it’s overall size. This reduces moisture loss. Then drive a sharp spade around the rootball of the plant and dig it up. Aim to strike a balance between retaining as many roots as possible, and allowing easy relocation of the plant to its new position.

Once the plant has been lifted, a race is on. Roots exposed to the air will begin drying out and left for too long, the plant might fail to recover. Ideally, you should get the plant into its new position as soon as possible, which means having the site prepared ahead of time, otherwise “heel” it into a temporary position, or put the plant in a plastic bag with the roots contained in moist sawdust or newspaper. Plant out at the next opportunity.

Just prior to replanting, soak the roots for half an hour in a bucket containing a weak seaweed solution. The seaweed will help the plant overcome transplant shock, then plant out carefully into well prepared soil. Water the plant in well, even if the soil’s moist. Keep the water up for the first few months at least, and fingers crossed, your relocated plant will grow away strongly in spring. Then you, the gardener, will feel the warm glow of having made the most of what was already in the garden, rather than succumbing to irresistible plant urges.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 21st May, 2011. Photo by Justin Russell, Sedum ‘Autumn Joy’.

Could there be a kinder season than the one we’re experiencing at the moment? Every time I wander through our garden these days I’m absolutely gob smacked by how good some plants are looking, and though I’d like to claim a role beyond planting and a bit of fertilising, I can’t. If a plant looks spectacular in our garden this spring, it’s primarily due to favourable weather. Nothing beats consistent rain and coolish temperatures for producing lush spring growth and finally, the garden I started nearly five years ago at the height of the drought is starting to hit its straps.

One of the plants that really caught my eye this morning was a true, species geranium or cranesbill. Geranium sanguineum, the Bloody Cranesbill, always gets comments from visitors, but very few people are able to identify it. When I announce that it’s a geranium, people look at me with a confused look on their face as if to say “are you sure”. I’m not immune to getting plant names mixed up from time to time, but in this case, yep, I’m sure.

The confusion lies in the fact that the group of plants we commonly call geraniums, are actually Pelargoniums. These are your classic “Mediterranean window box plants”, grown extensively by Australian gardeners over many decades and prized for their ease of cultivation, brilliantly coloured flowers and supreme resistance to drought and heat. There are pelargonium clubs everywhere. It’s just that they’re known as geranium clubs.

By contrast the true geraniums, though closely related to pelargoniums, are quite different plants. At the risk raising the ire of pelargonium collectors across the Downs, and there are lots of them about, I’m prepared to go out on a limb and say that geraniums are much better plants. They are more elegant, suit positions from hot sun to cool shade, offer four seasons of interest, and are just as stunning when in full flower as their false geranium relatives.

Including Geranium sanguineum, we grow about four different types at Thistlebrook.  The bloody cranesbill is probably my all round favourite. Hailing from the UK right through Europe to northern Turkey, G. sanguineum is a sprawling groundcover that will spread up to half a metre in diameter and in good years will reach about 40cm tall.

For a UK native the plant tolerates a surprising amount of heat and drought, but it really goes to town during wetter years with a flush of attractive dark green leaves followed by a prolific display of magenta flowers. The name “bloody” is derived from the red foliage tints that develop during autumn.

Sanguineum is one of the easiest care plants in my garden. After more than six years of growing it I’m yet to see it affected by pest or disease, and the only real care it needs is an annual haircut in late winter to allow new foliage to come through. As well as the species we also grow G. sanguineum ‘Cedric Morris’, which features slightly larger flowers.

Geranium ‘Rozanne’ is another of my favourite plants. This hybrid between two Himalayan species, wallichianum and himalayense, dies right back to a dormant crown during winter and looks dead for all money. But every spring it reappears, and once it gets going, produces what seems like an endless display of mauve blue flowers all summer long. Like the bloody cranesbill, these are followed by a lovely display of autumn foliage. ‘Rozanne’ does best in a semi-shade position, and with a bit of regular moisture is a magic little plant.

