The official "I wrote a book and it's in stores now" post

As many people who hang around with me on Facebook, Twitter, or in real life know, last year one of my projects was to write a book for Nimbus Publishing of Halifax. That book, Plants for Atlantic Gardens, is in stores now throughout the region, including independent local stores like The Box of Delights in Wolfville, on Amazon.ca, and will be in the US in a couple of months time. Hopefully, it will inspire you enough that you'll want to buy it. But you could also win a book...keep reading for the details.

Punting garden gnomes & other true-ish tales: How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack

The following is a true story.
I dislike garden gnomes immensely. I don't know if I suffered trauma as a child by having one fall on my foot, or if I was stalked by one as a college student studying horticulture, or what the rationale might be. All I know is that I've never seen the appeal of them, and that one on television flogging some travel site makes me want to punch the television. There were never any gnomes in my family's gardens, and suffice it to say there have never been, nor will there ever be, any in mine.

A few years ago, I was on a plant hunting expedition in Labrador, which is the northern part of Newfoundland, the part stuck to the rest of North America. Through some sort of series of errors, the place where we were all staying was overbooked, and I was the (not) lucky one who got to stay somewhere else...which was at the worst B & B I have ever encountered. Between the musty bed and bedclothes, the religious homilies festooning every wall, counter, and other surface, and the shower/bath with no mat and the world's slipperiest tub (I still bear the scar on my shin), it was, quite frankly, the night from hell. About 4 am, I gave up trying to sleep in the musty, too-hot room, packed up my suitcase, and left, planning to sleep in my car the rest of the night. I'd already paid for the night, lest anyone think I skipped out. I wouldn't do that, no matter how peeved I was.

But out by the parking area, there were two stupid, tacky, cement gnomes, sitting there in their very gnomeness. In the dark, I encountered one by banging into it with my sandal-clad foot. This just increased my irritation. Both gnomes were then gnocked over. It might have been the wind.

At least I didn't do what one of my friends said I should have done, the next morning after having breakfast with the rest of them. His idea was that I should have kidgnapped one of the gnomes and taken it to Gros Morne, placed it on the summit of the mountain. Gno, thank you. I would never pollute Gros Morne in such a way. There's rules against degradation of nature, you know.

All this is by way of prefacing my review of Chuck Sambuchino's new book, "How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack." It was sent to me several weeks ago by Ten Speed Press, and I just got around to reading it this week.



I had long suspected that gnomes were an evil lot, bent on world domination. It's as plain as the gnose on your face that they're also in cahoots with the evil goutweed, which grows just the right height for gninja gnomes to hide in. Can you see the evil little devil hiding in this patch of goutweed? GNo? Works well, doesn't it?

Okay, the book. It's hilarious and creepy, all at the same time. It depends on your sense of humour, (or in some cases, lack thereof). Sambuchino writes well, and while the tone is deeply serious to reflect the danger lurking in lawn warriors, the reader can't help but hope that the author didn't bite his tongue too often whilst writing, as it was firmly planted in his cheek.

Do YOU know how to gnomeproof your yard and garden? Do you know how to secure your home so that these little monsters can't get inside for an attack? Sambuchino leads us through everything you need to know about coping with these insidious, nefarious creatures. You can survive when they attack, and Sambuchino proves how they inevitably will get cocky enough to make an attempt on your life. Fortunately, he's the man with the answers, though I was expecting some reference to duct tape and plastic sheeting in there, too.

A mention of the Battle of Thermopylae should give the history buff amongst readers some understanding of how to oppose gnomes in battle. There's even some recommendation about how to dispose of the dangers of "roaming gnomes." My personal favourite is to dispose of said creatures in the Laurentian Abyss, one of the deepest parts of the Atlantic Ocean, but in case of emergency, probably leaving a gnome at the door of any mall on Black Friday will do the trick.

