JEARRARD'S HERBAL
Thats enough introduction - on with the plants!
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... out in the garden.
25th January 2026
Helleborus x hybridus white double .
The week has been wet and dismal. Twice I have woken to hear the rain drumming against the windows and decided to sleep for a bit longer.
It hasn't been the sort of joyful rain that you can get in spring that patters on the pate and sends you skipping to shelter.
This has been grey, sloppy, lethargic rain that spreads, as it hits you, into a thousand penetrating tentacles.
It hasn't been a week for gardening, I have lit the stove and hidden away at my desk. I went out twice, first to repair a hole in the greenhouse
so that it wasn't too tempting as a target for storm Ingrid, second to take pictures of the garden, still filled with fallen trees and now sprinkled with
branches that have fallen subsequently. The next job must be to walk around and clear them, weather permitting.
Hidden in the chaos, the first hellebores have opened. Last week there was nothing. Perhaps falling trees squashed them from the ground.
I hardly dare say that perhaps they are responding to spring. They are very welcome, so very welcome. The garden has been double grey,
a flash of double white feels like something very significant has passed, like the relief from constipation.
25th January 2026
Primula allionii 'James' .
In the greenhouse there are equally tiny signs of promise. Last week I could see lilac shadows in the rosettes of Primula allionii.
During the week they have solidified into buds and now flowers.
Through the summer I am at a loss to explain why I grow Primula allionii. It suffers in the long mild summer, the leaves go yellow with red spider mite and vine weevils chew
in secret at its succulent roots. It's a horticultural vision of purgatory. Why do I do it? Kinder surely to face the truth and part with them all.
But then comes January, coloured grey with oppression, when the memory of rosiness is the last thread of hope and suddenly Primula allionii
springs up like a jack-in-the-box of good cheer. Misery-me no more. The greenhouse is delightful, the garden will drain and warm, there is spring to prepare for.
I always wait for the first hot day in the greenhouse to mark the end of winter.
I had to go out in the car this morning. The only sunshine of the week streamed through the windscreen and it was hot. I don't care if I had to turn the car heater up and wrap up in a thick jumper.
It was hot, it was sunny. For a dazzling, sun-soaked moment the world was warm and welcoming.
Here it comes, as the primula whispered in the darkness.
25th January 2026
Rhododendron 'Glendoick Papaya' .
I saw a short clip online yesterday of Tim Minchin stressing the importance of nuance and I have chosen an orange flowered Rhododendron to express the subtlety of that.
In general it would be fair to say that I am not a demon for Rhododendron. They seem to have a moment of gaudy brightness that is let down by scraggy leaves and ugly legs.
Perhaps they are perfect in the cloud draped thrones of the Himalayas but in gardens they often seem to look dejected. The exhilaration of altitude has fallen away,
the joy extinguished by the plunge into gardens. They wear cardboard crowns covered in rhinestones.
You may have gathered, I am basically not a fan. But there is nuance. How do I love Rhododendron Loderi - let me count the ways, and all those elfin scramblers o'er rock and moss
filled with the echoes of distant laughter.
So I don't really like rhododendrons, but Vireya rhododendrons, exuberant gems of tropical mountains I love you more than I can express (and I express more than is really necessary).
I love them so much that I have avoided growing any for forty years lest I upset them. I'm sure I don't really have the conditions.
But the time comes. I bought three, one died immediately, the other two made it to the greenhouse and have prospered so far. This is pale, gentle,
soothing and nuanced outrageous orange.
25th January 2026
Camellia 'Reigyoku'
Like Joseph's coat, nuance comes in many colours. I'm not going to deploy the space-filling trick of listing them. As I often say, I'm not a great fan of camellias,
I just grow a lot. With the wind blowing and the rain pelting all the bystanders, the camellias are standing around with hunched shoulders, picking their noses and saying 'whatever'.
It is much more endearing than it sounds.
It is true they are often pink. Nothing wrong with that, I am quite pink myself, but camellias choose revolting pink. Strawberry cordial with milk in it. Nauseating pink.
It isn't always easy to live with but, on the plus side, it is very welcome as the winter plunges downwards. Camellias are very practical.
So I don't love them with the frothy passion of teenagers in a barn, but I have a warm and appreciative respect for their many virtues. Every now and then I come across a variegated one
and my heart almost skips a beat. It is almost passion, certainly as close as I am going to get with a camellia. I am sad that people hate them so - and people really do hate variegation.
I will admit that double pink flowers on a golden variegation would be challenging but everyone needs a laugh from time to time. I'm sure it's feelings won't be hurt.
In my spare bedroom I have an ugly painting of a Magnolia, I wouldn't part with it for the world. Makes me laugh every time I see it.
'Reigyoku' isn't in the category of accidentally funny. 'Reigyoku' is the scarlet sky at the end of a golden day. Tiny, shy 'Reigyoku' is courageously uplifting.
If variegation doesn't make you sing with the wonder of things then I hope you have something to support you in the cold, dismal darkness.
Latest Update: Justicia x penrhosiensis .
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