The fourth variety we grow is Geranium x cantabrigiense ‘Biokovo’. This is a compact geranium that was named for Mt Biokovo in Croatia where it was found as a natural hybrid. Mountain plants are generally pretty tough, and Biokovo is no exception. It makes a very dense groundcover is either full to part sun, and tolerates drought just as readily as any plant in my garden. White-pink flowers are produced prolifically in spring, and in autumn/winter, the evergreen foliage turns a radiant burnt orange colour. Another brilliant little plant.

If none of these geraniums take your fancy there are loads more to choose from. I’m keen to try the shade loving mourning widow, Geranium phaeum, and for a dry spot, I’d like to give the South African species G. incanum a shot. Then there’s Geranium macrorrhizum, G. robertianum, G. pratense…the list goes on. Geraniums are extremely garden worthy. Why they aren’t grown more often is beyond me.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 6th November 2010. Photo by Justin Russell, Geranium sanguineum in the Cottage Garden at Thistlebrook.

You’d never guess it from the utter lack of publicity it’s received, but 2010 is officially the United Nations International Year of Biodiversity. The term “biodiversity” gets bandied around a lot these days (including in Secret Garden!), but what does it actually mean?

Simply put, biodiversity is short for “biological diversity”. It describes the total range of life-forms within a given ecosystem or biome, and suggests that the more biodiverse an ecosystem, the more resilient it is to disruption. In geographical terms, tropical biomes along the equator tend to be the most biodiverse on earth, while the poles tend to be the least biodiverse.

From my point of view as a passionate home gardener, biodiversity has three main implications – habitat creation/preservation, resistance to pests and disease, and conservation of genetic diversity. Let’s look at each of them in turn.

Habitat Creation/Preservation

We share our gardens with all kinds of life forms, from soil dwelling micro-organisms to native animals. As such, I believe we have a moral responsibility to preserve habitat for native species where it already exists, and where it doesn’t exist, to create new habitat.

Habitat creation isn’t too difficult. Mostly it involves a change of attitude that is more tolerant and inclusive of species other than Homo sapiens. Beyond that, it is largely about providing water, shelter and food for native animals by planting a diversity of species that are either indigenous to your area, or well suited to your particular climate. I’m not a native plant fanatic, favouring instead an eclectic garden full of plants from all over the world, but I do think it’s important to set aside at least part of the garden for “the birds”.

Resistance to Pests and Disease

The internationally renowned garden designer Paul Bangay, who was in Toowoomba last year, is famous for using a plant palette consisting of just a handful of species. In one of his books, he says that “I love those occasions when a site gives me the opportunity to use only two kinds of plant or even one, but lots of that one or two.” While Bangay’s gardens are undeniably elegant, his statements from a biodiversity point of view are way off the mark.

Let’s cut to the chase: the fewer the number of plant species within a garden, the more vulnerable it is to attack from every pest and disease under the sun. And as a consequence of limited diversity, the more necessary it is to drench the garden in chemicals to keep it healthy. If you want to reduce, or eliminate your use of toxic chemicals in the garden, the quickest way to shoot yourself in the foot is to “use only two kinds of plant or even one”. In agriculture, this would be called a monoculture. Biodiverse gardens comprised of many plant species are more likely to be healthy gardens.

Conserving Genetic Diversity

Consider, if you will, the humble spud. For centuries it has been one of the most important, and reliable, foodstuffs eaten by human beings, to the point that the International Potato Centre in Peru maintains a collection of about 5,000 individual varieties.

Now consider the Irish Potato Famine. By the mid 1800’s, the Irish had been growing the potato for more than 200 years. But due to a range of social and political factors, the lower classes of the population had become almost entirely dependant on the plant for food, with a single variety in particular dominating plantings across the country.

The Lumper tasted awful, but was nutritious and had the virtue of producing very heavy yields per acre. It’s major vice was that it was disease prone, and in the autumn of 1845, the fungal disease “late blight” wiped out the nations entire crop. Approximately one million people died from starvation and disease, a quarter of the population.