Now, let me stress, this isn't high-faluting "Litter-a-chur", nor is it an essential for the gardener's library in order to increase one's gardening abilities. What it is, is very good fun, a nice addition as part of a gift basket or as stocking stuffer for a gardener or for anyone who has ever muttered about the clutter of gnickgnacks on lawns and in homes. We all need a little more humour in our lives.

And far, far, fewer gnomes.

"The Plant Does all the Work!" Remembering my friend...

This is the blog posting I hoped I wouldn’t have to write for a long time yet. But the day has come, and my heart is heavy. I’m taking a break from Wordless Wednesday this week because plant lovers in Atlantic Canada are feeling a loss tonight.


It has been almost a decade since I met the famous, formidable and funny plantsman Captain Richard (Dick) Steele. Our meeting was happenstance: Longsuffering Spouse and I were out driving around on the south shore of Nova Scotia in late spring. He, of course, had one eye peeled to the water, looking at fishing boats: I was looking at gardens. We came around a curve in what was a particularly twisty road, and I saw wooden racks of interesting plants, and a modest sign: Bayport Plant Farm. “Stop the truck!” I hollered.


LSS, being an agreeable sort, piled the binders on. At my urging, he backed us up and pulled in the parking lot. I clambered out to examine the plants, and he ambled up a path beyond a line of large yews. Moments later, he came bounding back and grabbed my arm. “You HAVE to see these!” he announced, grinning from ear to ear. I followed him, and stopped in my tracks. Blue poppies. In bloom. Around them, dozens of rhododendrons filled with silken blossoms, irises flinging their fascinating flowers skyward, a joyful riot of evergreens and perennials, foliage and flowers. I was in love.


(Dick Steele with "Other Jodee" on the Great Plant Hunting Expedition of 2007, en route to Battle Harbour. He had two Jodis, both left-handed, a tad mischievous, and besotted with him, among the pilgrims on this voyage. )

A few moments later I was taken to meet the owner of all this beauty, a dignified gentleman I assumed to be in his mid-sixties. (He was actually in his mid-80s). Snow-white hair and beard, glasses smudged with some potting mix from the plants he was transplanting, firm handshake. A retired naval captain, he had a stern countenance until you saw the twinkle in his eye and heard him laugh. If he liked you, he liked you forever, and treasured you as his friend. If he didn’t like you…my understanding from others is that he was exquisitely polite, or else not to be found. For some inscrutable reason, (inscrutable on his part--I was smitten immediately) we hit it off very well, and I owe so much of what I know about plants to having learned from this enthusiastic and generous man. To many people, he was Captain Steele. To those who had the honour to call him friend, he was just ‘Dick’.


Dick has been working with plants, especially rhododendrons and azaleas, but also many other plants that caught his eye, for well over fifty years. I know of exactly two types of plant he heartily despises: goutweed (Aegopodium) and Japanese knotweed (Polygonum cuspidatum). A man after my own heart! He has developed countless hundreds of cultivars, which he has been cold-testing at his farm on the south shore of Nova Scotia and at his home farm in New Brunswick, and has donated who knows how many plants to public gardens and parks, to his beloved Atlantic Rhododendron and Horticultural Society, to friends near and far.


“Take this home and see how it does for you on that damn windy hill of yours!” was a regular comment when I came to visit. A visit with Dick usually started out with a tour around the 30 acre property known as Bayport Plant Farm, and wrapped up with tea in the shed/office where countless visitors had come to talk plants, buy plants, bring plants, ask questions. Although he wasn’t the best email correspondent I have ever encountered, he thought nothing of picking up the phone and calling to tell me about something that had struck his fancy. If he was praised for his plant breedings, he would wave it off, saying, "I don't run around taking credit for breeding this plant or that. The plant does all the work, but I had a lot of fun with helping them."


