Tag Archives: seeds

flower, gardening

Yellow Queen

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.

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flower, gardening

Chatelaine

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.

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flower, gardening

Columbine

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.

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Russell Red

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.

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Sunflower

Up here in the north, sunflowers (Helianthus annuus) are not something I buy very often. Not because I don’t like them—quite the opposite—but somehow they feel like a plant made for warmer places, long summers, and endless sunshine. Our season is shorter, more uncertain, and I’ve always wondered if they truly settle in here the way they should.

A few days ago, though, I noticed them at the garden centre. Tall, confident, already in bloom—bright yellow faces turning gently toward the light. They stood there like small pieces of summer itself. I paused, of course. Admired them. But the price tag made the decision easy enough: I walked away.

Or so I thought.

When I returned a few days later, things had changed. The same sunflowers were still there, but now slightly wilder, a little less polished—and marked down. The kind of quiet invitation that is hard to resist. This time I didn’t hesitate for long. I brought home two plants and suddenly I was carrying a bit of that golden warmth.

This variety is especially lovely. Instead of a single large flower, it produces many blooms—branching out into smaller, softer “plumes” of yellow. It feels lighter somehow, less formal than the traditional tall sunflower with its bold central disk. There’s something generous about it, the way it flowers again and again.

They’ve now been planted at the summer place, where the light is open and the evenings long. Even in these northern conditions, they already seem at ease, catching the sun whenever it appears and holding onto it.

Sunflowers, in general, are surprisingly adaptable. Although they are often associated with heat, they are fast growers and can manage well if given enough light and a sheltered spot. Their roots run deep, and once established, they carry a certain resilience—something I perhaps underestimate every year.

And there is something else about them too. They bring a different kind of mood into the garden. Not delicate like violets or nostalgic like geraniums, but cheerful, almost bold. They don’t ask quietly for attention—they offer it freely.

So perhaps I will not wait so long next time. Even here, even in the north, there is room for a little more sunlight.

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Petunia

It’s still a little early for petunias (petunia) here, and I know it. The nights can surprise you, and one cold snap is enough to undo all the enthusiasm of a warm afternoon. But after a few genuinely sunny days, I’ve decided to take the risk this year. Sometimes it just feels right to get started.

I spent part of the weekend visiting my mum in the town centre for Mother’s Day. We had a quiet, lovely visit — a walk through familiar streets and, of course, a stop at a flower shop. It’s become a bit of a habit this time of year. I don’t really plan what I’ll buy, but I always seem to come home with something. And more often than not, it’s petunias.

There’s something reassuring about them. With so many plants, I find myself hesitating — will they cope if I’m not there every day, will they need more care than I can give? But petunias are different. They’re reliable in a way that fits perfectly with summer cottage life. When the weather turns warm and dry, they don’t give up easily. They keep flowering, even if watering is a bit irregular.

That’s probably why I return to them year after year. I might try something new each season, but petunias are always part of the mix. They fill the pots quickly, soften the edges of planters, and bring just enough colour without feeling too demanding. And once they settle in, they seem to take care of themselves surprisingly well.

So here I am, a bit ahead of the season, with a few pots already planted. I’ll keep an eye on the forecast and be ready to move them if needed, but I’m choosing not to wait this time. After a long winter, it feels good to start.

And if nothing else, seeing those first petunia blooms outside — even a little too early — is a reminder that summer is on its way.

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Violet

Every spring brings the same quiet but important question: what kind of violets should I choose this year? Violets are often the very first flowers that mark the beginning of the season, and somehow the choice always feels bigger than it should. Small flowers, perhaps, but they carry the whole promise of spring with them.

This year, there were so many beautiful options available. The tables were full of familiar faces – deep purples, soft yellows, delicate pastels – but for reasons I can’t fully explain, it was the bluish tones that drew me in. Cool, calm, and slightly muted, they felt right for this spring. I didn’t notice any truly new colors this time, but that wasn’t disappointing. Sometimes it’s comforting to return to shades you already know and trust.

