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IRSTLY, we’re not doing horticulture for starters – more a dash of Greek myth and mystic and the story of the mythological maiden Andromeda who was chained to a rock as a peace offering to a sea monster known as the Kraken.

Legend has it that the young princess’s mother, Queen Cassiopeia, was full of vanity and boasted about her own beauty, but to cool the gods’ anger she did a dastardly deed, chaining her daughter to a rock on the beach as a sacrifice to the monster.

Enter Perseus, Greek hero and slayer of big beasts – including the hideous serpent-ridden Gorgon Medusa – who saved Andromeda from her watery grave.

Clearly impressed by such heroics, the renowned Swedish botanist, physician, zoologist and the “father of modern plant taxonomy”,  Carl Linnaeus (pictured below), named a plant after her.

And so we come to andromeda with a small “a”, a genus of just two species of low-growing, wiry-stemmed evergreen sub-shrubs which flourish in acid peat bogs around cool, temperate regions of the northern hemisphere and as far north as the Arctic.

Often referred to as Bog Rosemary, andromeda may have a posh-sounding name, yet it belongs to a quite modest plant family and bears clusters of pretty bell-shaped flowers from spring to early summer amid handsome blue-green foliage.

My own Andromeda is variety Blue Ice (pictured above) – and here’s where horticulture stretches the facts just a little with the name Blue. No, it’s far from blue or even blueish, more a distinct pink array of blooms that often practically obscure the leaves. Still, we all remember the rose Blue Moon which, at best, is a pale lilac and can’t even claim to be a purple-blue. There are plenty of other pseudo-blues.

Blue Ice is one of a handful of varieties of Andromeda polifolia which reaches about 14in high but spreads to twice that dimension. Compacta and Nikko produce similarly coloured blooms on even shorter stems while Alba is the pure white among the bunch. Whichever takes your fancy, andromeda is perfect for ground cover or a spot near a border’s edge.

A mix of sun and shade suits them best and – here’s the important bit – in soil that’s moist and slightly acidic. Other than that, they are not difficult to grow, are long-lived, will benefit from an occasional mulch of leaf-mould and will do a patio planter proud. The maiden Andromeda – if she really did exist – would surely warm to these cold-weather gems – little beauties that deserve a bigger presence in our gardens.

¶ If you cannot find andromeda at the garden centre you’ll be able to turn up several suppliers online.

WHILE on holiday in Warwickshire last summer I dropped in at a garden centre to sniff out a few plants and spotted a shrub that prompted my eyes to stretch wide in wonderment.

It was a daphne, but not the sort with the familiar pinky-lilac, starry flowers, a heavenly scent and adored by thousands.

This one had golden yellow blooms, it was reasonably priced and I made a mental note to take one to the checkout after a refreshing cuppa. Its name – Daphne gemmata Royal Crown.

But that’s the trouble with a steaming brew and bags of chat, especially if you’re holidaying with friends, as we were.  My mind wandered onto other things and, as a result, I inexplicably forgot to pick up my much-coveted shrub, only remembering with dismay when we’d reached the point of no return.

Six months on and I’d practically abandoned hope of discovering a Royal Crown at any of our local garden centres . . . until this month when I celebrated that eureka moment at BJ’s Value House store in Bideford, Devon.

This hybrid comes from species gemmata and is in sharp contrast to the ubiquitous evergreen Daphne odora in shades of pink and lilac and a mesmerising perfume or the purply-red deciduous mezereum.

Royal Crown glows with its buttery-yellow starry blooms which are nicely fragrant, like many of the daphne family. They are at their best in May and June and are followed by small red berries. It’s a bushy, deciduous shrub, neatly compact at 2ft 6in, grows slowly, is content in sun or part-shade and is certainly a plant for the connoisseur.

Talking of connoisseurs, this brings me neatly on to an old page from a gardening magazine which has just surfaced in my pile of botanical bits and bobs and lots of unnecessary trivia. Dated February 2004, it told the story of Michael Baron who, in his mid-teens just after World War 2, was clambering in the French sub-Alps when he gazed in awe at a sweet-smelling cluster of flowers nestling between some boulders.

