Alpine plants — those that grow at high altitudes above the tree line — can
suffer from an image problem. Or perhaps it isn’t the plants themselves but
gardeners with a particular penchant for the tiny plants, who were once
described to me — by the head of alpines at the RHS Garden Wisley no less —
as being “a bit anally retentive”.
I confess to having always been fascinated by the group myself, but they are
all too often grown in the same old way — (literally) stuck in a rut, or,
more specifically, the ruts between a couple of bits of slate, set at a
jaunty angle within a rectangular tufa planter. The idea is to provide a
naturalistic setting, but a back garden in the home counties is so far
removed from where they grow on mountain ranges that this small nod to
nature can often look uncomfortably twee.
Serious collectors may be happy to devote their garden to alpine houses
(basically, unheated, well-ventilated greenhouses) and raised beds, and to
spend endless hours picking off dead foliage with tweezers. For the average
gardener, a small selection of low-maintenance examples will do, yet it can
be difficult to incorporate them into the overall scheme. All too often,
displays — be they an incongruous rocky outcrop in the middle of a lawn, or
an old sink with a few sorry specimens drowning in a sea of gravel — look
like an afterthought imposed on the garden.
Ever keen to widen my repertoire, I decided to see how the experts are growing
alpines in the 21st century. The Royal Botanic Gardens Kew, Surrey, proudly
unveiled its shiny new state-of-the-art glass house in March 2006 and, with
the honeymoon period over, I was keen to see how it was shaping up.
I nabbed Richard Wilford, the alpine/ herbaceous collections manager at Kew,
for a chat. Even on a grim, wintry day, the Davies Alpine House is a sight
to behold. Though much smaller than I had imagined, it is undoubtedly a
beautiful structure, a smooth fin of glass arcing across the entrance to the
large exterior Rock Garden. Inside, a path winds through the middle, with
beds on either side, given structure by large chunks of the same Sussex
sandstone used outside. Small areas among the long-term plantings and a
couple of narrow display benches are devoted to seasonally changing potted
specimens, their vivid vermillion, azure, gold and amethyst flowers glowing
with jewel-like intensity amid the arid boulders.
I was struck by the diversity of plant types grown within the sleek curving
walls. Bergenia is more usually catego-rised as ground cover and cyclamen as
a shade-tolerant woodland native, yet here they were in the alpine house of
the greatest botanic garden in the world. With such a range of plants on
display, I was keen for Wilford to clarify what constitutes an alpine.
“There are really two definitions,” he says. “A true alpine is a plant that
grows above the tree line in mountainous areas, where the average
temperature in the warmest month is 10C. These are used to very intense
sunlight, very cold winters and a short growing season. Then you get
subalpines from just below the tree line but still high up, and they tend to
be larger plants, some of them more woodlandy because they grow in the shade
of small trees.”
However, Wilford went on to explain that the definition also encompasses
plants with different origins. “ ‘Alpines’ can also come from sea level if
they’re the right size and form, and people generally call them ‘rock-garden
plants’.” This is a broader term, covering anything that works on display
with alpines, often because of their scale, but sometimes — as in the case
of Mediterranean plants — because they require similar growing conditions.
Perennials, shrubs and sub-shrubs and, of course, bulbs, including tulips,
iris, crocus, muscari and narcissi, are represented.
While it was surprising to find so many different types of plants under this
generous umbrella, it was also liberating to realise that putting together
interesting combinations is more important than sticking to strict botanical
definitions. Rather than corralling alpines into a single area in the
garden, we should be juxtaposing them with other plant groups and not be
afraid of marrying plants of a very different scale.
Putting dainty-leaved Corydalis hen-rikii and minuscule domes of
saxifrage adjacent to hellebores and erythroniums, as at Kew, looks edgy and
rebellious, and also forces the onlooker to make the effort to search out
the smaller hidden treasures.
In terms of cultivation, Wilford advises that good drainage is important,
especially in winter. Use gritty compost and mulch with a good layer of grit
to keep the leaves away from the wet soil. Good air movement and good light
is also important, so plant them in an open, sunny position. Give them
plenty of water in spring and summer, but ease off in autumn and winter.
My visit to Kew has made me less timid about trying alpines in new
combinations and contexts. I think they would look wonderfully effective in
a modern setting, where cold metal, stone, glass and slate could echo,
rather than seek to imitate, the uncompromising environment of a windswept
mountainside. On the other hand — and at the risk of seeming anal myself —
I’m prepared to admit that my ultimate dream present would be a teeny-weeny
alpine house of my very own, where I can tweak the leaves of saxifrage and
draba and marvel at the exquisite beauty of tiny narcissi and reticulata
irises. Perfect.
Wilford’s top 10 alpines for the novice
Saxifraga cochlearis: one of the silver saxifrages like the S
crustata grown in the alpine house, but more widely available. Sprays of
white flowers in May.
Cyclamen coum: winter-flowering species with small but tough
magenta-pink flowers.
Dianthus erinaceus: a lovely Turkish cushion-forming species of pink,
with flowers in early summer held close to the mound of short narrow
blue-green leaves.
Sempervivum ciliosum: one of the many species and cultivars of
houseleek. These are among the easiest alpines to grow and are valued for
their fascinating rosettes of pointed leaves.
Gentiana acaulis: large blue trumpets held above a mat of rounded green
leaves in spring. From the Alps.
Muscari azureum: pale blue grape hyacinth with open-ended flowers, from
Turkey.
Narcissus bulbocodium: the hoop-petticoat daffodil. A short plant with
narrow, grass-like leaves flowers in March.
Pulsatilla vulgaris: the pasqueflower. Velvety goblets of rich purple.
Native to parts of Britain as well as the mountains of Europe.
Primula marginata: blue-grey leaves, each with a margin of silvery
grey. Pink flowers in March-April. From the Alps.
Adonis vernalis: herbaceous plant with wide, golden-yellow flowers with
cop-per-backed petals in March. Finely divided feathery bright green leaves.
- The Alpine Garden Society, 01386 554 790, www.alpinegardensociety.net;
Royal Botanic Gardens Kew, 020 8332 5655, www.kew.org
