June, and the garden is at its most sensuous, inviting – no, imploring me – to look, touch and sniff. It is a wonderful month for smelling the garden. I do this first thing in the morning and again in the evening when everything is at its olfactory best.
Perfume was one of the first considerations when I started this little garden. The lavender bushes, I planted along the path to run my fingers through as I walked past, didn’t last long in my London clay, but the high hedges planted to trap the scent of wallflowers and the vanilla notes of sweet box (Sarcococca hookeriana) have worked as I had hoped. Wallflowers are the smell of my childhood; as sweet as the tin of Parma Violets my grandmother kept in her handbag, perfuming her lace handkerchief and purse. Their scent is an essential part of this space.
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The perfume that plants so generously give to this garden starts in March, when I catch the first fleeting scent of Viburnum x bodnantense. I know her and her sugar-pink pompoms simply as ‘Dawn’. The soft, clove notes always take me by surprise, a reminder that even though the stems are bare, spring will soon be here. It is as if the garden is whispering: “Don’t worry, it won’t be long.” From late spring onwards, the garden’s redolence comes rolling at us on every breeze, one cloud after another.
Mock orange blossom will be forever linked to the cool, white ointment with which my mother dealt with every scratch and graze.
Some plants are obvious givers of perfume – it is, indeed, expected of them. The roses, of course, but also the honeysuckle that clambers through the Robinia here, and the tiny old-fashioned pinks such as Dianthus ‘Brympton Red’ and D. ‘Dad’s Favourite’. Sometimes, you are taken by surprise. The tripods of mauve and deep-purple sweet pea (Lathyrus odoratus ‘Cedric Morris’) growing outside the Garden Museum in London last summer hit me before I even spotted them, announcing their presence from the pavement. I have yet to find a rose whose scent I didn’t like. Yes, a few have disappointed (I always wish my favourite, Rosa x odorata ‘Mutabilis’, were more fragrant).
The peach fragrance of Rosa ‘Souvenir de Madame Léonie Viennot’, which climbs the rear wall of the house, is a treat on a May evening, her rose and copper blooms hanging down like plump pink meringues. My Rosa ‘Souvenir du Docteur Jamain’ now flowers so high I would need a cherry picker to sniff its red, velvet blooms. Even so, it is rare to stick my nose among any rose’s stamens and not want to go back a second time. The term ‘old rose fragrance’ confuses me because it refers not only to the smell of ancient varieties but also modern roses that have been crossed with older ones.
The peppery scent of dahlia stalks as you pick them, and the powdery whiff of ‘going over’ phlox take me instantly back to the first day of autumn term at school.
The fragrance of those such as the pair of Rosa Gertrude Jekyll (= ‘Ausbord’) in pots outside the kitchen door is probably what I imagine when I pull any rose gently towards me. The long-established R. Lady Emma Hamilton (= ‘Ausbrother’) has an unmistakable note of warm apricots to my nose, yet will no doubt bring different associations to others. I long to try once more with R. ‘Gloire de Dijon’, its apricot petals fading to the colour of an old tea stain; its perfume not dissimilar to your great aunt’s favourite lapsang souchong.
It is good that my jasmines (Jasminum officinale and the pale-pink J. x stephanense) flower rather late, as it is only in midsummer that I have the study windows open all evening, and the smell of Chinese tea wafts up from the two plants climbing up the kitchen wall. Its notes come as a tease at first, then slowly, softly engulf the room, until it is almost too much, and I close the window with a thud. Some smells are more personal, and their mere mention might induce a few quizzical looks.
The peppery scent of dahlia stalks as you pick them, and the powdery whiff of ‘going over’ phlox take me instantly back to the first day of autumn term at school. Mock orange blossom (Philadelphus) will be forever linked to the cool, white ointment with which my mother dealt with every scratch and graze. I should probably admit to a particular penchant for plants whose fragrance requires us to get a bit touchy-feely; scented pelargoniums being a case in point. There is little hint of the peppermint, rose and lemon oils that lie in the leaves until you give them a tender rub between thumb and forefinger. Wafts of Turkish delight, orange zest and mothballs will be released with a little gentle frottage. The touching of some – Pelargonium ‘Attar of Roses’, say, or Pelargonium ‘Prince of Orange’ – becomes positively addictive. The peach-fuzz of their leaves is an invitation for us to touch.
Some scented moments are unforgettable. A friend and experienced gardener had invited me for a firepit lunch that went on well into the evening. As the darkness drew in, so did a particularly powerful scent. So strong was it, that it completely overwhelmed even the night-scented stocks, and the citronella candles we were burning to fend off the annoying gnats. We toured the garden by torchlight, tiptoeing along the gravel paths to find the heavy, swoon-inducing perfume was down to one single flower: a large Lilium regale the size of a trumpet, alone on its stem, yet almost glowing with scent. On that balmy evening, the sky darkening, a sprinkling of stars above our heads, the perfume became so heavy, so intoxicating, we could barely breathe.
