It’s Christmas Eve. The afternoon light begins to fade. The doorbell rings. You’re not expecting anyone.
You open the door shyly. There appears before you, wreathed in beaming smiles, a familiar face.
You’re presented with a small bowl. Unwrapped. The contents plain to see.
It’s a medley of flowering cyclamen, snowy white and Santa-red. Between the half-dozen small plants lies a buff and lovat duvet of damp moss, soft as newly washed Scottish tweed, gilded with a modest sprinkling of cheery glitter.
Honestly. Is there a better present? I’ve been the recipient of such a delight on many a Christmas. And I’ve frequently been the doorbell-ringer myself.
It’s a double pleasure – the giving and the receiving. The giving emanates from choosing the right bowl – nothing too decorative to upstage its contents; nothing too big to dominate its eventual place of pride. The receiving fills you with joy. If the recipient lives alone and has no garden, the pleasure magnifies tenfold.
Throughout October and November, I was busy planting bulbs (and corms too, if you want to be pernickety), preparing bowls of beauty for us and a few special friends no longer able to wield a trowel, or get themselves to a garden centre.
Remember that, should you fail to assemble such gifts yourself, there are several cut-flower farms that will send stems of scented blooms to arrive by post a few days before Christmas. For many years – but sadly no more, for the kind friend who sent them has now died – we received bunches of small-flowered, fragrant daffodils from the Scilly Isles.
The plop of the long, slim cardboard box on the doormat foretold the familiar and always welcome gift.
Bulbs that haven’t yet reached flowering stage make no less welcome presents – they hold promise, green shoots signalling forthcoming New Year and early-spring enchantments.
I’m slowly rebuilding my daffodil library – a fancy term for a collection of narcissi, providing floral interest from December until Easter and beyond. My preference is for short-growing (because they don’t flop) daffodils of a pure white complexion, with touches of cream, the palest yellow or a suggestion of green. Nothing with a hint of blood or egg yolk in the corolla (unless it’s the highly covetable late- flowering Pheasant’s Eye). Definitely no pink. Seldom any doubles. With daffs, it’s simplicity that wins my heart.
On the bench are other bulbous glories: crocuses, hyacinths, scillas, snowdrops, bluebells, erythroniums, an array of Iris reticulata, species (ie wild) tulips and muscari.
Those who know me know my preference for plain terracotta pots. The older, the better – cracked, mottled with age, broken and wired back together again, enriched with a patina that only time can convincingly bestow.
I keep potted bulbs outdoors for as long as possible to prevent their becoming leggy; warm rooms will force and weaken them. I’m watchful, though, of frost, careful to shelter vulnerable pots from sub-zero nights.
Among my prized terracottas are eight very large pieces bought as long ago as 1979. They’ve spent every year outside – bravo Wrecclesham Pottery, whose presumed firing at exceedingly high temperatures has ensured such remarkable durability.
Now it’s Santa time. Who’s getting what? Green seasonal gifts needn’t be bulbous. I mentioned cyclamen. Other goodies abound: jasmine, cinerarias, colourful felty-leafed coleus, amaryllis, knock-out-scented stephanotis ... and if you’ve the strength, and the recipient has the space, richly-scented sarcococca, camellias, a full-berried topiary holly. The choice is endless.
But, please, no poinsettias.
David’s Instagram account is @hortusjournal
