My one-year-old granddaughter Domino is already a seasoned traveler. She obtained a passport not long after birth and had it stamped for Tunisia by three months. Her parents are committed vagabonds, so her budding wanderlust is no surprise. Recently Domino visited Poipu, Kauai, where her mama introduced her to her own beloved childhood vacation destination in a quiet agricultural region that was the site of the first major Hawaiian sugar plantation in 1835.
At this former sugar plantation, where Domino’s papa Mitch says the “shutters and louvre doors are all still teak and smell of deep tropical wood oil,” a 35-acre botanical garden envelops the vacation bungalows. Created by Alexandra Moir in the 1930s, when the sugar plantation her husband managed was still thriving before the decline of the industry in the 1990s, the garden surprises visitors by featuring not lush tropical plants but cacti and succulents. Say what? Yes, it’s true, there are dry microclimates in the Hawaiian Islands, and Alexandra wisely recognized that the usual tropical palette of plants would not thrive in Poipu, which averages 28″ of rainfall annually (USDA zone 11). This private garden was opened to the public in 1954.
Mitch says “There are easier warmer beaches to visit, and more modern resorts with more plentiful staff. But the time travel of vintage teak and old-Hawaiian lawns tugging at the roots of 60-foot monkeypod trees is harder and harder to find.”
There is very little information on the making of this garden, though in its heyday in the ’30s and ’40s it was considered one of the ten best succulent gardens in the world. I found a brief mention of Alexandra’s brother-in-law bringing plants back from travels abroad but no other details on the making of the garden. You’ll have to enjoy the photos narration-free. And if you’re ever in Kauai, you now have a succulent garden destination. Admission is free. Aloes, agaves, cactus, euphorbias, all the usual succulent garden suspects in an otherworldy setting among lava rock, bromeliads, and willwill trees (Erythrina sandwicensis).
Moir Garden aka Pa’u a Laka, or “skirt of laka,” named after the Hawaiian goddess of hula
slow and tricky from seed, I grabbed a few locally grown plants to see how they perform here
I get it, most local people I talk to are ready for sunnier days. This day has flushed sunny, rainy, and sunny again several times, all before noon. The 90″ of rain that makes this temperate rain forest possible, a treasure that is the largest of its kind in the world, generally is hard on people and industry — but easy on plants. Some plants. It is a huge pleasure to watch suitable plants exult in this unique climate, like subpolar Papaver nudicale. Common Iceland poppies, not an easy thing to grow in SoCal unless you get the narrow winter/spring timing just right, are easy to make happy here, and to my eye are as glorious as any meconopsis.
more rainy poppy porn
Of course, there are many plants that are tricky if not impossible to make happy with a cool, wet spring and shortish summer growing season. (I’m taking a big chance on zinnias from seed this year.) Tomato plants are filling the big box store shelves, and the lust for attaining a home crop is palpable as shoppers intently peruse varieties among the aisles — that’s an iffy proposition depending on the variety chosen and your microclimate, but to me that’s what the local farmers’ markets are for.
a young Acacia pravissima made it through a tough winter without damage
And trial-and-error experiments in planting can result in some beautiful, if potentially short-term winners depending on what winter has up its sleeve any given year. Both Acacia pravissima and Acacia cultriformis made it through this last tough winter. I brought borderline A. cultriformis up north from Los Angeles. Acacia pravissima was bought local and is generally accepted to be one of the hardiest acacias for coastal PNW. If trialing plants is your thing, a wet zone 8-9 affords lots of opportunities. (The War Boy Nux in Fury Road sums up a spirited attitude that can be adapted to making gardens here…or anywhere for that matter: “I live, I die, I live again!“)
dwarf version of Brachyglottis greyi
While I love trialing plants that enjoy the wet conditions, plants that prefer the dry side are my weakness (old habits die hard), and many are surprising me by flourishing — the dry, rainless summer improves the odds, but still it’s incredible to think of the amount of water these plants are enduring in winter.
Phlomis x margaritae — I worried phlomis would hate all this rain but so far they’re thriving
same concerns with Marrubium incanum, which reputedly prefers dryish gardens
With grey leaves but seemingly tolerant of a wet winter, Oregon Sunshine, Eriophyllum lanatum, is vigorous but not scarily so, unlike infiltrators Euphorbia cyparissias and hesperantha
so exciting to find formerly single-rosette plants doubling or even tripling in size in spring, like this Eryngium agavifolium
The garden seems to be filling in much faster than previous Mays, as plants like melianthus establish bigger root systems. No-shows this May include veronicastrum, which is a disappointment, but I have some dark castor bean seedlings that need a spot.
less grassy?
