The Pierre de Ronsard rose in the corner of the garden pleased me enormously when we got home from our recent holiday.
Even in late May there were a dozen flowers. There were buds, too.
This romantic rose is my all time favourite flower. A relatively new rose, it was first produced thirty years ago. It was named for Pierre de Ronsard (1524 – 1585), a poet in the court of Mary Queen of Scots. He was also a keen gardener.
It was love at first sight for me. There’s been a place in my garden(s) for this rose ever since.
Pierre de Ronsard rose – perfect
The Pierre De Ronsard rose is my perfect rose because
- Each individual bloom is exquisite.
- The cream buds darken to pale pink as they open, and finally to very deep pink. (Some people even describe the colour as carmine.)
- At their best, the cup-shaped blooms are around four inches (10.5 cms) across.
- When the blooms open, around forty petals are revealed. Some remain crumpled in the heart of the flower.
- Flushes of blooms follow each other most of the year.
- Blooms last well as cut flowers.
- The slight perfume is sweet and distinctive.
- There are very few thorns.
- The Pierre de Ronsard is a vigorous climber.
- It is easy to care for.
Every year at the end of winter, I prune my rose. Ruthlessly. It rewards me with rampant growth that can be trained to cover trellises and along fence tops. One I grew climbed over the fence and into a nearby tree.
After the new growth come flushes of blooms. I cut off the spent blooms when I remember. The plant works even harder then to produce more flowers.
Editing and the Pierre de Ronsard
This wasn’t meant to be a gardening blog. I woke this morning thinking about the memoir I’ve been labouring over. For ever, it seems. A few months ago, I sent the manuscript to my friend, Christina Houen at Perfect Words Editing. Within a few days, it came back.
Christina had gone through my memoir. Thoroughly. She said she enjoyed reading it. And she made careful and considerate suggestions about severe pruning, severe editing.
I resisted. It felt too painful to cut out so much. I wasn’t ready.
From where I sit at my desk, I can see the Pierre de Ronsard rose through the window . The rose responds to pruning and rewards me every time. And I bet the poet, Pierre de Ronsard, didn’t hesitate to prune his poetry.
So here I am, again. Pruning. Thank you, Christina.
Thanks for visiting my blog. I’d love to read your comments.