He had stumbled entirely by chance on a Daphne cneorum variety verlottii, was totally charmed by it,  and later realised that was the moment that changed his horticultural life.

Within a few years, Michael had become a respected authority on daphne and holder of Plant Heritage’s National Collection of these exquisite shrubs. But according to online investigation this weekend no one is now listed as daphne kingpin.

That, of course, begs the question as to whether Michael is still with us, given that he would be in his 90s in the current year. Does anyone know the answer?

■ Daphne delight: Top – Royal Crown in all its splendour; above – my newly-acquired plant putting its roots down and with first signs of buds visible.

What I do know is that back in the early Noughties, he kept more than 120 different daphne forms in various stages of maturity in his Hampshire garden and travelled globally searching for new names, including the rare, less hardy, sorts which he grew under glass.

He grew species like Daphne laureola from the Pyrenees with citrus-yellow stars, the green-flowered Daphne Pontiac, the easy-to-grow, pinkish-white Daphne tangutica, the Chinese Daphne genkwa which doesn’t have fragrance, bears near-powder blue blooms and is a real challenge to keep,  Daphne x burkwoodii Somerset Variegata in mid-pink and with yellow-edged leaves, Daphne alpina, which is small enough for the rock garden, exudes a lovely scent from its white flowers but needs a little expertise for guaranteed success, Daphne collina with striking flowers in deep reddish-purple, the white-flowered Daphne blagayana which enjoys partial shade and needs cutting back to keep it bushy, and the ever-popular and tall Daphne mezereum, with scented white flowers on a tough bush that tops 4ft. Not forgetting the rare evergreen Daphne petraea which seldom exceeds 4in high but one that was lost to Michael’s garden when it was stolen by . . . a blackbird!

So there you have it. Daphnes are choice, high-class shrubs, either evergreen or deciduous and sometimes a little of each, mostly fully hardy, mostly a delight to sniff, none fussy over types of soil, happy in sun or shade but decidedly miserable in a head wind.

The single downside? Like broom or genista, daphnes can perish suddenly for no reason other than their time has run out. Trying your luck with cuttings, taken in summer in a gritty compost and preferably under glass, is one “escape route” to ensure against loss.

It worked for me with my one Daphne odora and now that petite plant is out there, on its own, and – just maybe – determined to reward its grower!

NEW ZEALAND to Chile is a mighty splash across the Pacific – just over 5,500 miles to be nautically nearer the mark – yet both are home to a species of shrub which, if planted, will set the neighbours asking: “Whatever’s that?”

Always assuming they had never seen Sophora microphylla before.

Now here’s a shrub or small tree that really deserves a second look – hopefully one of approval.

It is not seen around much, yet this particular species and others in the same genus are so rewarding they really should be grown more widely.

For starters they’re at their best in spring and early summer, often unfolding their dramatically golden-yellow pea-like blooms as early as February if its home is a sheltered one against a wall and if you’ve selected the variety Sun King.

For this hybrid is much more manageable than the straight species and is the one I planted last September. It will reach a modest 10ft, unless kept in check which I aim to do, compared with microphylla’s 25ft.

There are around 50 sophora species, natives of various discrete nations, some deciduous and others evergreen, some fully hardy and others not quite so.

My own plant has the comfort of a high wall behind it and gets a good dose of morning sunshine. As well as those glistening golden blooms, its foliage, consisting of numerous dark blue-green leaflets borne on silky shoots are an attractive feature the year round.

Some garden centres will stock sophora, but not all, so you may need to trawl through online plant specialists to find one. Certainly that will be the case some of the other species, such as the deciduous Sophora davidii, from China, with pretty dangling flowers in purple-blue and white in early summer and quite compact at 8ft, and tetraptera, also known as the evergreen Kowhai tree from New Zealand, bearing gorgeous sunshine-yellow flowers similar to those of microphylla but eager to soar to 30ft unless judiciously pruned.

·■ Top – All that glitters . . . the stunning golden blooms of Sophora microphylla; above – my own sophora showing its intricate foliage during autumn.