I’ve always been pro-bunch grasses and initially packed the garden with seslerias, miscanthus, deschampsia, anemanthele, calamagrostis among many kinds — and as other plants filled in, many of the grasses have since been thinned or moved to the front garden. The overly vigorous Kaffir Lily was moved out of the back garden entirely and left to settle scores with Spanish bluebells in a narrow strip against the front fence. There’s been lots of plant shuffling going on since February.
I assumed the Sicilian Honey Garlic would be weedy, but that’s not the case at all, disappointedly so — just two clumps bloomed this spring.
lunaria seedpods already forming
Selinum wallichianum settling in and loving life
as is the figwort Scrophularia aquatica ‘Variegata’
Kniphofia pauciflora has been reliably returning in May
Digitalis parviflora
Clumps of Digitalis parviflora increased in size while Digitalis ferruginea diminished. However…Digitalis ferruginea seems to be a prolific reseeder. I’ve potted up what I’m assuming are its progeny found at the base of clumps and weeded out lots more. Identifying reseeders here has been a learning curve. In my zone 10 garden the cast of reseeders became easily identifiable over 30 years, but here it’s still a guessing game.
thick clutches of dierama seedlings had to be weeded from this end of the garden
One of the biggest surprises as far as reseeders has been dierama. A plant that once seemed unattainable and ungrowable reseeds here as thick as grass. And its identity is not in doubt, since I collected seeds and sowed them in a tray — with excellent germination results. I needn’t have bothered with collecting seeds in fall with the garden full of seedlings this spring. It still feels a little strange to weed them out…
The mother clump of dierama to the right of the box above has already had to be thinned drastically off neighboring plants, so one fast-growing clump is more than enough, and I’ve already got three. In particular, I won’t be sacrificing things like Olearia x mollis ‘Zennorensis’ in the foreground to the expansionary designs of dierama! Nice problem to have, though…
photos below pick out a couple things happening in the above overview
Morning is always my favorite time in the garden, with the plants softly exhaling into the warming air while the sun slowly traces its way through tree canopies and clouds. The surrounding town is quiet while I study the garden as it ushers in another day of surging spring growth, and I love that juxtaposition. Now that May has typically brought ferocious afternoon winds, mornings are savored even more. It is a riveting time in the garden checking out what’s formed shape and gathered strength seemingly overnight, some things familiar and others entirely new. Here’s a quick sketch of the back garden mid-May.
asphodels in bloom in a cloud of Omphalodes linifolia
last photo of asphodels this year, I promise!
Helianthemum ‘Henfield Brilliant’ and Euphotbia ‘Copton Ash,’ a replacement for ‘Dean’s Hybrid’ that melted away
Penstemon ‘Dark Towers’ seems to be the next-gen ‘Husker’s Red,’ bigger in leaf. First spring in the garden, so haven’t seen it in flower yet.
center, clump of Sanguiisorba ‘Red Thunder’ making size, cirsium and dianthus on the right. Background in bloom left to right is euphorbia, erysimum, geum
Dianthus barbatus ‘Oeschberg’ was planted a couple years back, more as a filler while the garden grew in, but I’m finding its early dark-leaved presence invaluable, and several clumps are threaded throughout the garden. All these early spring plants from seed — dianthus, hesperis, lunaria — have been incredibly enjoyable, a big change from staring at bare ground in the garden’s early days a few springs ago
Milium effusum ‘Aureum’ is also good in early spring, and I’ve been spreading it around open ground that’s waiting for stuff like melianthus to fully leaf out
Cerinthe major purpurascens — I could never make much sense of this plant in zone 10, where it was an irritating sprawler with pinched leaves on the gaunt side that looked nothing like the seed packet photos. In the Oregon garden, one plant that was gifted from a Portland blogger reseeded copiously, but only a handful survived winter so it’s not really a pest. Seeing their lush, upright performance in May, now I get why honeywort is a thing!
Polemonium ‘Golden Feathers’ found local early spring — looks promising!
Allium karataviense has wonderfully thick, pleated leaves
buds just forming
tetrapanax, hesperis, rhodocoma, Darmera peltata in stock tank lower left
Stipa gigantea brings that golden summery haze to the garden so early in the season and is invaluable for it. A few days ago the gravel path was impassable — both the stipa and rhodocoma had to be thinned quite a bit, to neither’s apparent detriment nor loss of good looks
digitalis/digiplexis from the ‘Illumination’ series — overwintered outside, with an overturned bucket easing conditions during the January ice storm. I had forgotten all about this former “it” plant, an expensive annual in zone 10, but took another chance when it turned up at a local nursery last fall. Really surprised it’s come through the winter, a challenging one. On the right is gillenia.
