Flowers bought on the garage forecourt have a bad rep: limp-looking carnations in tawdry cellophane, they’re unlikely to spark delight in the recipient no matter how honest the intention. But I’ve become quite the fan of the pelargoniums sold in peat-free soil at £3 a packet (or two for a fiver) at the garage down the road. Last year I opted for bright red ones, the colour of strawberry ChapStick, which are still putting up with near-total abandonment in my window boxes. This year they were only available in a rather gauche cerise, but I bought them anyway and they’ve surprised me by bringing total joy when I spy them among the soft pinks and carefully selected yellows in the rest of the garden.
I’m thinking about pelargoniums because we’re cruising towards the time when it’s a good idea to take cuttings from them. The garage offerings mingle alongside a more refined collection that includes the delectable P tomentosum, which has understated little white flowers and menthol-scented leaves that are as soft and floppy as elephant ears; P sidoides, with its dinky, lily-pad-shaped leaves and inky purple flowers; and the more traditional, zonal pelargonium “Sophie Emma”, which is a pretty, shell-coloured pink.
I didn’t take cuttings last year because we were travelling at the best time to do it (late summer for the organised, when there’s enough warmth to give them a head start; early autumn for the less so). I got away with it because we barely had a frost last year and all my pelargoniums survived with minimal intervention.
The seasons are too unpredictable to say what kind of winter we’re due, but pelargoniums – or geraniums, as they’re commonly (and incorrectly) known – aren’t hardy and will struggle to survive a proper frost. They propagate well through cuttings and, while I do enjoy the awkward elbows and unfiltered sprawl of an etiolated pelargonium, the mother plant benefits from a good prune before entering dormancy in the cooler months.
Most of all, though, I like taking pelargonium cuttings because of the ritual of it. Other flowers come and go, but I’m steadfast in my love of pelargoniums. I enjoy their simplicity and their cheeriness, I love their smell and the huge range of colours, shapes and scents they offer. They are straightforward and forgiving, and are often dismissed as a result, but they have won a particular fanbase over the decades, among them Derek Jarman (insistent on a particular shade of red) and DH Lawrence.
I like to take cuttings outside, setting up a little station on the garden table: terracotta seedling pots – the perfect companion for a pelargonium, aesthetically speaking, but also good because they encourage the soil to dry out a little – peat-free potting compost, and a tub of organic rooting hormone. Nice clean, sharpened secateurs. Ideally, on a late-summer afternoon, with a slight autumnal crispness in the air.
Look for the good, sturdy stems and cut them just above a leaf joint to encourage the plant to bush out further when it does grow back. You’ll want some decent length to your cutting, about 10cm or so, and there’s a slightly masochistic satisfaction to giving the mother plant a decent haircut in the process. Remove any flowers or buds from the cutting, and snip off the leaves on the lower half of the stem, which should ideally be cut just beneath a node. Dunk in rooting hormone, nestle into the pot of soil, press down and water lightly. There’s a quiet meditation to it, this slewing off of summer’s growth for a little forest of hopeful new plants.
The main snag I have with all the little pelargonium cuttings is housing them: they require sunlight and warmth, which means giving over a drinks trolley in my living room window to them, much to the fascination of my toddler. One day, perhaps, I’ll have a glasshouse or a little porch to stash them in. But when they outstay their welcome they make very good presents. There is little better than arriving at a Christmas party with a handful of the summer past.
[See also: If I could be a tree, I’d be a sycamore]
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This article appears in the 28 Aug 2024 issue of the New Statesman, Trump in turmoil