It was from Dick I learned about the amazing dawn redwood (Metasequoia glyptostroboides) and how one of the oldest specimens in cultivation is right in Halifax. From him came a cutting of the huge, magnificent wisteria from his property that he insisted would grow in my garden as well as it did his. The pieris in my front garden, covered in buds and quivering in anticipation of its bloom period ss one he said I couldn't go wrong with. He always teasingly scolded me that I didn’t have nearly enough rhododendrons, and I always said that the garden wasn’t quite ready to take on too many, because of my wind and clay and and and…

This year, however, I’ll be adding a number of rhododendrons and hardy azaleas.

Every late summer for the past number of years, Dick has led an annual plant-hunting expedition to north-western Newfoundland and southern Labrador, culminating at Battle Harbour. I had the privilege of being one of about a dozen on that trip in 2007, having him blaze past me on the Labrador Highway in his new Honda, listening to his stories in the evenings as we gathered the group together for supper, watching him charge up the side of the hill on Battle Harbour—charge along, with two canes, two artificial hips and one replaced knee. Or maybe it was two knees and a hip. Whichever it was, he put people half his age to shame with his enthusiasms and his energy, and his boundless curiosity about plants.

In 2008, I was too unwell to go; in 2009, there was no trip. And now, there will be no more trips, at least not with Dick as chief expeditionary leader and plant hunter extraordinaire.

(Yellow rhododendron, 'Nancy Steele', bred by Captain Richard Steele. Photo from Atlantic Rhodo Society website)

Our last conversation was before Christmas, and it was no good to ask how HE was, because I knew the answer would be an amused but pithy, "I'm old!" as he always replied when asked how he was, and then he'd change the subject. I knew from talking with his daughter Diana in January that he was slowing down, but given that he had celebrated his 91st or 92nd or 93rd--no one seemed exactly sure--birthday with us in Labrador in 2007, we weren’t all that surprised. Then he went into hospital, and a niece who I have known for years gently explained to me that he wouldn’t in all likelihood be getting out again. And our formidable plantsman slipped off to the great greenhouse beyond on Sunday evening, March 14th.


To say I’m tremendously sad at his passing is an understatement. Look at me sideways, and pass me the tissues. The sadness is shared by any number of family members, friends, fellow gardeners, horticulturists, plants people around Atlantic Canada, and beyond. Yet beyond the sadness, I’m also determined to honour his life, and his legacy, by remembering him and his passion for plants, and following in his footsteps, at least a little.

Dick always believed that if we would put our energy into growing beautiful plants, there would be less unhappiness in the world. I can do this.


I read a quotation on Monday by Sharon Lovejoy, in which she says, "I grow gardens for my life and my soul." So did my friend Captain Dick Steele. We’ll not see his like again any time soon, but we will carry on his work.


And you know who my next book will be dedicated to. My teacher, my friend. Fair winds and following seas to you, dearest Dick.

Skywatch Friday meets Memory Lane: The Skies of Labrador

It's no secret that I'm a little bit in love with the sea. I was born near it, raised my whole life beside it (except for one eighteen month stint in Ontario as a teenager). I live beside it now. I watch it, sail on it in lobster boats and coast guard vessels, occasionally swim in it. There is sea in my blood, though my father was a jet pilot. 

Two years ago, in the summer of 2007, I had the chance to go with fourteen other plant-crazy botanists and horticulturists to northwestern Newfoundland and south-eastern Labrador, to Battle Harbour in the  Battle Island. A dear friend who is a senior horticulturist and amazing plantsman led an annual trip plant-hunting for interesting variants of hardy native plants. Finally, things worked out so I could go on this epic adventure. 

The photos I posted on Wordless Wednesday were taken in Labrador on that trip. We travelled well over 3000 kilometres (about 2200 miles) over the span of nine days. To give you some idea of how far we were from home, and how big Newfoundland and Labrador are in comparison to other provincecs and states, just click on the map above. I've marked our journey from the Valley to Battle Harbour in green. Newfoundland could eat Nova Scotia and PEI for lunch. Nfld and Labrador are a very big province, bigger than most states. 

