Gardening in the North

Chrysanthemum

July 27, 2026

Every autumn, there comes a moment when my flower beds begin to look a little tired. Some annuals have already finished blooming, a few experiments have not quite turned out as planned, and here and there an empty space appears. That is when I always head to the garden centre to buy chrysanthemums.

Unlike many of the flowers in my garden, I have never grown chrysanthemums from seed. Instead, I buy them already in full bloom and use them as what I like to call my “gap fillers.” They are the perfect solution for those unexpected empty spots that inevitably appear during the growing season. Within minutes, a flower bed looks complete again, bursting with fresh colour just when it is needed the most.

Chrysanthemums belong to the daisy family, Asteraceae, one of the largest flowering plant families in the world. Their ancestors originate from East Asia, particularly China, where chrysanthemums have been cultivated for well over two thousand years. They later became deeply rooted in Japanese culture and eventually spread throughout Europe, where plant breeders developed the incredible range of varieties we enjoy today.

Walk into any garden centre in late summer or autumn and you will immediately notice just how diverse chrysanthemums have become. Some produce neat cushions covered with hundreds of tiny daisy-like flowers, while others have large, almost perfectly spherical blooms. Petals may be broad, narrow, quilled or delicately curled, giving each variety its own unique appearance.

The colour palette is equally impressive. Pure white, lemon yellow, golden orange, deep red, rich purple, soft pink and countless bi-coloured combinations make it almost impossible to leave the shop with just one plant. Every year I tell myself that I only need a couple, yet somehow a few more always seem to find their way into my shopping trolley.

One of the reasons I enjoy chrysanthemums so much is their timing. By the time they begin their spectacular display, many of the summer flowers are already fading. Suddenly the garden comes alive once again, and the fresh blooms blend surprisingly well with late-flowering perennials, ornamental grasses and the first signs of autumn foliage.

Although chrysanthemums are often thought of simply as autumn bedding plants, they are remarkably versatile. They look equally attractive planted directly into flower beds, growing in decorative containers on a terrace or welcoming visitors beside the front door. A handful of plants can transform an outdoor space in just a few minutes.

They are also refreshingly easy to care for. A bright location and evenly moist soil are usually enough to keep them flowering for weeks. Removing spent blooms helps the plants stay tidy and encourages the remaining buds to open. While many chrysanthemums sold in northern Europe are treated as seasonal ornamentals, some hardy garden varieties can survive the winter if planted in a sheltered, well-drained position.

For me, chrysanthemums have become a tradition rather than simply another purchase. Every autumn I know exactly where they will end up. They quietly fill the little gaps left by the summer, bringing harmony back to the borders without drawing attention to the plants that failed to thrive. They are dependable, cheerful and remarkably generous with their flowers.

Perhaps that is why I return to them every year. I rarely choose a particular variety in advance. Instead, I simply pick the plants that make me smile the moment I see them. Before long they are settled into the flower beds, proving once again that the gardening season does not end when summer fades. In many ways, chrysanthemums give the garden one last magnificent encore before winter finally arrives.
Yellow Queen

June 21, 2026

If I had to name the most successful columbine at the summer cottage, it would certainly be Aquilegia chrysantha ‘Yellow Queen’. It has been growing here for nearly eight years now and still seems just as happy as ever. Some plants come and go, while others struggle with the conditions, but Yellow Queen has quietly settled in and made itself at home.

What I especially love about this flower is its shape. The blooms are unlike any other columbine I grow. Their long, elegant spurs give them a graceful appearance, almost as if they are floating above the foliage. The bright yellow colour is cheerful without being overwhelming and stands out beautifully in the gentle light of a northern summer.

For a long time now, Yellow Queen has shared its place with the lilies. Every year they bloom together, creating a combination that I always look forward to seeing. The lilies provide bold structure while the airy flowers of the columbine bring a lighter touch. After all these years they seem perfectly suited to one another.

One reason I appreciate Yellow Queen so much is its reliability. Columbines can sometimes be short-lived, but this variety has proved remarkably persistent. It returns year after year with little fuss, producing plenty of flowers and maintaining its place despite the challenges of cottage conditions. Perhaps that is why it has become one of my favourites.

I have also managed to establish a second plant near the lake. It is still finding its place there, but I hope that in time it will grow as vigorously as the original clump. It would be lovely to see Yellow Queen spread to other corners of the cottage surroundings. The flower is too beautiful to remain in only one spot.