Kniphofia hirsuta showed great stamina over winter and is a gorgeous spring presence as it elongates from its winter rosette. Haven’t seen a bloom yet
I brought up north from zone 10 fat bulbs of eucomis, which all squished out and rotted over winter — but look at the unexpected offsets! So maybe big bulbs are more susceptible to winter wet/cold?
There’s a few more rainy days forecast for May, and then we won’t see much rain again until…October (sob!), but at least the winds will be dying down as the temperature gradient adjusts. I’ve been nursing flats and flats of seedlings for a cutting garden that needs to be a lot bigger than what’s available to me to accommodate 40-plus zinnias, scabiosa, cosmos, sunflowers, and more. Floret Farms launched their own seed strains this year, and if I can bring just a few of their zinnias to flower it will be so worth it to see what they’ve dreamed up (‘Dawn Creek,’ ‘Alpenglow‘!) May is such a deliriously fresh month in the garden — I hope it brings you lots to look at!
Camassia leichtlinii, coveted food of Native Americans. Lewis and Clark were served camas in 1805 by the Nez Perce, along with buffalo and salmon. Clark wrote detailed descriptions of the plant, along with the stomach discomfort he experienced after that meal. Clark may not have asked for seconds, but I say more camas, please!
This last Sunday of April has been misty and rainy, the same conditions since mid-week. Until the rains returned last Wednesday, I personally felt we had gone too long without rain (almost a week). But I know the farmers were becoming nervous about getting a second cut of grass done and felt pushed off schedule by the still-soggy ground, so they welcomed the dry spell to get some field work done. Funny how the neighborhood follows the farmers’ grass-cutting schedule, with small lawns appearing neatly mown seemingly overnight. We took the hint and pushed a mower over the tiny patch of shaggy grass at the front of the house. I’ve been slowly planting up the front north-facing garden, using divisions and castoffs from the back garden, where all my primary attention has been directed. Nothing much to show in the front garden yet, but we are working on a fence for Billie, Hannah and Domino, who just started walking around her first birthday.
strong, tall stems, not bothered by snails so far. Unruly leaves in background belong to Eryngium pandanifolium
Planting anything for the first time is always fraught with misgivings. Yet the five bulbs of Camassia leichtlini planted last fall seemed to know exactly what to do. They are after all native to western North America and thrive in moist meadows, and a moist meadow pretty much describes my back garden for eight months of the year. When the flowers began to open last week, I realized my only mistake was not planting more. I called around Portland nurseries to check if any potted bulbs were available, found a source, and took a rainy drive east to bring home two more bulbs planted in gallons. (This fall I will be ordering more bulbs, the easiest and most affordable way to go.)
The camassias are planted up against the railroad tie that divides the two longest borders, which is where I stood to get the photos. In summer this railroad tie is completely engulfed by the plants. The two adjoining borders comprise a planting area roughly 12’X20′
The only uncertainty remaining is how the dying foliage interacts with expanding spring and summer growth of surrounding plants. Judging by last summer, there’s no question the dying foliage will be concealed, the only question being will the leaves get enough sun for the health of the bulb.
late April on a misty Sunday, standing on the railroad tie looking back at the house
my first asphodel
What else is stirring? Asphodels! Asphodeline lutea. Out of three clumps, all different sources, one is in bloom, another clump showing three buds. The only unsuccessful clump was mail-ordered, ‘Italian Gold.’ The latter’s leaves have died off and one flower spike withered before bloom. The thriving clumps were both grown locally. Makes sense to me.
my local rummage sale asphodel
I might need more asphodels too…
another moist meadow lover, Cirsium rivulare ‘Trevor’s Blue Wonder,’ in the border behind the camassias
but cirsium is not the only strong color in April –check out Lunaria annua ‘Chedglow’…
compared to more subdued Lunaria ‘Corfu Blue’
OTOH Cassinia x ozothamnus is a subtle shrub doing its subtle spring flowering thing. Must get some cuttings started.
Euphorbia stygiana, E. characias, and near the fence ‘Silver Swan’
The euphorbias continue to be a dominant presence in April as they have been all year. I can’t imagine spring without them…or more camassias!
I’m not sure when the rhodocoma started blushing pink. In fact, before this morning I didn’t even know to expect such a phenomenon, but trusted resources have this to say: San Marcos Growers: “Upright growing clump forming (tussock) grass-like plant to 6 feet tall with arching reed-like stems bearing congested tight whorls of branchlets with fine foliage. In spring appear the flowers which, for female plants, are a deep pink, while male flowers are pale yellow-green.”
We have a girl!
