True blues

I HAVE been planting English bluebells. They grow in their millions in the beechwoods that surround us—but not in our own garden. They are, however, a protected species. The law is clear and uncompromising: ‘It is illegal to dig up bluebells or their bulbs from the wild, or to trade or sell wild bluebell bulbs and seeds.’ I have, therefore, had to buy them from a respectable bulb-merchant.

- Charles Quest-Ritson

The irony is that our garden is swamped by the other sort—vulgar Spanish bluebells, now known as Hyacinthoides hispanica, in the same way that our own English species, which has seen many name changes over the centuries, is now known as Hyacinthoides non-scripta. Some botanists believe that the Spanish invader presents a national threat to our own native beauties. Their learned articles are reported in the tabloids with headlines that evoke the Spanish Armada.

The two species are not too difficult to tell apart. There are cleverer ways than mine to distinguish them, but I notice that the Spaniards flower a week or so earlier and have fatter leaves.

Their stems are upright, whereas the flowers are slightly broader and paler. Plus they have a peppery smell. Our true-blue English bluebells have a nodding tip to the flower stems and that unique and gorgeous scent that Penhaligon extracted so perfectly in the days when I could afford to give it to my wife for our wedding anniversary.

I am told that it is no less perfect today—the quintessence of the parfumier’s skill.