If you’re lucky enough to have oceans of space, you may consider the fully hardy Sophora japonica – also one that loses its leaves – and known as the Japanese Pagoda Tree. Oddly, its native lands are not Japan but China and Korea, but for growing purposes do be warned – it can become stratospheric at around 100ft high and bears nicely fragrant pea-shaped blooms in late summer and into autumn. Presumably worth a sniff if only you can reach them!

So there you are. All sophoras are free from pest and pestilence and will thank you for a winter mulch of leaf mould or stable manure to boost their flower power when their season dawns.

With all these plus-points, how can you resist?

R

ARELY, if ever, have I thumbed through my favourite gardening encyclopedia and failed to point out a plant I’d never heard of. Such is the vast arena that is horticulture that most devotees never actually stop learning.

My latest “discovery” is Vitex. My imagination then started to run away in mischievous manner – the name sounded like the ultimate in a bottle of tonic or even an unrivalled floor cleaner.

I can hear the advert now: Take Vitex daily for vitality, your perfect pick-me-up. Or how about: For your sparkling kitchen floor, just wipe clean with Vitex.

Well, now back to a “sensible script”: The name belongs to a genus of deciduous or evergreen trees and shrubs and should not be confused with Vitis, the grapevine.

The plant doesn’t occupy too much space in my gardening “bible” which is no doubt why I’ve missed its facts and figures until now.

There is certainly a similarity to the ubiquitous buddleia, with branched sprays of small, scented, tubular flowers in violet or white and which, like the buddleia, is a magnet for butterflies when in bloom – early to mid-autumn. Yet the pair are unrelated.

A supplier I spotted online is the Burford Garden Centre in Oxfordshire, so I ordered one and, three days later, it arrived chez moi, an impressive 3ft high and solidly secure in its cardboard casing. Needless to add, the Vitex agnus-castus is now fully installed next to a wooden fence and, possibly, all set to bloom in a couple of months.

It is an interesting shrub. For starters, there are no fewer than 250 species, natives of Mediterranean regions, Asia and East Africa.

While the flowers are a more elegant version of the buddleia’s, the foliage couldn’t be more different, with up to seven palmate leaves per cluster – they are peppery aromatic and grey-green – rather resembling the leaves of the cannabis plant and, most definitely, very handsome.

This species – the only one generally available – is almost fully hardy, possibly at risk on a chilly site in the North but safe in the South where it could top 25ft if left untrimmed. Later in the year peppery berries are produced and, I am told, these can be used as a spice.

Vitex’s alternative name is the Chaste Tree. The reason? An extract of the fruit is used to relieve menstrual stress and infertility. Its name comes from the ancient Greek belief that the powdered fruit suppressed libido. Roman legionnaires’ wives spread the powder on their couches to keep themselves pure while their menfolk were away.

·■ Vibrant vitex: From top – My newly-installed Vitex agnus-castus; the cannabis-like foliage up-close; the pretty violet-blue flowers which unfold in early autumn (photo courtesy of Burford Garden Company).

Enough of history and back to the 21st century – this species of vitex has received the RHS AGM – Award of Garden Merit – for all-round excellence.

So I am looking forward to seeing my brand new lodger deliver its pretty panicles. I won’t allow it to become too lofty and, if I wish, I can take semi-ripe cuttings in summer to add to my collection for free.

·■ Contact the Burford Garden Company at http://www.burford.co.uk / 01993 823117 to check availability and to browse their excellent range of plants.

EARLY AUTUMN

·■ I found myself sweeping up hundreds of fallen leaves in my garden this week and wondered if I’d be transported forward to mid-October. Most were dry and crunchy – a classic sign of a “false autumn”, the result of stressed-out trees and shrubs being pushed into survival mode because of the heatwave and drought.

Young trees could wither and perish unless watered regularly, though established specimens will probably recover once the weather returns to some normality.

Berries are swelling much earlier than usual and I read a report that ripe blackberries were picked as early as June 28th – long before the mercury soared to almost unknown levels. Maybe nature knew something that we mere mortals were unaware of.