Here's a more relative explanation of the trip we took. To get to the wilds of Labrador from my home in the Valley, we had to leave Canning, then go to Falmouth to pick up a friend; drive to North Sydney and take a ferry six hours across the Cabot Straight to Porte aux Basques. Then we made our way gradually up through Gros Morne National Park, the most stunningly rugged and gorgeous wild space I've yet encountered. At the top of the Northern Peninsula, we took another ferry across the Strait of Belle Isle to Blanc Sablon Quebec, from which you could sneeze into Labrador. 

The next leg upon disembarking from MV Apollo was to make all possible haste to Red Bay, where we said goodbye to pavement and drove over gravel roads for 86 kilometres. Along the way, three Highways plow sheds. That's it, folks, til we hit a small community called Mary's Harbour, from which we were to take our last ferry, out to Battle Island. 

Have I mentioned that there was nothing there but rock, tundra, scrub trees, water, and sky? It was starkly beautiful. Emphasis on the 'stark.' 

I don't seem to have a photo of the boat we took from Mary's Harbour to Battle Harbour, but she was a lovely refitted fishing vessel, and I knew who had built her (she'd come from Nova Scotia). The captain and I shot the breeze about fibreglass boatbuilders, 2:1 reduction gears, the benefits of Cummings over Detroits over John Deere diesels, and other worthy talks. It comes in handy to be hitched to a (now retired) lobster fisherman. I talk boat fairly well, so long as it's a Cape Island type fishing vessel. 

Finally, (I think the trip was about 65 minutes), we navigated in among the shoals protecting Battle Harbour from the elements. This remote national historic site was once a crucially important fishing station, with its own Marconi wireless station. 

Once we were squared away in the residences where we'd be sleeping, we were off up the stony cliffs behind the settlement to look at plants, and collect seedlings, and photograph more plants. And gaze at the scenery and the peacefulness around us. 

One of Battle Harbour's claims to fame is that in 1909, Robert Peary arrived to cable back to New York that he'd successfully been to the North Pole. Imagine, a press conference from this fishing station off the coast of Labrador, hanging off the coast of Canada, talking to scientists in New York! It turned out Peary hadn't been the first to reach the Pole, but it was still an accomplishment nevertheless. 

We spent two nights here, and the second day had to delay our leaving because we had a bit of a storm come through. That worked out fine as a day to sort of rest, tell stories, sleep, eat awesome meals at the cookhouse, drink a little wine, tell more stories, and sleep some more. Of course, we had more weather when we got back to mainland Labrador, as you saw in Wednesday's photos. 

It's hard for anyone who has never been to someplace remote to grasp both the remoteness and the beauty. I could go back there again for a few days, armed with just my computer, camera and my eyes. We all spent a great deal of time looking, from peering at plant seedheads to examining lichens to gazing at the countless shades of blue in both sky and water. Some great friendships were made on that trip, and others strengthened, and we all learned a great deal. 

If you get the chance and are at all adventurous...GO. First, to any part of Newfoundland island, then particularly to Gros Morne and the Tablelands, then up to the Labrador, even just to do the scenic loop from Forteau to Red Bay. But if you're really adventurous, off to Battle Harbour you must go. You'll be treated magnificently by the staff of the site, left to your own resources, and...it's a good place to think. 

By the time I finish this post, I'm ready to pack up and move BACK to Newfoundland, where I was born (on the eastern side at St. John's.) Funny how my three favourite places to live would be St. John's, Montreal, and where I am right now, on a windy hill overlooking the Bay of Fundy. 

Guess I'm where I'm meant to be. Are you? That's my post for this Skywatch Friday. 