For now, though, I am simply happy that the old plant continues to thrive. Each summer it reminds me that some garden companions are worth waiting for. Year after year, Yellow Queen returns with its golden flowers, as dependable and beautiful as ever.
Viviparous Lizard

June 21, 2026

One of the things I enjoy most about spending time at the summer cottage is following the wildlife around me. The changing seasons bring different visitors, and there is always something interesting to observe if you take the time to look. Some animals are easy to spot, while others prefer to stay hidden. The viviparous lizard (Zootoca vivipara) usually belongs to the latter group.

Lizards are generally quite shy creatures. Most often, I only catch a glimpse of one disappearing into the grass or vanishing beneath vegetation before I have a chance to look more closely. That is why I was surprised when I recently encountered not one, but two lizards that seemed completely unafraid of my presence.

They were enjoying the warmth of a sunny afternoon near the cottage. Instead of fleeing as soon as they noticed me, they stayed where they were, allowing me to come close enough to take a few photographs. For a while I simply sat nearby and watched them go about their day.

They proved to be surprisingly entertaining little creatures. Every now and then one would lift its head as if surveying the surroundings before returning to its important business of basking in the sun. At other moments they would suddenly spring into action, darting after tiny insects that wandered too close. Their movements were quick and precise, a reminder that even a small lizard is a skilled hunter.

Like many reptiles, viviparous lizards depend on external warmth to stay active. On cool days they can be difficult to find, but when the sun shines, warm patches of grass and sheltered corners become favourite places to rest. Watching these small reptiles soak up the sunlight, it is easy to understand how important warm summer days are for them.

The viviparous lizard is one of the most widespread reptiles in Europe and well adapted to northern conditions. Unlike many other lizard species, it gives birth to live young rather than laying eggs, an advantage in climates where summers are relatively short. Despite their small size, these lizards are fascinating survivors that have adapted remarkably well to life in the north.

Although they are common throughout Finland, encounters like this still feel special. Perhaps it is because they are usually so cautious, or perhaps it is because they seem to belong perfectly to the quiet landscapes of forests, lakeshores and meadows. Their colours blend beautifully with their surroundings, making them seem almost part of the landscape itself.

The two lizards eventually disappeared into the vegetation, continuing their lives beyond my sight. But for a brief moment they allowed me to share their sunny afternoon. It was one of those small and unexpected experiences that makes spending time at the summer cottage so rewarding. Nature does not always reveal itself easily, but when it does, it often leaves a lasting memory.
ILO

June 21, 2026

This spring, I planted a new rose at our summer cottage: Rosa ‘ILO’. Adding a new plant is always a small adventure. No matter how much information you read beforehand, the real story begins only after the plant finds its place and starts growing in its new surroundings.

The rose was planted beside a path that winds through a wooded area near the cottage. It is a peaceful spot where sunlight filters through the trees and highlights the flowers when they bloom. The location felt right from the beginning. Surrounded by woodland and natural vegetation, the rose adds a beautiful splash of colour while fitting naturally into the landscape.

Although this is only its first summer, Rosa ‘ILO’ has already made a positive impression. The flowers are a lovely bright pink, standing out clearly against the surrounding greenery. Their colour catches the eye even from a distance and brings a cheerful touch to the scenery. Whenever I pass by, I find myself taking a moment to admire the blooms.

One feature I have particularly appreciated is how long the flowers seem to last. We have had some very warm weather recently, and many plants struggle to look their best during extended periods of heat. Yet the blooms of Rosa ‘ILO’ have remained attractive remarkably well. Even after several hot days, the flowers continue to provide colour and interest, which is always welcome during the height of summer.

Another reason I chose this rose was its reputation for being relatively easy to grow. Not every plant demands rich soil and constant attention, and that is often an advantage at a summer cottage. Some of the most rewarding plants are those that quietly settle into their surroundings and thrive without much fuss. So far, Rosa ‘ILO’ appears quite content with its new home.

Of course, the first growing season tells only part of the story. A newly planted rose is still establishing its roots and adjusting to its surroundings. It will be interesting to watch how it develops over the coming years. Perhaps it will become larger and fuller, producing even more flowers as it matures. That is one of the pleasures of gardening—or perhaps more accurately, growing plants in a natural setting. The future is never entirely known, and each season reveals something new.

