In celebration of the humble dahlia

 


Actually, my dahlias aren't humble at all. They're a riot of colour, a magnet for bees and the focal point of my garden. They demand attention and bask in their own glory. Absolute divas, every single one of them.

Dahlias and dahlia-growing are addictive. You start with one in a lacklustre corner of the garden, then come winter, you lift the bulb to find you have half a dozen more bulbs. So you buy some more, just to vary the colour scheme. And so it goes. This year I've had 47 separate dahlia plants of about 18 different varieties. 

Got home from shopping this morning to find a council truck parked outside my place. As I pulled into the driveway a large bloke in council hi-vis work gear got out and approached me. Oh, shit, thinks me. Did I put out the wrong bin? Was it not recycling week? Am I to be publicly castigated for crimes against garbage integrity? Large bloke introduced himself as a fellow dahlia grower and wondered if I'd like to swap a few bulbs with him over winter. Well, of course I would! We stood on the driveway for the next 20 minutes chatting about varieties, compost, storage of bulbs and other dahlia-related things until his offsider obviously got sick of waiting in the truck.

Dahlias are native to Central America. They were introduced to Europe in the 18th Century and were named dahlias by Abbe Cavanille in honour of Andreas Dahl, Swedish scientist and environmentalist. More about dahlia history here. It's not known for sure, but is assumed that they were imported to Australia from Britain, probably in the late 19th or early 20th Century.They come in a staggering range of colours and shapes, from little pompom flowers, through to big kick-arse blooms that need staking to keep the plants upright. In the cooler and temperate areas of the country it's usual to follow the same planting guide as for tomatoes - which is, don't plant them out until after the Melbourne Cup. While we can get frosts well into November, the soil is usually warm enough by then to ensure the bulbs aren't damaged by the cold.

My grandfather grew dahlias in his tiny backyard in Manly. His secret to his garden, so he claimed, was Holy Manure. Every spring he'd take his wheelbarrow out his back gate and up the road to what used to be St Patrick's Seminary near North Head, where the monks kept cows. He'd load up his barrow with manure and shovel it into his garden. My grandfather was a Scot with no love for the Catholic Church (or any other church for that matter), but he swore by that Holy Manure.


Taking a leaf out of my grandfather's book - or garden, as it were - I get manure from the local saleyards after the monthly cattle sales. There's stiff competition for the stuff, but a couple of bags goes a long way.

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