Squawking points

THE grand Dutch Master paintings of arranged flowers—works by Jan Davidszoon de Heem and Ambrosius Bosschaert that are at once both orchestrated yet collapsing— are a constant inspiration when it comes to choosing what to grow.

- Arthur Parkinson

I’ve always been drawn to specimens that are good for both the garden and vase alike, so, when it comes to tulip bulbs, it is the parrots of which I plant the most. They produce a Met Gala annual casting of glorious absurdity each April and May.

In bud, they resemble some mythical, reptilian, egg-like creation before emerging into the first hints of tropical colour like drunken scarlet-macaw fledglings with their pin feathers. It’s not only their colour that is extraordinary: their petals have a rippled texture reminiscent of unguarded candelabra wax that has been allowed free range once the dinner guests have left the table.

What parrot tulips do wonderfully is deliver the clout that many an English spring-garden tapestry needs to avoid it becoming too fatally polite. Miraculously, they do this despite being delicate, perhaps because of the flowing outline of the petal. They have a rare elegance mixed with all the craziness of a dancing cockatoo.

The first feathered tulips were the result of natural mutations caused by exposure to mosaic virus and were named