Shaded areas are not hard to plant, but they need a bit of thought, says Fred Whitsey
'It's so dark and dreary down there, I never walk that way." I was stung by the criticism, for "that way" is part of a horseshoe perimeter path that is supposed to yield something worth looking at - at every step - on every day of the year. Something had to be done.
Bluebells: instant carpet
The area is heavily shaded, yes, but a shaded area can be an opportunity for planting some special flora. Back to the garden centre, then, where I had been eyeing some splendid hydrangeas and wondering how I might use them. Here was the perfect occasion for another wild extravagance.
They were lacecaps with specially bold heads of flower, white around the brim, pale blue at the crown. As a bit of a hydrangea-phile, I recognised them as unnamed members of the 'Teller' series, probably 'Libelle', which was originally bred in Switzerland for the pot-plant trade.
These would form part of the structure of my design to be seen against the dark background of a thuja hedge. But the vision embraced much more: the area would become our fernery. It would be cool, lush and green much of the year.
As luck would have it, nature has provided two other perfect plants: the rough male fern, Dryopteris filix-mas and the more delicate lady fern, Athyrium filix-femina. They spring up unbidden in many spots, often dry ones and, at times feeling like a murderer, I have had to cull them.
Both, in bold patches, would form part of the weed-denying background. Neither is fully evergreen, but in the winters we get nowadays they keep all but the oldest fronds. They are a bold contradiction of the myth that ferns must have moisture.
The real performers would stand in the foreground between the hydrangeas. So back to the garden centre for more extravagent follies. These days you can get splendidly grown ferns of many kinds. The names often reflect the complexity of their fronds, which is a study in itself.
So, gathering them up in threes, I loaded two trolleys with such treasures as Dryopteris wallichiana, one of the noblest of ferns whose fronds open yellowish green and later become furry; Erythronium, a lovely polished brown on opening; Polystichum munitum, always ready to offer long shiny fronds to pair with cut flowers; and the ostrich-feather-like Setiferum divisilobum.
Then there were holly ferns and some of the curious variants of the familiar hart's tongue fern. All would help form a groundwork for the hydrangeas, a family not renowned for having highly decorative foliage.
None of the ferns will ever need dividing but will grow into large clumps, each deserving close inspection. As you saunter past stop to marvel at the intricacy of their beautiful fronds.
But the composition now required more elements, one to follow another in its own special effect. Already, the path was lined with Iris foetidissima, evergreen and modestly architectural but adorned through the winter with dangling open seed-pods revealing lanterns of orange-red seeds in which the birds seem to have little interest.
And, here and there, a few camellia brought the area alive. There are also great patches of blue bugle, which keeps its lustrous ground-hugging leaves all year and bears little plumes of blue flowers after the camellias. This efficient, annual weed-resistor would form my lower-level groundwork.
Of course, there must be bulbs - masses of them. Snowdrops propagate themselves so prolifically that I have enough spare in the garden to make an instant carpet. Bluebells likewise.
Whenever I make a new planting these days, I try to provide an endless show. That way you can avoid that humiliating apology: "you should have been here last week".
-- Anonymous, December 02, 2002