Also from San Marcos Growers: “The name for the genus comes from the Greek words ‘rhodo’, meaning “rose” or “red”, and ‘kome’ meaning “hair” in reference to terminal clusters of the reddish inflorescence.” Baked into the name, my rosy-haired Cape Restio!
There’s a lot of the traditional horticultural canon that can be grown well here at the moist Oregon Coast in zone 8b/9a that I’m skipping so far– hellebores, roses, rhododendrons, hydrangeas, hostas, maples, Oriental poppies, peonies, clematis to name a few. So you could say I’m not a true traditionalist. And yet I fall hard for tulips, one of the most common spring bulbs, culprits in the most garish displays, hawked from the cheapest wholesalers. Why is that? (Doesn’t everybody interrogate their garden choices?) I even grew a few pots of tulips in zone 10, when the bulbs had to be refrigerated before potting and then kept diligently watered if the winter was dry. Here in wet zone 8bish the bulbs are potted up in fall and placed out in the rain. Done.
So out of all the worthy genera in the horticultural hall of fame, I fall for tulips. Why?
What I Like About Tulips
Tulips are light catchers.
Tulips are intensely architectural
Tulips are agents of transformation, something true of all bulbs.
Tulips are ephemeral. (Let’s hope the hybridizers never meddle with this sacred trait, which would drain all meaning from the experience.). They are the horticultural equivalent of a one-night stand, a spring bacchanal. No commitment required. An extravagant exclamation point after a long, rainy winter.
Tulips are one of the few overly hybridized genera that I’m on board with. They are fantastical creatures to begin with, so it’s nearly impossible to take things too far.
We were away for 12 days or so, just when the tulips in pots were coloring up. It was entertaining enough to order them, pot them, wait and watch for them to nose up, elongate and form that iconic shape. I consoled myself, if the blooms were done by the time we returned, no big deal. Sometimes the process is as satisfying as the result. But that practiced philosophical shrug was unnecessary. Cool, rainy weather prevailed to slow the blooms down just enough until our return.
Fritillaria persica ‘Green Dreams’
I like tulips in pots, a concentrated, intense dose of the life force to light the match that ignites the garden in spring. I doubt I would plant them in the ground as part of a spring landscape even if I had the space. They would be completely out of character in my little garden, which is more textural, even bordering on austere. These fritillaries, on the other hand, I would totally plant in the garden for spring, if they weren’t so expensive and apparently unreliable as far as repeat bloom.
I did check on the fritillaries I saw last year, and there are no flowers this year, just leaves, which apparently is common with this fritillary, so not a reliable repeat performance.
Just a half dozen or so pots, but it’s my own private tulipomania.
Not to add unnecessary drama to an already exciting event on the Oregon Coast, but judging by last year, the plants do leave the sales tables fast…very fast! Come early for the best selection! Support the greatest little garden on the North Oregon Coast and talk manzanitas and other cool plants with Wonder Garden experts.
Last spring a local nursery had planted whiskey barrels with Fritillaria persica. Which jarred me into the realization that I could too, that fritillaries were a green light on the Oregon coast.
This March it is such a kick to see the Persian lily in bloom, even if it’s only the one (they’re expensive). Planted in a 20-gallon galvanized bin also holding a still dormant Salvia ‘Amante’, I can now affirm that its reputation for distinctive beauty was not exaggerated or a trick of photography. Liberated from books and magazines to become a tangible thing in my garden this spring, it’s one of those tiny watershed moments in a gardener’s life. This gardener’s life anyway.
‘Miner’s Merlot’ euphorbia, also new to me, hits similar color notes. But unlike the fritillary, I know euphorbias fairly well and can mentally place them in a context that I just can’t for the fritillary. One is familiar, the other exotic. Technically, both are exotic, with ‘Miner’s Merlot’ a form of Euphorbia x martinii, a naturally occurring hybrid native to France, and the fritillary native to southern Turkey, Iran, Iraq, and other Middle Eastern countries. But “exotic” does not only denote geography, it can mean a bracing unfamiliarity that stirs the imagination, as in this fritillary reminds me of an exotic treasure Marco Polo would have brought to dazzle the court of Kublai Khan.
Euphorbia ‘Miner’s Merlot’
Rumex sanguineus, the “bloody dock” or red-veined sorrel
Continuing the color theme somewhat, the bloody dock has unexpectedly had great presence all winter. I’ve read of but never grown this edible ornamental before — but who could forget a common name like “bloody dock”? Nice to put a name to a face. Loves moisture so is thriving here.