The moral of the story is simple, yet profound. Reduce genetic diversity far enough, and there’s a very real risk of starvation. Conversely, increase and preserve genetic diversity and food becomes more secure. It also becomes more democratic. The seed of heirloom varieties can be saved, and distributed to friends, increasing the gene pool even further.

I’d encourage each of you to celebrate the International Year of Biodiversity in your own backyard. Set aside a part of the garden where you can plant Australian natives to provide habitat. Rethink the minimalist approach to garden design in the light that the shelves in your garden shed will inevitably groan with poisons. Grow old fashioned fruit and vegetable varieties. Do your bit to preserve the genetic diversity of our food producing plants, and enjoy the myriad of flavours, colours, textures and origins as part of the bargain.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 19th June 2010. Photo by Justin Russell – Roberta’s Garden, Pittsworth.

The leaves are turning. It might only be the second week of March but already, some plants have lost their lustre and are revealing the merest hint of the glorious tones to come. For those of us who live in a temperate climate, foliage is autumn’s main event, and rightly so. Nothing conveys summer’s last hurrah, and the inevitable descent into winter quite like the falling of leaves.

Look closer though, and less obvious glories reveal themselves. Rain lilies have popped up in the grounds of my daughter’s school. Salvia leucantha near the back gate is finally hitting its straps with an abundance of felty flower spikes. Lord Lambourne apples in the orchard are swelling, and will soon be ready to pick. And wherever I look there are daisies flowering their cheery little heads off in resistance to the shortening days.

Daisies belong to the Asteraceae family of plants. This is one of the largest and most geographically diverse families in the entire plant kingdom, with more than 23,000 individual species scattered across the globe, and absent only from Antarctica. All are identified by their star-shaped flowers (aster = “a star”), which is really a central cone of individual florets surrounded by coloured bracts. Lettuces, wormwood and artichokes are daisies. So are some of our worst weeds, like parthenium and boneseed. Australia has around 1,000 native daisy species, while South Africa and North America each have double this number, and are home to many of the more reliable daisies for the home garden.

Gerberas, gazanias, and osteospermums from South Africa, and echinacea, rudbeckia, and sunflowers from North America are all classic garden plants. Many flower late, giving them special associations with autumn. The Michaelmas daisy, Aster novi-belgii, flowers around the time of St Michael’s Day (29^th September) in the northern hemisphere, but over here we call it the Easter daisy as it flowers around early April.

Both it and the closely related New England aster (A. novae-angliae) are both good doers in a perennial border, offering masses of flower until the first frosts. But as decent as these plants are, they’re not a shade on my favourite daisy, Aster x frikartii ‘Monch’. If I could recommend a single daisy ‘Monch’ would be it, and I’d actually rate it as one of the very best flowering perennials for Darling Downs gardens.

During the early 1900’s, a Swiss plant breeder named Frikart crossed the Italian starwort, A. amellus with A. thomsonii, a Himalayan species found on dry woodland edges. Neither species is that spectacular on its own, but through the magic of hybridisation the two combined to produce some interesting plants. Frikart named all his crosses after Swiss mountain peaks and one in particular – ‘Monch’ – stood out as a five star plant.

Monch’s virtues are many. Because of its parentage, it is very resistant to heat and drought. I’ve got it growing in a border that receives direct afternoon sun, and while other daisies wilt on hot afternoons, Monch seems unfazed. What makes it a great plant for our climate is that it combines drought tolerance with an ability to handle wet summer weather. During the last few weeks we’ve had rain almost every day in my garden, often the light misty stuff that is heaven for fungal diseases. Powdery mildew is one of the main afflictions of asters, but Monch is mildew free and happy as a lark.