For gardeners in Finland, there is always one question that cannot be answered immediately: how will a new plant cope with winter? Summer allows us to enjoy flowers and growth, but winter is often the real test. As Rosa ‘ILO’ was planted only this spring, its first winter will be an important milestone. I am curious to see how it manages once the snow arrives and temperatures fall.

For now, however, there is no need to think too far ahead. The rose is blooming beautifully, the woodland path is surrounded by summer greenery, and Rosa ‘ILO’ has already brought a little extra colour and enjoyment to the cottage. That feels like a very promising beginning, and I look forward to seeing what the coming seasons will bring.
Tove Jansson

June 21, 2026

Every now and then a plant arrives in the garden that immediately draws attention. This summer, that honour belongs to Rosa pimpinellifolia ‘Tove Jansson’. I planted it this spring, and although it is still settling into its new home, it has already made a memorable impression.

The flowers are unlike anything else among my roses. The colour combination is remarkably bright and cheerful, with vivid yellow petals edged and blended with brilliant shades of red. The contrast is striking, especially on sunny days when the blooms seem to glow in the light. Even from a distance, the flowers catch the eye and bring a welcome burst of colour to the garden.

There is one small disappointment. Each flower lasts only a day before fading. Just as you begin to admire a newly opened bloom, it is already nearing the end of its brief performance. Yet perhaps that fleeting beauty is part of its charm. The flowers are not meant to linger. Instead, they encourage you to appreciate them while they are at their best. Thankfully, the shrub continues to produce new blooms, ensuring that there is always something fresh to enjoy.

Roses are not always easy plants in my garden. The soil is not especially rich, and some varieties would certainly prefer better growing conditions. Fortunately, Rosa pimpinellifolia ‘Tove Jansson’ is known for being less demanding than many modern roses. It seems content enough where it is planted, and so far it has shown healthy growth despite the limitations of the site.

One of the reasons I chose this rose was its reputation for hardiness. In northern gardens, winter survival is always an important consideration. While it is still too early to judge how it will perform after a full winter, I am feeling optimistic. The plant appears vigorous and well adapted, and I am hopeful that it will return next year stronger than ever.

This year’s Midsummer has been bright and beautiful, and the rose has fitted perfectly into the season. Its fiery flowers seem to capture the warmth and light of the longest days of the year. Even though each bloom lasts only a short time, the overall display has been both memorable and uplifting.

As with any new addition to the garden, there is still much to learn. For now, I am simply enjoying the colours and watching how the plant develops. If it continues to thrive and comes through the winter as expected, I suspect Tove Jansson may become one of the most distinctive roses in my collection. It has certainly made an impressive start.
Chatelaine

June 20, 2026

Some flowers attract attention from a distance, while others invite you to come a little closer. Lupinus polyphyllus ‘Chatelaine’, a member of the Russell Lupin group, is one of those flowers. Its tall flower spikes may not always be the largest in the garden, but there is a grace and elegance about them that makes me stop and admire them every summer.

The blooms are a beautiful blend of pink shades, creating a soft display that stands out among the greens of early summer. As the flower spikes sway gently in the breeze, they bring movement and colour to the garden. On warm days they attract bees and other pollinators, and I often find myself watching the activity around them for a few moments longer than I intended.

Over the years I have grown many different flowers, but some become favourites simply because they never disappoint. Chatelaine is one of those plants. It returns faithfully each year and produces its flowers just as the garden is beginning to reach its summer peak. In a northern garden, where the growing season always feels too short, dependable plants become especially valuable.

One of the things I appreciate most about this lupin is how easily it fits into a mixed flower bed. It combines beautifully with many other summer-flowering perennials without competing for attention. Some flowers demand to be the centre of attention, but Chatelaine seems content to complement its neighbours. The result is a natural and balanced display that looks different every year depending on the weather and the surrounding plants.

Every growing season brings its own surprises. One summer may be warm and sunny, another cool and rainy. Yet the garden always finds a way to reward patience. Even familiar plants reveal new details when viewed from season to season. Sometimes it is the abundance of flowers, sometimes the colours appear richer than usual, and sometimes it is simply the pleasure of seeing a favourite perennial emerge once again after a long winter.

