Few moments are quite as exciting to this gardener as when the first of the spring bulbs poke their green beaks through the garden soil. “They’re up!” I cry, grateful and slightly amazed. I first planted bulbs aged about seven: a row of pink and white hyacinths in tall glass vases the colour of boiled sweets.
The roots would curl around like spaghetti, clearly visible through the emerald, ruby and yellow glass, a magical sight to a wide-eyed boy gardener. Weeks later, once their flowers had browned and their perfume vanished, I would lose interest until they eventually toppled over.
My tulip order was sent the moment this year’s lists appeared online. But narcissi, crocus and camassia were left so late that I may have missed out a few beauties. I still grow hyacinths, purely to scent the hallways with their cloying but delightfully nostalgic perfume, but it is tulips and narcissi for which I carry a candle now.
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First on my tulip list is always a deep-purple specimen, for no other reason than it goes with the terracotta colour of the walls and the dried leaves of the beech trees. It could be ‘Merlot’, ‘Queen of Night’, or, as this year, the slightly redder ‘Ronaldo’.
This is my starting point, the base colour to which I add the rest, both those that are guaranteed to sit comfortably, such as ‘Cairo’, ‘Slawa’ or ‘Brown Sugar’, and a handful that are pure whimsy. A cherry-and-white ripple – ‘Grand Perfection’ – worked splendidly last year, as did some crazily ruffled parrot tulips, just a handful between the deep purple-black and orange.
Once the pots, smart with new compost and grit, are filled with bulbs, it feels like a neatly made bed in an untidy room
So far, I have stayed away from the glorious historical cultivars, those with beguiling stripes and swirls I have only admired from afar. I can hear their velvet petals, green on black, umber on burgundy, calling me from the pages of Polly Nicholson’s sumptuous book, The Tulip Garden (see page 56 for Polly’s top tulips). Like looking after a rare historical manuscript, I am not sure I trust myself with such precious bulbs.
The day the bulbs go into their planters is often the same on which the dahlias come out of them. The fig leaves are still falling, the medlars are dotted all over the garden table and the roses have yet to be pruned. Yet once the terracotta pots, smart with new compost and a scattering of horticultural grit, are filled with bulbs, it feels like a neatly made bed in an untidy bedroom.
I still love everything about bulbs, from choosing which ones to grow each year to their sudden appearance in pots and beds
The narcissi order is more chaotic. I scroll the photographs of yellow petals and orange trumpets, of tangerine beaks on snow-white faces, going back and forth, attempting to have something in flower every week of spring. Most of mine go into 20-25cm pots, so I can move them around the garden, from zinc-topped table to window ledge, kitchen step to potting table, as they come into bloom.
The plan doesn’t always work. I have had bulbs that come up without a single flower, others whose variety has taken me by surprise, and more than a few with a stowaway – a stray bulb I don’t remember planting. But most hit the spot, flowering for several weeks, their beaks open and singing joyously in the spring sunshine.
I lift the narcissi bulbs as soon as the leaves have started to dry, shake the compost from their roots, then leave them to dry out in the cellar. I have open racks which gives some air circulation but also leaves them open to the attention of a peckish mouse or two.
Despite every attempt, I invariably lose track of which bundle of bulbs is which. Name tags, carefully tied on with string, fall off. Thoughtfully labelled brown paper bags split and, inevitably, the bulbs end up as a daffodil pick-’n-mix. No matter; I just bury them in large planters for a mixed show. Last year’s worked superbly, a mixture of heights and colours that looked almost deliberate.
I tend to view tulips as annuals. Wasteful I know, but I rarely have luck with returning blooms. The leaves are plentiful, but the flowers return small and insignificant, despite me feeding them after they have flowered. The bulbs are randomly tossed into the green space opposite the house in the hope they will come good.
This annual cull also gives me chance to indulge in a favourite pastime: that of choosing new ones. If ever the moment comes when I can prise myself away from old favourites, I have a fancy for a pale assortment – a sort of fondant fancy of tulips in delicate pinks, lemons and whites in place of my ‘safe harbour’ of burnt orange, cerise and purple.
When I first moved into this house, the previous owners had planted hundreds of white narcissi on the verge outside. Year by year the bulbs migrate further down the road. Last year I had none. Squirrels are the most obvious culprits, just as they are for the bulbs that are dug from their pots and left, abandoned, on the paths.
Rolling the bulbs in chilli powder, as suggested by a friend, just gave the perpetrators orange lips. This year I’m using a tangle of hazel wigwams and clippings from the spiky Dunwich rose – the gardener’s version of razor wire.
Despite these difficulties, I still love everything about bulbs, from choosing which ones to grow each year to their sudden appearance in pots and beds – those splashes of white, yellow and orange, the glowing beacons of light that announce spring is almost here.