These traits are all helpful and contribute to the plant’s garden worthiness. But let’s face it. Most gardeners treat flowering perennials like bimbo supermodels. All they’re really interested in are looks, and sometimes even the most superficial but dopiest plants find a place in the garden. I prefer plants (and people) with a more rounded “personality”. Hence the reason I’m such a fan of Monch. Sure, it produces masses of exquisite dusky purple flowers over a three month period well into May, but its traits go much deeper than mere good looks.

Growing Aster ‘Monch’ is a pretty straightforward affair. Give it well drained, half decent soil in a sunny spot, and plant toward the front of a border. The plant will reach about a metre in height, making it an excellent companion for autumn flowering roses, and other late flowering perennials like Salvia ‘Bethellii’ and Helianthus ‘Lemon Queen’. One combination that works particularly well is when Monch is grown in front of big ornamental grasses like Miscanthus ‘Gracillimus’ – the late flowers contrasting subtly with the honeyed foliage tones produced by the grass as it fades.

Aster ‘Monch’ is available from specialist perennial nurseries and through mail order. Give it a try. Odds are, you’ll develop a new found love of an old garden favourite, the daisy.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 9th March 2010. Photo by Justin Russell “Aster Monch”.

What was I saying last week about the weather getting odder by the day? This week has proven even odder than the last. Thirty degree temperatures in August has thrown lots of plants in my garden for a loop, not to mention the kids, who are arriving at the end of the day looking rosy cheeked and totally exhausted. Now I know why the buffer between winter and summer known as spring exists. It lets us all – plants and people – acclimatise.

Alas, there looks to be little acclimatising happening this year. I’m reluctant to be the bearer of bad tidings, but the BOM is predicting hotter and drier than average conditions for spring and summer. If you’ve got tank or bore water, now is the time to get new plants in the ground, before the worst of the hot dry weather really hits.

While you’re at it, why not consider some plants that produce blue flowers. Red and yellow pigments are common in the plant world, but blue is the rarest of them all. Most flowers described as blue are actually a shade of purple, or in the case of the inconceivably silly “blue” rose, more like a murky mauve. But get hold of a true blue flowering plant, and you’re guaranteed to enjoy a welcome splash of coolness in the middle of a hot summer, even if the cooling effect is psychological rather than physical.

At the moment I’m eagerly anticipating the first flowering of Ceanothus ‘Blue Pacific’. This is a cultivar of Californian lilac Kylie and I planted last autumn as a hedge, and beside its drought tolerance and resistance to wind, ‘Blue Pacific’ produces enormous panicles of flowers the colour of a clear September sky. More intensely blue is the dwarf cultivar Ceanothus ‘Blue Sapphire’, which has the added bonus of setting off its flowers against chocolate coloured leaves. Both are evergreen shrubs of the highest order.

If your soil is acidic, or you’re prepared to throw coffee grounds onto the soil, you’ll be able to grow one of the best blue flowering plants of all, Hydrangea macrophylla. This is one of those classic Toowoomba plants, and for good reason. Its blue flowers tone beautifully with lime green foliage, it flowers prolifically in tricky semi shade positions, the mop heads make excellent cut flowers, and not least, Hydrangea is a plant that exudes coolness.

In addition to a classic like hydrangea, lots of new plants are gaining popularity in the region’s gardens thanks to their reliability and drought tolerance. Salvias in particular are now a must have plant. Of the herbaceous types Salvia nemorosa ‘Blauhugel’ (syn. ‘Blue Hills’) produces the truest blue flowers, and makes a nice low filler plant at the front of a sunny border.

For genuine “blueness” though, it’s hard to go past the shrubby types. Salvia azurea is a superb variety, and really does bloom in an azure shade right through the late summer and autumn. It benefits from a haircut early in the growing season in order to avoid leggyness, but other than that, it’s a tough, yet ethereal plant. Another favourite of mine for a protected position is Salvia guaranitica ‘Black and Blue’, which produces unusual flowers coloured electric blue and inky black.

