Climbing Hydrangea

Day 14: When someone says they have a hydrangea in their garden, people usually think of a bushy plant with ball-shaped flower clusters, either pink or blue depending on species and soil pH. Hydrangea petiolaris ssp. anomala is an exception. As is suggested by its common name "Japanese Climbing Hydrangea," it grows up walls, rock faces, trellises or any other surface which can be gripped by its aerial rootlets (and trust me on this, it can grab onto surfaces you'd probably consider smooth). Its flowers are generally white and sparse, but what it lacks in floriferousness, it makes up for with autumn colour. As nights become cooler and dip near freezing, the foliage turns a rich golden-yellow, then shifts into a pleasant warm russet. The older stems/stalks are rather fragile, and mine had an unfortunate encounter with a riding lawnmower two years ago, but is now once again the dominant feature in my view from the kitchen window.

Buddies

Day 76: Pandemic notwithstanding, my buddies are starting to show up at my place to celebrate the turning of the year and lengthening daylight. The clmbing Hydrangea (Hydrangea anomala) is one of the earliest of my ornamentals to show new growth. As far as flowering is concerned, its small clusters of loosely-held white blooms are, unspectacular but I do not grow it for blossoms. Rather, it displays a wealth of verdure where it mounts the garage wall opposite my kitchen window (a much prettier sight than blank siding) and in autumn, it turns vivid orange, holding its foliage long and late for an even lovelier visual treat. Flanking it are the House of Chirp and Pussywillow Cottage, residences occupied annually by the swallows who enjoy the coolness the leaves provide. Admittedly, its holdfasts grip the wood rather tightly once established, but I keep it pruned back, loosely espaliered into a fan terminating at the height of the trellis (a support it did not require). Even now, in the chill and frost of winter, its early and anxious buds are a promise of warmer, brighter days.

More Botanical Art

Day 14: The vining hydrangea (Japanese climbing hydrangea, Hydrangea anomala) doesn't provide much visual interest during spring and summer, but its few white flowers and lush green foliage fill the gap between the House of Chirp and Pussywillow Cottage nicely and give me something to look at through the kitchen window while I'm washing dishes. That said, when autumn delivers its Midas touch and the foliage turns to gold, it is utterly spectacular. For the better part of two weeks, it's been asking to sit for a portrait, so with a cold snap threatening to shatter the leaves' tenuous hold on their stems, I snipped a small spray, flattened it against the paper and traced around the edge. I have a very limited palette of watercolours and an even more limited stock of artistic talent, and was not quite sure I wasn't biting off more than I could chew with four (count them!) leaves instead of one, but here you see the result.

Stick with me, people. It's hard to find blog material in the winter months even without a pandemic and political turmoil. Hopefully, I'll be able to return to informative natural history posts at some future date.

Fall Colour

Day 355: I half-expected to see little pockets of frost in the yard when I stepped out onto the back porch and felt the chill in the morning, but if it was there, it eluded my eye. That said, a few things are starting to colour up and seed pods are bursting, ready to be harvested for next year's planting. Autumn is not the end, but rather the beginning of a new gardening season, the time when potential is paramount in the gardener's mind. It is a time of evaluation and planning, identifying what needs lifting, what needs moving, what might go here or there to give shade or to eliminate it. Autumn's advice must be heeded. What worked well? What did not? In pulling out the nasturtiums, I discovered that they had saved my other plants from attack by black aphids. A boon, perhaps? Or in a garden where they had only ever been a problem on marigolds, were they drawn to the nasturtiums, there to breed and lay eggs? Whatever the case, a lesson was learned under Autumn's tutelage. There will be no more nasturtiums for me!