Violets (viola) are not demanding plants. They settle in easily, tolerate cool days, and just keep flowering. Once planted, they seem content to do their own thing, quietly blooming day after day without asking much in return. That reliability makes them ideal spring flowers, especially after a long winter.

Now they are in place at the summer cottage, brightening up the early season when little else is in bloom. It didn’t take long before they were noticed. Bumblebees were the first visitors, heavy and focused, followed soon by butterflies drifting lightly from flower to flower. Seeing life return so naturally always feels reassuring.

Violets may not shout for attention, but they are always present, always working, always blooming. And once again, they have taken their rightful place as the starting point of spring.

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Angel

I didn’t plan on buying a geranium that day. I was simply browsing, enjoying a quiet and bright spring moment, when this one stood out. There was something about it that made me stop. That was when I fell in love with Angel. She came home with me without much hesitation.

This is my first time growing this type of geranium, which made the choice feel even more special. Angel has a softer look than many traditional pelargoniums, with a compact growth habit and delicate flowers. At the store, she felt calm and well-balanced, not trying to impress but quietly confident. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

Angel (Geranium ‘Angel’) has now been planted at the summer cottage, where spring arrives slowly and temperatures can still drop unexpectedly. Days may be sunny, but nights often remain cold. Choosing plants for this environment means thinking ahead. From what I understand, this type of geranium is fairly cold-tolerant as long as it’s protected from frost, so Angel should manage just fine in a sheltered spot.

Planting her felt like a true sign that the season has turned, even if the air is still cool. The soil was fresh, the light clear, and the garden just beginning to wake up. Angel was planted into well-draining soil and placed where she can enjoy sunlight without being exposed to strong winds. Sometimes small details make all the difference.

In terms of care, Angel feels refreshingly uncomplicated. Regular watering, good drainage, and gentle feeding during the growing season should be enough to keep her healthy and blooming. She doesn’t ask for much, which suits life at the cottage perfectly.

As spring moves forward, I’m looking forward to seeing how Angel settles in and grows. First-time plants always bring a certain quiet excitement. Angel already feels like she belongs here, and I’m glad I trusted that moment in the store when something simply felt right.

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Hilma

Some plants arrive with a sensible plan behind them, others simply follow the heart. Hilma belongs firmly to the second category. She was not cheap, and I knew that perfectly well while standing there, hesitating just a moment longer than usual. But some colours do that to you. The soft layering, the gentle contrast, the way the petals seem to glow even without direct sunshine — resisting felt pointless. Hilma (Geranium ‘Hilma’) came home with me.

Now she sits on the balcony, where the light shifts slowly through the day. In the mornings, the colours feel cooler and calmer; in the long evenings, they deepen and warm up, almost changing character. This is what I love about geraniums like Hilma — they are never static. They respond to light, temperature, and time in a way that keeps you looking twice.

What draws me to these varieties, again and again, is their reliability. They tolerate cold with remarkable grace, making them ideal companions for northern balconies. Even when nights dip lower and the air feels sharp, they hold on. Six months or more outdoors is not unusual here, and that kind of endurance feels almost generous.

This spring has felt especially full of light. The days stretch endlessly, and even ordinary moments seem brighter for it. Hilma has settled into this rhythm quickly, her foliage healthy and steady, her blooms unhurried but confident. There is no rush — just consistency, day after day.

Sometimes I think that is why I didn’t mind the price after all. Hilma isn’t a fleeting pleasure. She is presence. She stays, she adapts, and she rewards patience. On a northern balcony, surrounded by wind, light, and long evenings, that feels like exactly the kind of plant worth choosing.

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Chandelier

The midsummer is close and the nature is at its best. The weather has been beautiful up here in the north, sunny and warm.

The reliable Chandelier (Lupinus ‘Chandelier’) has started to bloom. It has turned out that it is very suitable for this climate and has found a permanent spot in the flowerbed.

This year I do not have much time to tend the garden and have to rely on the perennials. Sadly ants have managed to find some of the flowerbeds and it has been a dry June, therefore I have few less flowers to enjoy.

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