Each month, Wisley is holding a plant specialist weekend - coming up are hellebores next month and auriculas at the end of April. A couple of weekends ago, I was there for a talk by Jim Durrant of McBean's Orchids and a tour of the orchid collection. I really enjoyed both.If a pattern - or apparent obsession - seems to be emerging in these postings, just to mention that recently I've been researching orchids for a chapter on plants in a book-in-progress. Also, the Orchid Society of Great Britain is celebrating its diamond jubilee this year, and I've been following preparations for forthcoming shows (more on these in a future posting).
Just a few photos of the orchid house at Wisley for now:
Afterwards, there were the tropical butterflies in the glasshouse. An apt follow-up since orchids and butterflies seem to me to have a few things in common as specialist interests. Orchids are similarly delicate, mysterious creatures, though have obvious advantages as a hobby, not least on account of the element of cruelty in butterfly-collecting. This train of thought originates for me with Vladimir Nabokov's fascination with butterflies.
(A quick digression: while he was research fellow in entomology at Harvard, Nabokov and his wife spent their summers butterfly-hunting in North America and Europe. As a respected lepidopterist who wrote academic papers, he presents an unusual case of a writer who was also an expert in another, seemingly unrelated field. In an interview in 1971, however, Nabokov linked both expertises, saying that although he still continued to hunt butterflies, he no longer published academic papers since "the miniature hooks of a male butterfly are nothing in comparison to the eagle claws of literature which tear at me day and night".)
The most striking butterflies in the glasshouse were black with grey or blue markings. The first I saw seemed to have escaped from the exhibition area; I hadn't been prepared to see a creature about the size of my hand gliding in a slow zigzagging movement through the gallery, obviously a bit lost. When I reached the exhibition walkway, it was fascinating to see how they moved as if in slow motion. Like swallows in extremely leisurely flight. Occasionally, they fluttered out of harm's way.
I thought they were remarkably calm despite the visitor numbers - much calmer than most of the visitors. It was midday, and there were a few traffic jams on the stairs (best to go early, if you're going). There was a real excitement in the air: people stood still, gazing at butterflies and orchids, both strangely beautiful creatures. I heard later from a friend that one of the assistants had brought out a butterfly that had just hatched, holding it on a little stick.
Afterwards, I asked one of the RHS guides, Connor, also a tree expert, who was directing people traffic outside the glasshouse, what he would especially recommend seeing in the grounds. Armed with a couple of seasonal tips for a tour, I was about to set off when I came across a friend who had also been at the orchids event - she and her mother had just toured the glasshouse. We stopped for lunch, by which time the weather had picked up. The morning had started grey and rainy, not garden-visiting weather, though I'd reminded myself on the way up that I'd be inside most of the time, for the talk and tour - yet there we were in glorious sunshine, coats off.
We headed first for the lake bordered by willow and dogwood stems, silver-grey, red and golden: I'd wanted to see them because I'd recently seen photos of coloured tree barks in the winter garden of Anglesey Abbey (the Garden House in Brighton were organising a tour there). 
We had to search a bit to find his favourite planting. Following the path round, where we caught sight of swans, there they were: silver birch trees underplanted with winter aconites. For me, this cluster of golden flowers outshone everything else in the landscape. (I realise that the shot below can't do it justice, though - in any case, it's well worth seeing for yourself.)
Then we walked through a woodland area - the wild garden - towards the rock garden. You could almost be in real woods (just have to close your mind to the distant din of the A3). We had a relaxing time slowly ascending Battleston Hill, planted with gigantic snowdrops, some doubles, as well as a whole host of other bulbs, all of them out, and I forgot to look out for the plant of the month, Iris "Katherine Hodgkin". Maybe it was because I'd had my fill of irises already: there had been deep purple dwarf irises in the beds outside the Clore Centre; elsewhere, in the wild garden, there were statuesque mauve irises. It was also a little overwhelming to see so many brightly coloured flowers when, by comparison, Sussex gardens and parks were still barely struggling out of winter, with only snowdrops and a few crocii on show. A walk around Wisley was a kind of fast-forward into spring.
My friend spotted our iris, fortunately, since it had slipped my mind - surrounded by a small crowd.
It was set amongst some rocks, beneath a bonsai'd larch tree near the top of the hill. The petals were a delightful grey-blue with delicate yellow and black markings. The flower seemed to emerge from the earth - its tiny stem hidden somewhere. We'd been admiring the flowers for a while when it dawned on us: Iris "Katherine Hodgkin", plant of the month.Just out of curiosity, I looked for it in the plant shop. An assistant said she wasn't sure they had any left - checking the system, she saw there were two but that could mean they were sold-out. There were none to be seen in the racks outside, though I hadn't thought about buying in any case. (I've since heard that the plant centre has sold 500: sold out in just over a month. Although it's unlikely there will be any new stock in the near future, they will come in again in August, as a dry bulb.) Instead, I picked up two lovely winter aconites. Close-up, their glistening flowers were sunflower-bright as well as jewel-like - a powerful colour for such a tiny flower. Described as an "early flowering plant" (January), it was a good memento for a day spent in an early flowering garden.
