Centre stage for clematis

She was, to say the least, taken aback, and proceeded to chide me for my lack of reverence for what many consider to be the queen of garden climbers.

Tough. It is a twig, albeit a very beautiful twig. And 20 years on, it's still a twig.

And only a true eccentric would lavish love and affection cultivating a twig (or a buttercup) to become a garden feature.

Only a true eccentric would pay for such specimens in the hope that they will turn into gems of the horticultural world.

Only a true eccentric would water them, feed them, prune them and extol their virtues to friends and neighbours.

But the British, it seems, are a nation of eccentrics. They cultivate hundreds of named varieties of those twigs and buttercups, little realising their true identity. They have been fooled by the gorgeous flowers and scents which annually spring from their charges.

But the ancient Greeks knew better; they christened those self-same plants twigs. And botanists classified them in the Ranunculaceae family, which also houses Ranunculus, the humble buttercup.

The true eccentric, of course, would never even whisper those names. His/her prize specimen is a Traveller's Joy, a Virgin's Bower, a clematis.

There, now you have it, the clematis is nothing more than a twig, a buttercup, a nothing pretending to be a something. But what a conman, what a superb actor, dressing up in such finery and stealing centre stage, hogging the limelight and often clambering over other players who eventually achieve the staus of supporting players.

The clematis is grand opera to street theatre; Verdi to Pinter; big, bright and bold in a world of lesser colours.

It can also be a pouting prima donna who will only let the show go on when it gets everything its own way. That means a sunny site with roots in the shade, a rich, moist soil, regular feeding, considerate pruning and the regular applause demanded by the star of the show.

Yet even with all this, and more, the big-flowering clematis varieties can suddenly bring down the curtain by keeling over and dying from a particularly pernicious fungal disease which is aptly called wilt. Fungicide sprays are now the true eccentric's best friend, and regular applications are as important to the plant as bouquets are to the leading lady.

That apart, the clematis is a vast family of redoubtable performers, with some members always ready to break new ground and put on a show where no other plant would have the courage or tenacity to put down roots.

The likes of C montana will take on a part of epic proportions, spreading ever outwards and upwards to clothe unsightly buidlings, dress drab trees and hide the uglier side of the garden.

The delicate cameo roles of C tangutica or C alpina are a joy to behold, but everyone seems to remember ther performances of the large-flowered hybrids with names like 'The President', 'Ville de Lyon', 'Comtesse de Bouchard' and 'Star of India'.

They and their numerous fellow actors can be found staging summer shows the length and breadth of the country.

Some varieties even throw in late spring or early autumn performances.

But in winter, the clematis reverts to being a twig. Gone is the finery, the lavish make-up which befits the stage goddess. Back is the klematis of the Greeks.

But the true eccentric can forgive it anything as long as there is an annual repeat of the summer spectacular.

YP MAG 27/11/10