Wordless Wednesday: "As blinding storm gusts fret thy shore, And wild waves lash thy strand" L'Anse Amour, Labrador

The Prognostications of Shubenacadie Sam

In Nova Scotia, February 2 or Groundhog Day is celebrated by some who gather at the wildlife park in Shubenacadie. At the alloted hour, handlers gently awaken Shubenacadie Sam from his warm burrow and entice him out to give his prophesy. He's the first groundhog in North America to make his prediction, being the most easterly-residing prophet.
This, however, isn't Shubie Sam. I nicknamed him Marconi because his burrow was near the remains of a Marconi station at Point Amour Lighthouse in southern Labrador. 
My travelling companion and I met Marconi by the lighthouse the day of much great wind, on our return from Battle Harbour in the Battle Islands. He was quite complacent about us following him around for a while...

When he decided he'd had enough, he scurried off across the field and we took that as our cue to go to the lighthouse. 

As to whether Sam will see his shadow today or not? He might see it, but either way, it'll probably take at least 6 weeks for the snow we have now to melt. It just gets deeper every day. But I console myself that things are well insulated in the gardens, and my work allows me to stay home if there IS a weather tantrum happening. The days are getting longer, there's heat in the sun on those days when it IS out, so we'll make it through. We always do, don't we?

As a special Groundhog Day/Imbolc gift to us, my Longsuffering Spouse looked out the window as the sun was coming up to find our favourite backyard visitors are finally here. The snow buntings have arrived and were happily snacking under the big feeder.

These charming and busy little birds are one of those things that make me instantly happy. The pictures are from last year, as my other GroundHog Day gift is the wicked cold my hubby has had the past few days, so I won't be venturing outside today to try to take pictures. Please pass the orange juice and the Buckleys! HOW many more weeks of winter was that again?

Eight happy things!

Eight things that make me happy…Stuart of Gardening Tips n Ideas tagged me to play the ‘things I’m grateful for’ meme, so I’ve been mulling over this for a few days, in between sneezing, coughing, and generally being a bit blah. So here they are, not in any particular order.

1. Living where I do. Our house is not perfect, or new. It’s about a hundred years old, with a rock-wall basement, a spring that runs through that basement, uneven floors, interesting drafts here and there…and a ghost named Henry Thorpe, who the cats see and we hear on a regular basis. Yes, really. But he’s rather like the ghost of my grandfather Charlie, who still walks through the house HE built and lived in all his adult life. According to the people who own that house now, “Charlie must like what we’ve done in caring for his house, because he doesn’t make a fuss.” Neither does Henry. Our house has no plastic siding on it, no plastic wrap suffocating it, lots of windows, and looks down at the upper Bay of Fundy, where race the world’s highest tides. Yes, we get a lot of wind. But that keeps the bugs down.


2. Doing what I do. While the road to becoming a freelance writer was circuitous and challenging, there is nothing else in the world I would rather do. I’m very blessed to be able to share information, tell other peoples’ stories, and create portraits in words, in a number of great publications where I get to work with terrific editors and designers.

3. The cat-children. I could not imagine living without cats, and it would have to be multiple cats, at least two. They ask so little of us, and they bring us such joy, amusement, entertainment, and love. Yes, love. Only people who don’t know or understand cats think they are aloof, unfriendly, unloyal and not loving.

4. My office. I used to work in a little room upstairs, with a wide doorway but no doors (ever since I slammed the double louvered doors (like you have on closets) one time in a fit of artistic pique…and they fell off the hinges. Writers need—no, we crave—privacy when we’re working. Last year, I asked my longsuffering spouse if it would be possible to partition off part of our L-shaped living room and make me a real office, with more space and a door. He, man of many talents, said of course…did a huge chunk of it while I was away in Nfld for a few days, and I moved into the office about two weeks after the initial conversation. It’s cluttered, chaotic, I could use more room… and certainly more bookcases...but it’s bright, cool, and mostly contains my resources—and it’s private when I need to be undisturbed. Except there is ALWAYS a cat on the wrong side of the door.


5. Coneflowers. Yes, most plants give me joy, but coneflowers especially do it for me. They’re so tidy and symmetrical in their form, they grow politely, even joyously, in our garden, and they are always playing host to bees, butterflies, other visitors…and they just invite artistic photography.