Let’s not overlook our native plants either. The Australian continent is home to some of the best blue flowering plants in the world, and one worthy of special attention is Lechenaultia biloba. Easily as stunning as the famed Himalayan Blue Poppy when in full bloom, Lechenaultia biloba is a low growing, semi-woody plant endemic to the south western corner of WA. It likes warm, dry conditions and most of all, perfect drainage. Because of this requirement it can be tricky to grow in our climate if planted directly in the ground so a better option is to try growing Lechenaultia in a deep, unglazed pot filled with a very free draining potting mix. Avoid wetting the foliage, and tip prune often to keep the luminescent flowers going right through spring into early summer.

Whether you use them in the garden as a “softener” between bolder plants, or plant them in great bluebell-like drifts for a sea of colour, blue flowering plants play an important role in the garden. If you’re like me and have been blessed with genes that make you sweat underwater, blue flowers are some of the most valued of them all. Green is lush, but blue is simply too cool for school.

First published in The Chronicle 29th August 2009. Image by Scott Zona via Wikimedia Commons.

Rhubarb seems to be one of those plants that gardeners either love or hate. I fall in the former category. I could go on about how I appreciate the plant for its ornamental qualities, what with its big bold leaves and stunning red stems, but I’d be only half telling the truth. In reality, the reason I love rhubarb is simple – it’s the key ingredient, alongside apples, in one of my favourite desserts.

Rhubarb’s eating qualities were actually discovered quite recently. For a couple of thousand years, the plant was cultivated solely for its medicinal qualities. Chinese herbalists used the root of wild rhubarb as a purgative, and Marco Polo wrote about the plant in the accounts of his travels through China. Not until 1778 did people learn that they could cook, and eat, the plant’s stems.

The rhubarb that we grow in our gardens is commonly thought to be a hybrid, Rheum x hybridum, and a number of cultivars are commonly available at this time of the year. ‘Ever Red’ is one of the best for smallish gardens or pots. It forms a compact plant with deep burgundy stems that are produced over an extended harvest period. Another old favourite is ‘Glaskin’s Perpetual’, a more vigorous plant with red to green stems. Not all rhubarbs are red though, and ‘Victoria’ is an old green variety that tastes just as good. In my garden I grow a local strain called ‘Highfields Ever Red’

Because it hails from northwestern China, Mongolia, Siberia and Tibet, rhubarb needs a cold winter to break dormancy. Temperatures below about five degrees Celsius will get the plant growing strongly in spring, but there’s a catch – rhubarb also prefers coolish summers. Grown in full sun, dry soil, and a hot climate, rhubarb will wilt quicker than an iceblock in the Sahara. My plants are tucked in to a sheltered border of the vegetable patch where they receive morning sun, but benefit from a full afternoon of shade in summer. Still, I find that on warm days deep watering a few times per week might be needed to keep the moisture in those big parasol leaves.

While rhubarb loves a reliable supply of moisture, the crown will quickly rot if conditions become waterlogged. So in addition to a rich soil, a must for growing great rhubarb is drainage. Work in plenty of organic matter such as rotted manure or compost prior to planting, but if your soil is heavy black clay, try using raised beds. If you’re still having trouble, consider planting rhubarb in a decent sized container filled with top quality potting mix. A half wine barrel is perfect.

The most difficult aspect of growing rhubarb has nothing to do with the plant itself, but everything to do with patience. Don’t harvest any stalks for at least a full year from planting. For the less temperate amongst you, or those who, like me, have an addiction to stewed rhubarb and apple, this waiting game will be excruciatingly hard. But it’s worth it. Give the young plant time to develop a decent sized crown, and you’ll be amply rewarded.

When harvest time finally rolls around, always ensure you gently pull the stems from the crown, rather than cutting. Cut stems create an ideal entry point for fungal attack, and in wet summers, this can lead to crown rot. Also, it’s important to not harvest too many stalks in a single summer. Leave about half to grow to maturity and develop full sized leaves, as these will feed the roots that provide next summer’s crop.

