During the week-end, I raked dried leaves, cut dried stems of iris sibirica and pruned hydrangeas. Facing old shrubs of hydrangea with pruning shears and saw marks the official beginning of spring. There is a first group of hydrangea macrophylla Mopheads close to the house, against a wall with primroses at their feet. The second group is in a hidden corner, exuberant hydrangeas quercifiolia with their long rusty-brown panicles intact after the freeze of winter. The third and last group of unhappy hydrangea macrophylla Lacecap is in the back of the house, in an open lawn too exposed and besieged by uncontrollable weeds to develop properly.
I eliminated old wood and dead branches, proceeding fast and determined to behead faded blooms reducing the length of the lateral branches to the suggested number of buds. At least, for the first three or four shrubs.
Primroses and narcissus are just an idea in this north exposed area where snow lingers for long time. I spread a generous layer of manure at the base of these old shrubs in the hope of immediate abundant rains and summer gorgeous flowers. I stopped for a cup of mid-morning coffee and wasted time in the vain search for the book where I had read a romantic and improbable story about this shrub. With the name Hortense, the French plant hunter and botanist Philibert Commerson celebrated in 1771 his brave and reliable assistant Jean Baret. In Thaiti, circumstances forced Jean to reveal his true nature of young woman. When the dangerous expedition around the world finished, Jeanne changed her name in Hortense and assisted her master till his death. Then, she returned in Paris and married.
I moved to the hydrangea quercifolia after lunch. I heard someone calling me when I was deciding if two peonies needed to be transplanted a little farer from the expanding hydrangeas. My neighbour, with red summer shoes and glossy red hairs, had appeared close to the fence. She was happy to see me after the long winter months and we updated each other following a random list of names that included relative, friends and acquaintances. Then, we talked about the plants that had died during winter. A cruel fate, she remarked but, from her wise seventy years old, she affirmed that it was better their dead to our and disappeared among her clipped azaleas. The magic moment of decision was gone. I thought I needed to know more about the growth of hydrangea quercifolia and I decided to suspend any radical action in this area crammed with epimediums, peonies, anemone japonica and spring bulbs.
The third group was waiting for its moment of attention and care but it was late and I was tired. I looked at these frail shrubs knowing that they deserve energy and concentration.I put down pruning shears and saw, rake and wheelbarrow and I took my time for the last task of the day: smelling the white lonicera fragrantissima, investigating the growth of the red buds of peonies, finding the first narcissus exactly where it was last year, counting snowdrops, cyclamens and iris ungucularis and touching the fat blooms of daphne. The sun was hidden by soft, grey clouds and it was getting cold again. But...
“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?”(1)
Note:
(1) Ode to the West Wind, Percy Bysshe Shelley, written in 1819 near Florence, Italy.
Photos:
Travelinagarden.