6. Family. My family isn’t large, and we don’t always get along, especially in the past when my sister and I were growing up. What family does, truthfully? But the people who matter most to me are my family—and they aren’t just family that I love, they’re also friends who I enjoy spending time with. We generally laugh a lot when we’re together, and we support each other through rough times and celebrate through good times. And I’ve got the bestest long-suffering spouse on the planet, because it isn’t easy living with a writer.

7. The ocean. We all came out of the sea, or so many cultures and science believes, and some of us feel closer to it than others. I have lived most of my life not far from the mighty Atlantic or the Bay of Fundy/Minas Basin, and I’ve been out on it in some rather bombastic weather. But I find it intensely soothing and inspiring, and healing, no matter what it’s doing. My longsuffering spouse, a retired commercial fisherman, gets up every morning, and looks out the back window down at the Bay. He says he has to make eye contact with the water before he can get on with his day. I perfectly understand.


8. Sunlight on flowers, caught with a good camera. It’s perfect for chasing away the coldest and bleakest of midwinter nights. Actually, there's two things here, because like Stuart with his choices, I love my Canon Rebel XT digital SLR camera, (and its lens, and my tripod, and my strobe flash) and I love even more that I had a good teacher recently show me all kinds of things that I didn't know how to do. I may yet become as good a photographer as some of my heros. Well, maybe not in this lifetime...but a girl must aspire, mustn't she?


Normally, others are tagged in these sorts of memes. But we’re two weeks from Christmas, and people are busy….so I’ll do an open house tag. Feel free to write about eight things that you are grateful for, and if you want, come back and leave a comment here. No pressure, however. I believe in stress-less Christmas seasons.

Foliar fireworks for Guy Fawkes Night

Between watching the kerfuffle over Noel the storm and doing my usual things, I had nearly forgotten that today is Guy Fawkes Day, also known as Bonfire Day. If you don't remember, Guy Fawkes was a notorious plotter who with a cohort of others planned to overthrow the Protestant Monarchy in 1605 by blowing up the houses of Parliament. Before he could carry out his nefarious deed, however, he and his cohorts were arrested--allegedly as Fawkes was about to light the gunpower with which he planned to blow up the buildings--and were tried and executed in early 1606. Actually, Fawkes jumped from the scaffold where he was to be hung, drawn and quartered--talk about overkill!--and thus escaped the fate of others in the conspiracy.
Tradition says that bonfires of celebration were lit in Britain in relief that the plot had been foiled. In years following, effigies of Fawkes were burned on the bonfires, and the tradition has continued now for four hundred years in parts of Great Britain and the Commonwealth, and most curiously (to my mind) in my home and native land of Newfoundland.

I don't remember why it is that Newfoundland (and possibly Labrador) has seized on Guy Fawkes night, which they tend to call Bonfire Night, with such enthusiasm, but it's long been the case. But since it's been many years since I've lived in The Rock of My Heart, I seldom think of the celebration. But earlier today a friend emailed me about Guy Fawkes, and it prompted me to take this little trip through history.
I'm not inclined to light a bonfire, but instead, I walked around the yard this afternoon and looked at the foliar fireworks that are still taking place in spite of this weekend's stormy weather. Most of the hardwood trees around have turned from bright colours to the browns and siennas and ochres of pre-dropping leaves, but some shrubs are still clad in their autumn finery. The Tor spirea at the top of this entry is among my favourites; though I'm planning an entry--and a challenge to fellow bloggers--later this week on a modified NIMY, in which one spirea will play a role, Tor is a definite autumn star.


I regard barberries as among the finest shrubs around. To my mind, they are foliar fireworks all year round, whether in winter, where their naked branches bristle with thorns and remain festooned with crimson fruit, or in summer where they show their finery in an assortment of shades. But autumn is when they leave me breathless with glee, because they show so many colours. This is simply the green Japanese Barberry, flaunting its way through another remarkable show of colour.