Pests are rarely a problem. Slugs and snails can wreak a bit of havoc with the leaves, but this is mostly an issue of cosmetics. Flavour is unaffected. In my garden possums are the main threat to our enjoyment of rhubarb and apple for dessert. Believe it or not, they manage to eat the leaves without being poisoned, and in the space of a week, entire plants can be chomped almost to ground level.

One final word of warning: rhubarb leaves are high in oxalic acid. In other words they’re poisonous, and if you manage to chew through around five kilograms of the things, they’ll probably kill you. Seriously though, it’s best to leave them to the possums, and make full use of the stems. Rhubarb and apple – I can taste it now!

First published by The Chronicle 15th August 2009. Image by Emily Barney via flickr.

I’m starting to feel like a real gardener. For most of last week I worked inside, bum on seat, fingers on keys, staring endlessly at a computer monitor, until by Friday I was just about ready to burst with a need to head outside and get stuck into some real work. As much as I love to garden, I’d never really experienced this need so powerfully and it dawned on me that this isn’t just a hobby for me any more. Gardening has etched itself onto my soul. It’s what I do and part of who I am. All it takes is a few days indoors and I’m starting to act like a lover deprived.

When the time finally came to get outside last week, I knew straight away what jobs I wanted to get stuck into. One was planting. This was more out of necessity than any other motivation, as the plant “waiting room” was starting to look more crowded than Accident and Emergency on a Saturday night. But the job I really longed for was one of my winter favourites: I grabbed my best long handled spade, and started dividing perennials.

It’s hard to put a finger on the exact reason this job is a favourite. It might simply have something to do with the actions of digging, lifting, dividing and replanting. Timeless, physical work like this always makes me feel satisfied upon completion, certainly more so than a day spent behind the computer. But a more likely reason is the multiplier effect.

Herbaceous perennials are generous plants. Not only do they tend to grow quickly, filling up spaces in just a few years, but they are endlessly flexible. If you’re not happy with a perennial in its current position, just dig it up when dormant and move it to a more favoured location. Here’s the best bit. When the plant has been dug, it can also be divided. And from a single clump you might be able to tease out 10, 20, 30 or even more individual plantlets that can  either be planted back in the ground, potted up for later use, or given away to friends.

Last Friday I divided some achilleas. These are fantastic plants to work with for a couple of reasons. One is that they actually flower better if divvied up every few years. The other is that they split so easily, and so generously. A single clump about 40cm in diameter yielded enough plants for two more clumps twice that size, as well as another 12 good quality pieces that I potted up for future projects in spring.

Other plants are equally generous. Mature agapanthus transplant brilliantly, lending themselves to being dug up, split roughly with a spade and shared amongst fellow gardeners. Clivias will take similar treatment, as will clumping natives like dianellas. Campanulas can be split into quite small pieces and species geraniums like Geranium sanguineum and G. “Biokovo” will settle back in readily over winter.

Some perennials appreciate more specialised treatment. Bearded irises for example need to be replanted with the top surface of their rhizomes exposed to the sun. This helps them flower better the following spring. Herbaceous salvias like Salvia nemorosa subsp tesquicola are quite woody and will benefit from being split into quite large pieces with decent sections of root left intact. North American perennials like Echinacea, Rudbeckia and Monarda are best taken from the outer edges of a clump. This is where the most vigorous growth occurs.

Ornamental grasses are a special case in point. Species like Miscanthus, Calamagrostis and Pennisetum can prove fickle when divided in winter, and are best left until they begin actively growing in spring. The larger clumps will also take a bit of muscle, or machinery, to split. Try using a couple of strong garden forks placed back to back to lever a clump apart, but if this is too difficult, go for broke and use either a chainsaw, a reciprocating saw, or at a pinch, a strong handsaw. This might sound drastic, but anyone who’s ever tried to divide a big grass like Miscanthus ‘Gracillimus’ will know that they need this type of brute force to divide.