At the cottage by the lake, summer days seem to pass at a gentler pace. Morning coffee on the terrace and quiet moments spent looking at the flower beds have become small traditions that I look forward to every year. Chatelaine fits perfectly into those moments. It is not an extravagant flower, but it has a quiet beauty that never fails to catch my eye.

As June turns into July and the garden reaches one of its most colourful periods, I often find myself appreciating plants like Chatelaine the most. They may not be the rarest or most unusual flowers, but they bring reliability, beauty and a sense of continuity to the garden. Year after year they return, bloom and remind me why I enjoy gardening so much.

Lupinus polyphyllus ‘Chatelaine’ is one of those plants whose beauty grows with familiarity. The more summers I spend with it, the more I appreciate its charm. Sometimes the most memorable flowers are not the loudest ones, but those that quietly return and make each summer feel complete.
Water Snake

June 18, 2026

I came across a grass snake while walking along the road this time, rather than by the water. It was one of those quiet moments that seem small at first but stay with you afterwards. The snake moved off the warm surface slowly, unhurried, and for a moment I simply stopped and watched before continuing on.

The species is Natrix natrix, often called the grass snake or the water snake. Around here it is sometimes just referred to as a water snake, which suits it well when you see it swimming so naturally in the lake. Every summer, if you spend enough time near the water, you are likely to see one. They seem to belong here as much as the reeds, the fish, and the long northern evenings.

I have never really understood why so many people are afraid of them. Natrix natrix is completely harmless to humans. In Finland, we only have one truly venomous snake—the adder—and everything else you are likely to encounter in nature is safe. Still, snakes in general tend to carry a certain reputation that does not quite match reality.

Watching them changes that perception quickly. There is nothing aggressive about them. In fact, they are rather timid. If you surprise one, it will usually try to escape as quickly as it can, disappearing into grass or water. But if you stay still and quiet, they sometimes become used to your presence.

I have noticed that after a while, a grass snake may even remain nearby instead of fleeing. It might lift its head slightly, as if observing in return, before settling again. There is something peaceful in that moment, two beings sharing the same place without disturbance.

They seem to enjoy warmth just as much as any other creature. On calm days, you might find one resting on a rock or partly hidden in vegetation, simply sunbathing. The stillness of that scene fits perfectly with the rhythm of summer by the lake.

Their life is closely tied to water. They hunt fish and amphibians, and they move easily between land and lake. Seeing one swim is always a small highlight. The way they glide through the water—quiet, steady, almost effortless—fits so naturally into the landscape that it feels like just another part of it.

Here, seeing a grass snake is almost a tradition of summer. Year after year, they appear in the same familiar places, reminding you how nature continues its patterns regardless of everything else.

Moments like this remind me how much there is to notice if you slow down. The grass snake may not be the first animal people think of when they talk about beautiful wildlife, but it deserves far more appreciation than it usually gets. It is calm, harmless, and very much a part of this environment.

Next time you see one, it might be worth pausing instead of stepping back. Just watch for a moment. You may find it is not something to fear at all, but simply another quiet neighbour enjoying the same summer day.
Columbine

June 18, 2026

If I had to choose just one flower, it would definitely be columbine.

Aquilegia, as it’s known in Latin, is not the most showy plant, nor the rarest, but for me it carries something no catalogue variety ever could. It has been here for as long as I can remember – and long before that. This is the same old variety my grandma once had growing in her garden, and it has now been part of this place for more than eighty years.

There is something quite special about that thought. Plants come and go, borders change, and new varieties arrive every year, but this one has simply stayed. Or perhaps more accurately, it has quietly moved.

Columbine is not a plant that stays politely where you put it. Individual plants only bloom for a few years in one spot before fading away, but the plant continues by setting seed and starting again somewhere new. One spring you notice it in one corner, and a few years later it appears in another. It disappears, and then returns as if nothing ever happened. It finds its own place.

That is exactly how mine behaves. It never really leaves the garden, but it never fully stays still either.

My earliest gardening memories are tied to this plant. As a child, I used to collect the seeds and scatter them around the garden without much thought. I planted them wherever I felt like it – along the paths, between other plants, sometimes even in places where nothing else seemed to grow. And very often, they did.