And this, on the other hand, is the always-dramatic Rosy Glow; interestingly, I have two specimens of this cultivar, and one is changing colour, while the other is showing its usual remarkable purple/pink and burgundy foliage, along with a few jubilant red berries, of course.


Although not as brilliant in colour as the barberries and spireas, I include this twisted willow (Salix matsudana'Tortuosa') because of the gleeful explosion of its branches, curled and kinked and spiraled; the wind has twisted what leaves still remain into equally contorted shapes, and I'm actually looking forward to seeing the leaves gone so I can admire the shrub, which has put on a lot of new growth this year.


Most of the euphorbias are still holding their own, including this huge specimen of Chameleon euphorbia, which turns some of the most remarkable colours as we go through the gardening year. I love how most of it is now in shades of gold, but one dramatic purple cluster of leaves and bracts still remains.


Gina at My Skinny Garden liked the ice plant I showed yesterday; here's another plant in yet another of the amazing flower colours; not quite as neon as yesterday's plant, but I shall do a post on the delights of ice plants in the future. They look like fireworks to me and are essential in my summer garden--though obviously they haven't realized it's November and they can stop flowering now!


To round out the foliar display, this clump of low-growing sedum caught my eye this afternoon as Tigger and I inspected the garden. Like the ice plant, the sedum is oblivious to the fact that it should be quieting down and going dormant, and is producing richly coloured new growth--tiny new florets of leaves, not the huge explosion of colour of the barberries and euphorbias, but still, a rich and wonderful burst of colour. We thought it was quite marvelous, but when I tried to get closer, Tigger came into the photo, casting shadows and reminding me that he felt it was time to go in for tea. Which we did!

In communities throughout Newfoundland this evening, people will be gathering to light bonfires, drink hot chocolate or coffee and enjoy the cameraderie of an unusual autumn tradition. I'll content myself with lighting a candle here in my office and sharing these foliar fireworks with you all.

Garden Blogger's Bloom Day--Newfoundland & Labrador Style!

One of the first purchases we made while we were in Nfld was an exquisite book of watercolour paintings of wildflowers of the province and Labrador. With text by Peter Scott, biology professor and curator of the herbarium at Memorial University, and paintings by artist Dorothy Black, the book provides a glorious look at common and rare wildflowers around the province. This book makes a nice companion to others I already had, and still others I hope to find through used book websites! I thought it would be fun to see some of the flowers and plants we met on our great adventure--I'm sure most of them aren't growing in too many fellow garden-bloggers' gardens...! So here's part one of my Bloom Day report for September.


Of course we would have to start off our Newfoundland and Labrador bloom display with the Pitcher Plant (Sarracenia purpurea), which also happens to be the provincial flower. This has long been a favourite plant of mine, although I haven't tried to grow it down by our pond. It's one of several carnivorous plants in Nfld (others include the sundew, Drosera sp., and butterwork, Pinguicula sp.) and makes its meals on a variety of hapless insects that fall into its pitcher-shaped leaves and drown in the water collected there.

The white-flowered three-toothed cinquefoil (Potentilla tridentata) is very pretty with its glossy leaves and starry flowers.


Looks like bunchberry (Cornus canadesis) doesn't it? It's not: it's the Swedish bunchberry, C. suecica, and yes, it was in flower in September. It differs from our common bunchberry by having scattered pairs of leaves along the stem, rather than the whorl of leaves just below the flowers. Also, the tiny flowers, surrounded by white petal-like leaves known as bracts--like those in poinsettia--are deep wine in colour, whereas the common bunchberry flowers are greenish-white. Dick Steele had told us about this plant, and we were really delighted to find it in bloom, rather than just in fruit.


Cotton grasses are charming little plants that are usually found in boggy areas. Yes, I got my feet a bit wet getting close to this one, but it was just too pretty to resist!


When I spied this tiny plant, I wanted to take it home with me! It's Diapensia (Diapensia lapponica) the only plant in its species; a tiny, evergreen sub-arctic alpine. I didn't take it home with me, but I'm quite sure that Dick or one of the other plant hunters got seed or cuttings from it. Wouldn't it be a charmer in an alpine trough?