The next time you’re feeling a bit cooped up, after days tucked away from the cold weather, my advice is simple. Put on some warm clothes and head outside for a bit of hard graft. Put spade to soil. Get back in touch with your patch of earth. I’ll almost guarantee that by the time the westerly wind becomes unbearable, you’ll retreat indoors reinvigorated. I always do, and am always reminded of a Norwegian proverb: “He (or she) who chops his own wood gets doubly warm”. So it is with winter gardening.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle, 13th June 2009. Photo by Justin Russell.

Unless you’re selecting a cricket team, reliability isn’t the most prized of virtues. In fact some people probably don’t even consider reliability a virtue at all. Yet if you go behind the scenes of any organisation worth its salt, be it the local P and C, or the Australian test team, you’ll find a few consistent performers that give the group a spine. The same is true of gardens.

In every garden there are prima donnas, the stars of the show, the belles of the ball. But in the very best gardens, the prima donnas are allowed to shine courtesy of a framework of tough, reliable plants. You know the type, don’t you? I’m referring to those two or three different species that seem so content with their lot that they quietly go about the business of growing and looking good day in, day out, irrespective of weather or season.

At my place, one of the most reliable plants is a New Zealand flax. I purchased it as Phormium tenax ‘Purpurea’, but it’s never been anything like purple. Rather, olive-bronze leaves suggest that it’s a seed raised plant that hasn’t come true to type, but despite being the wrong colour, it has proven a very worthy performer. I’ve planted it in what I call the “sunset garden”, a wide border full of plants toned copper, bronze and claret. When back lit by the setting sun, my unnamed flax absolutely glows in the richest caramel colour imaginable, making a striking contrast with the purple leaved Sedum ‘Matrona’ planted at its feet.

Despite an unmatched ability to catch the light, I would grow this plant purely for its dependability. For one, my flax takes a howling westerly gale in its stride. For those who’ve ever dug up a mature specimen of Phormium tenax, this should come as little surprise. The Latin word “tenax” translates as tenacity or holding fast. A flax’s root system might be shallow, but it grips the soil like you wouldn’t believe, allowing it to grow on exposed cliffs and headlands in its native New Zealand. I’ve actually seen the species planted as a very effective windbreak.

The other outstanding trait of Phormium tenax, and its relative Phormium cookianum, is hardiness. Frost and drought pose very few problems for established plants. In the recent dry spell during December and January, my flaxes looked no different than they did following the above average rainfall we received in November last year. This all-round hardiness is probably due to the tough leaves, which are very smooth and leathery. Because of a high tensile strength, Phormiums were widely used by the Maori to make ropes, baskets and even defensive shields capable of stopping a musket ball. Maori ropes were so highly regarded that during the 1800′s, an international trade emerged, with the Royal Navy becoming one of the main customers.

One final, but not unimportant quality, possessed by the NZ flaxes is that of architectural beauty. The larger forms, which can attain heights of two metres or more, are one of the best of all plants in a mixed border, providing a resting point for the eye and a textural contrast to neighbouring plants. The big Phormiums are also ideal as stand alone, specimen plants. They are well suited to growing in containers, and would be an excellent choice to define an axis, or provide a focal point at the end of a long, straight path.

Colour-wise, flaxes offer plenty of scope. Phormium tenax is a refreshing shade of green like a Granny Smith apple, while the true Phormium ‘Purpurea’ is rich burgundy. The old cultivar ‘Tricolor’, which has red and white variegations, is still one of the best, while ‘Yellow Wave’ offers leaves striped cream, green and yellow. ‘Maori Chieftain’ is a good cultivar with bronze leaves edged pink, and ‘Platt’s Black’ unlike the name suggests, is a very dark purple. In terms of size, most range from one to two metres in height, though a number of dwarf cultivars have been developed including ‘Surfer Boy’ to 30cm tall and ‘Jester’ to 75cm.

