May is the magical month for roses in southern France. It is the gentle month before the scorching temperatures of summer dry the landscape and burn away any hint of softness. May is the reward for a gardener’s hard labour and the tangible proof that the rose must be the symbol of love.
Ours climb, they spread, they flop, they tumble and they fall. Many are white Icebergs, some are very pale pink Pierre de Ronsard and some are shocking pink with a name that I forget. These roses, that make their annual debut in May, are the stars of our garden. Each year they become more beautiful; the blooms are larger, the stems stronger and the scents more delicious.
To grow a rose is a labour of love. Roses are a little like children. They must be fed and watered, carefully observed and treated for maladies when necessary and they must be shaped with care. Roses require patience, lots and lots of patience (just like children) and like children they blossom and bring the greatest of joy.
A gardener friend once asked me if I knew the secret to his beautiful roses. I imagined that he would tell me all about the latest fad in fertiliser or the way to cure the curse of black spot. He put his hand over his heart, looked me in the eye and said, ‘It is very simple. They are my passion and my true love’. xv
