IT has become the mantra of many progressive nurserymen and garden designers that only by looking at plants in the wild can we understand how to use them in our gardens and to grow them well. Given the diverse origins of plants we grow in Britain, research at this level would need a lifetime of travel, but a good place to start might be South Africa, home to an astonishing 10% of the world's plants. Among the area's endemic treasures are tulbaghia, bulbs producing clusters of delicate flowers on wiry stems that resemble miniature agapanthus.
The genus has none of the diversity or exuberance of agapanthus, a near relative, but its dainty flowers, often in muted colours, coupled with an ability to flower for several months, make it an irresistible garden plant. On a visit to its native country, I saw the flowers everywhere: in supermarket car parks, private gardens, public parks, and municipal planting schemes. Yet it wasn't until I came across a meadow filled with hundreds of the plants that I began to see their true beauty. A pale-mauve haze hung over the ground and the air was gently perfumed with the scent of sweet onion. This was not something that could be replicated in a British garden, but the sight did make me want to grow more tulbaghia.
The genus is named after Ryk Tulbagh, an 18th-century governor of what was then the Dutch Cape Colony. He seems to have been an austere character, who legislated against all kinds of extravagance and frippery, including banning women from lining dresses with velvet or silk. He was, however, an intellectual and fascinated by the natural world.
Aware that the flora of southern Africa was far more diverse than Europe, he corresponded with several botanists and sent hundreds At night, the flowers of specimens to Carl Linnaeus. It was Linnaeus who named Tulbaghia, presumably unaware that he was honouring such a severe character with such a delicate flower.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der September 14, 2022-Ausgabe von Country Life UK.
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