Well, okay, you caught me. This isn't a flowering plant. It's dulse (Palmaria palmata) and we found it on the shore at The Arches, a provincial park just outside of Gros Morne. I had to eat some, and my colleague, after giving me a dubious look, snacked on a little of it too, to the great consternation of some tourists also scrambling around the rocks on the beach.


We found a LOT of sites with both sedums and saxifrages, including this small clump of S. rosea. Some that we found were in bloom, others were huge patches while still others were plants the size of my fingernail. I love sedums in all their glory, and could get seriously into collecting them, too.


A tiny bellflower growing between two stones on the beach at The Arches caught my eye. Another member of our group discovered a double-flowered bellflower along the way, but the photo she got was a bit blurred due to wind, and inconclusive as to whether it was a mutant or a different species.


Surprisingly, Newfoundland and Labrador has a LOT of orchid specie--43 species and 4 varieties, about the third highest in Canada--but this was the only one we found in bloom. Our best guess is that it's one of the Platanthera species, but we don't claim to be orchid authorities.


There's nothing else quite like Labrador tea, variously given the botanical names Ledum groenlandicum, Rhododendron groenlandicum, depending on which taxonomist you want to be bored by. There's also a smaller Labrador tea, L. palustre, which is more compact and has several other morphological differences, and which we admired greatly in various spots along our travels.

One of my favourite shore plants is Sea Lungwort, Mertensia maritima. As plant-people can tell by the genus, it's related to Virginia bluebells, and we found some still in flower--although the glaucous, blue-green leaves are enough to make me happy. I don't try to grow it at home, but maybe I should one of these days. Mostly I just enjoy it on the beach in Scotts Bay, or anywhere else I find it.


This isn't flora either, I realize, but it's the ever so delicious fruit of the bakeapple, (Rubus chamaemorus) also known variously as cloudberry, and incorrectly as salmonberry, which is another species (R. spectabilis). This particular berry is a bit stunted, probably due to inadequate pollination, given that it was on top of the rocky cliff at Battle Harbour. SEveral interesting things about bakeapples: the plants are dioescious meaning there are both male and female plants; also they are low-growing relatives of raspberries, with only one fruit on each stem; they're red when they're green and they're golden orange when they're ripe. (confused yet?) I love the burgundy fall foliage of the plants and would grow them for that alone if I had the chance.

There are a number of stories about why Newfoundlanders and Labradorians call this fruit Bakeapple. Some say it's because the cooked fruit tastes a bit like a baked apple, but I find that a bit of a reach. Others say it comes from a bastardization or misunderstanding of the phrase 'baie qu'appelle', (whether asking what berry this is called or what bay this is is also open to discussion.) Whatever the case, bakeapples are like Keith's beer, dulse, or liver--those who like them, like them a LOT! I happen to love them, although until this week I hadn't eaten fresh ones in longer than I can remember.

Bakeapples fetch impressive prices as fresh fruit--as muchttp://www2.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifh as 50.00 for a gallon!--and are also used in making spreads, sauces, jams and jellies, and wines and liquours. Among the treasures I brought home are several bottles of the Pure Labrador products I mentioned in earlier posts, a bottle of bakeapple wine from Rodrigues winery in Nfld, and a bottle of Lapponia cloudberry liqueur from Finland. Rodrigeus is apparently making a bakeapple liqueur too, but I couldn't find it at the government grog shops, so contented myself with the one from Finland, which is very nice. It smells just like the berries--and tastes just like em, too--and will be perfect with dark chocolate--in fact, I believe that someone is making chocolates using bakeapples, but I haven't had any--if anyone would like to send me samples I'd be glad to review them!

This concludes a bit of a show-and-tell of plants we enjoyed discovering or rediscovering in our travels. I'll post a blogger's bloom day report of my own garden soon.