There is something generous about columbine. It doesn’t expect perfection. It grows in sun or light shade, finds small gaps, and quietly settles in. It fills that early summer moment in the garden, after the spring bulbs have faded and before the stronger summer flowers take over. The blooms are light and slightly nodding, with their distinctive spurs, delicate but never fragile.

Over time, the plants have changed a little. The colours are not always exactly the same from year to year. That is part of their charm. New seedlings appear with small variations, different shades or slightly altered shapes. But the original feeling of the plant remains – something familiar, something continuous.

The name Aquilegia comes from the Latin word aquila, meaning eagle, referring to the shape of the flower spurs. It’s an interesting detail, but for me the plant has always been something softer. I still think of it as my grandma’s flower.

Every year, when the first blooms open, it feels like a quiet return. Nothing dramatic, nothing demanding attention. Just a simple reminder that something has continued, through seasons and years, without needing much care from me.

These days, I don’t try to control where it grows. I let it decide. It always finds a place that works.
And maybe that is exactly why it has lasted this long. Not because it was carefully planned or protected, but because it has been allowed to move, to change, and to belong in its own way.

I’m just glad it’s still here.
Russell Red

June 14, 2026

This summer, one of the flowers quietly catching my attention by the lake is the Russell Red lupin. The colour is slightly different from what I expected. It is not just red, but more of a mixture of red and pink, changing a little depending on the light. Sometimes it feels soft, almost faded, and at other times it shows a deeper, warmer tone.

I haven’t really had this colour before, and that is probably why it stands out. Still, it fits naturally into the surroundings. It does not feel too bright or too strong, just somewhere in between.

The Russell varieties are something I have come to appreciate over time. There is something reliable about them. They grow steadily, form their tall spikes, and then bloom in a way that feels generous. Even this red–pink shade, which is new to me, has that same calm presence.

These lupins belong to the Russell group, usually classified as Lupinus × regalis, hybrids originally developed from Lupinus polyphyllus. They are known for their strong vertical growth and wide range of colours, which is probably why every plant feels slightly different.

One thing I like especially is how easy they are. Here in the north, that matters. You cannot expect every plant to survive without some thought. You have to plan where they go. If the place is wrong, they slowly disappear. But when they are happy, they manage well on their own.
This one started blooming early in the season and continues steadily. The flowers open from the bottom upwards, which keeps them going for a long time. Even when I am not here every day, I know they will manage without much attention.

I am still waiting for the others to bloom. With these lupins, there is always a bit of uncertainty. You never fully know what colours will come.
For now, this red and pink mix is enough. It brings a quiet variation to the garden and works beautifully with the open space by the lake. Not perfect, not planned too much—just growing as it happens.
Pohjola’s Daughter

June 6, 2026

A few years ago, I planted my first rhododendrons with great anticipation. At the time, I chose three varieties that looked beautiful in the nursery—lush leaves, promising buds, and colors that felt almost exotic in a northern garden. They are still alive today, which in itself feels like a small victory, but they have never truly thrived. Each spring they wake slowly, cautiously, and their growth has remained modest. I’ve come to suspect that they simply are not quite hardy enough for our conditions.

Still, it is hard to give up on rhododendrons. When they bloom, even modestly, they bring a completely different atmosphere to the garden—something soft, almost woodland-like, with their deep green leaves and layered flowers.

So this year, I decided to try again.

This time, I searched more carefully for varieties known for better hardiness in northern climates. Instead of choosing only by appearance, I focused on durability and resilience. I ended up bringing home two new plants, both slightly different in character but selected with the same hope: that they might adapt better to our winters.

One of them is already rewarding me, (Rhododendron ’Pohjola’s Daughter’).

It is now in bloom, and I find myself returning to look at it several times a day. The flowers are arranged with a quiet symmetry, forming a neat and balanced shape that feels almost deliberate. There is something satisfying about its structure—nothing wild or sprawling, but calm and composed.

Of course, early success in summer does not guarantee anything. Here in the north, the true test always comes later. Snow, wind, and long periods of cold will decide whether this plant can truly belong here.

Still, I allow myself a bit of optimism.

It would be wonderful to have rhododendrons that not only survive, but bloom reliably year after year. A plant that settles in, strengthens over time, and becomes part of the garden rather than a yearly uncertainty.

For now, I will simply enjoy this moment—this season of flowers, symmetry, and promise.

And in a few years, we will know the answer.