Reliability is a trait often overlooked in plants, as much as it is in people. But reliable plants are the mainstays of any half decent garden, and for one very good reason: you can count on them to hang in there and get the job done. The next time you’re looking for a plant that will earn its keep, look no further than the NZ flaxes. They are exceptional plants.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 21st February 2009

About seven years ago I fell in love. With perennials. Like many whirlwind romances, it started with a chance encounter, in my case when I wandered into a Cronulla newsagency, and flicked through the November 2001 issue of the superb British magazine, Gardens Illustrated. Inside was a garden in a style unlike any I’d seen before, a glorious mass planting of herbaceous perennials and ornamental grasses with not a single clipped hedge in sight. I was hit for six, and the magazine sits on my shelf as the starting point of what has become a collection.

The featured garden was designed by Piet Oudolf (pronounced “oo-dolf”), a Dutch landscape architect who has since created major public projects in Europe and the US, earning himself a reputation as one of the world’s top few plantsmen. Oudolf is one of leading figures in an ad hoc movement known as New Wave Planting. He runs a nursery with his wife Anja. His first book Designing with Plants is genuinely revolutionary, and as you might have guessed, I’m a raving fan of his work.

Prior to reading the article though, I knew very little about perennials, other than the standard botanical definition: any plant that has an indefinite lifespan. But Oudolf was using a palette of plants I was completely unfamiliar with. I was desperate to give them a go. Gradually, I tracked down a few mail order nurseries who stocked “Oudolfian” plants, and I was thrilled to learn that the Dutch master even bred some of the cultivars in stock. I purchased some, and almost a decade later, perennials are one of the mainstays of my garden, and my favourite plants.

It’s not a teenage infatuation with the sexy English teacher kind of love though. Since growing perennials, I’ve found that as a group, they have a number of qualities that make them ideal for the domestic garden. Most are practical plants. Hardworking. Adaptable. Some are sexy, indeed. But on the whole, well-chosen perennials are reliable performers in a wide range of situations. Here are four reasons that perennials deserve a place in every garden:

1. Perennials are dynamic

Herbaceous perennials, loosely defined as those that go dormant over the winter, are incredibly dynamic plants. From an expectant crown of dead foliage, perennials hit the ground running in spring with a burst of growth, and some can reach heights of two metres or more in the space of just a few months. Evergreens have other virtues, but herbaceous perennials are amongst the most exciting plants you’ll grow.

2. Perennials are flexible

Not happy with where your Salvia “Ostfriesland” is positioned. Not to worry. Dig it up in winter, move it to a more favoured position, and replant. Don’t worry about the plant sulking. Odds are, it will actually perform better as a result of being dug up, and if you’re clever, you will have teased some divisions as a bonus. Piet Oudolf is known to move his plants around every year, trying fresh combinations until like a painter, he is satisfied with the composition. Try doing this with an established Eucalypt, and the results will not be pretty. Only annuals are more flexible.

3. Perennials are a good fit

Perennial plants are just the right scale for the average backyard. Not too big, not too small. They don’t need to be grown in broad herbaceous borders, and many make excellent fillers between extroverted, more dominant plants. The domestic scale of perennials is in contrast to large shrubs and trees, which tend to suit large gardens. On the flip side though, if you have the space, mass planted perennials can be used to grand effect.

4. Perennials are easy to maintain

Herbaceous perennials, those that go dormant in winter, are amongst the easiest plants to maintain. For most, it’s as simple as cutting them back in late winter or early spring, allowing the new foliage to come away at the base of the plant. Pests pose little problem, since foliage is renewed each year, and many perennials are tolerant of both frost and drought. Prepare the ground well prior to planting, water in to get plants established, and mulch well. Oudolf reckons that his planting style takes only a third of the work of a conventional garden.

If you’re tired of the Versailles-lite look, which is all clipped hedges and formal geometry, maybe it’s time to loosen up a bit, and consider perennials.  Once you get started, I’ll almost guarantee that you won’t look back.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 24th January 2009