Lunaria ‘Corfu Blue’
And there’s lots of what might be considered mundane that is new to me too, like the biennial lunaria, or money plant, famous for its translucent seedpods. Lunaria is out early, willing to cover cold ground, taking space away from weeds. (Weeds are prodigious here, with bright green bindweed seedlings emerging daily, something to tackle with the first cup of coffee.) ‘Corfu Blue’ is said to possibly be perennial. Along with ‘Corfu Blue,’ I’ve also sown the purple-leaved Lunaria ‘Chedglow.’ If all goes well, this year should bring my first encounter with those storied seedpods apart from admiring them in the dried flower stall at the Los Angeles Flower Market.
Lunaria annua ‘Chedglow’
What looks like straw in the above photo is a combination of grasses I’ve been cutting back since February. Early grasses like deschampsia were cut back first, as new growth at the base appeared. Just recently I’ve cut back the other grasses including miscanthus, so beautiful all winter, a favorite winter presence along with eryngiums and Digitalis ferruginea.
“straw” comes from chopped remains of last summer’s grasses. Still feels like a magic trick to me, that a summer garden can rise up again
Deciduous grasses have been easier to deal with than evergreen grasses like sesleria, which need trimming, raking and grooming instead of a one-time buzzcut. I generally avoided cutting back perennials like penstemon and salvia until new basal growth was visible. Anecdotally, survival chances seem enhanced when the old top growth is left over winter, and hearing the garden rattled by birds seeking food and cover is another winter pleasure. So cutting back the garden for spring has been an ongoing activity depending on the plant, not a one-and-done event, and there’s still a few things to cut back. But the garden has definitely left its tall beige winter phase and entered the green stubble phase, which thankfully is short-lived.
Carex ‘Everillo’ and the first to bloom Geum ‘Totally Tangerine’
The various carex have been flawless all winter, including a carex lookalike grass from New Zealand, Chionochloa rubra, which I’d argue is more strawberry blonde than rubra. Very slow growing, with a long period of belonging to the exasperating club of “Is it alive or dead?” Now that it’s larger, other colors are emerging, greens and gold, and it’s taking on some personality.
Chionochloa rubra from New Zealand aka Red Tussock Grass
I’m glad I stuck with the Red Tussock Grass, moving it to a more prominent position where its form can best be appreciated — a spot that always seems to be in the gravel intended for the broad walkway…
The month of March, fittingly named for the god of war, here at the coast is a pitched battle between winter and spring. Winter battles for supremacy lobbing hail, snow, and night-time freezing temperatures, but it’s a dead-ender’s ploy. Spring confidently retaliates with brilliant blue skies and blinding sunshine. And then, unless it rains, which it hasn’t the past few days, we plummet into the 20sF again overnight. It’s a dizzying mix, a month that alternately snarls and beguiles. The brief appearance of snow came not in softly parachuting flakes rimmed in poetic sparkle, but in goofy wet blobs that melted on impact, leaving no trace. But unlike rain or hail, snow, even this wet snow, falls so soundlessly that it creates a different kind of thrill as it makes its descent in charged silence. The hail dumps precipitously in noisy buckets, and this is what’s piling up in roadside drifts, hail not snow. Billie particularly despises hail, which always provokes barking jags. But typical of her species, she can’t help attempting to catch and eat falling snow.
Morina longifolia in flower last July
Some more plant portraits this morning:
Arctostaphylos ‘Sunset’
Euphorbia x martinii
the cardoon
house leeks
Some blog housekeeping that might provide some diverting reading in March. A hack at one point knocked out content mid-posts, and occasionally I stumble on the problems and restore what I can. Restored posts include Western Hills, Worldwide Exotics Nursery and San Marcos Celebrates 40 Years, links provided. Those posts and other longish ones can be found at the header under “Long Form.” Now to get Billie out for a walk while blue skies and sunshine are winning!
It’s February. How about another color study, this time in orange? Color theory has orange as vital, energetic, happy, but on this cold windy day I’m appreciating its warmth. I’ve promised Billie a walk but am procrastinating heading out into the wind and instead have been rubbing my hands together over digital embers of orange. Included are calceolaria, iris, lots of aloes, glaucium, poppies, ranunculus, isoplexis, kniphofia of course, gerbera, lilies, tithonia, arctotis, leucospermum, fritillaria, ornithogalum, oil drums, senecio, eschscholzia, leonotis, canna (so think of matching name to photo as a kind of game). For the Oregon garden, I’m counting the days til sowing seeds six weeks before the last frost, a moving and slippery target, especially if snow does a reprise of 2023 and makes an appearance in late April again. Daydreaming orange is great for steadying the when-to-sow-stuff nerves and impatiently waiting for plants and seeds to arrive on the porch. Stay warm!
