A trio of flowering trees
28 May 2023
By: James Lennox
I will cheerfully admit to an obsession with trees. One of the great joys of being confronted with a couple of empty fields is day-dreaming about how to fill them. And trees are the obvious answer.
One tree in particular was top of my list, the tulip tree (Liriodendron tulipifera). I originally came to know it as a finished product when I laid it as a floor in my first house in London. The timber merchant called it “American poplar”. It took me a while to work out that the yellowish wood I was walking on with its streaks of warm brown and hints of pale green had actually come from one of the grandest trees of the American East Coast.
Even though I was first attracted by its grain, the reason I was keen to plant a tulip tree was for its flowers, closely followed by its distinctive fresh green leaves and its sheer presence. A member of the magnolia family, it’s definitely not a candidate for a small garden, and given its unfortunate habit of dropping branches at the slightest provocation, it’s best kept well clear of buildings and exposed sites. A wet Asturian spring and some decent summer heat seem to suit it just fine. Ours in the American Woodland has shot up 40 feet in 10 years.
And it was the flowers that caught my attention this week. Or rather the buzzing coming from the flowers. An entire battalion of bees had honed in on the nectar-rich flower cups. I was witness to an insect feeding frenzy.
I stepped back, took in the frantic activity and then picked up more buzzing coming from the neighbouring trees. On either side of the tulip tree I had planted trees designed to play supporting roles, one a honey locust (Gleditsia triacanthos), the other a black gum (Nyssa sylvatica). Each has its claim to fame: the former its thorns and delicate pinnate leaves, the latter its fiery autumn colours. Neither garners column inches for its flowering prowess.
But here they were, absolutely covered in yet more bees, wasps, hornets and humdrum flies. Sure enough, on closer inspection, both were in full flower.
Those on the honey locust are arranged in pendulous clusters, while the black gum holds its flowers in rounded heads, one of the attributes linking it to dogwoods and, somewhat incredibly, to its relation, the handkerchief tree (Davidia involucrata).
I admit they’re not particularly eye-catching (somewhere between pale green and rusty yellow), but these flowers certainly make their presence felt in the insect world. All of which got me thinking about the contribution some of the less spectacular flowering trees can make in the garden.
As gardeners, we tend to plant primarily for our own pleasure. We think about flowers, scent, shiny leaves. We might even have some notion of a particular plant’s suitability for the available space, its ultimate size, its preference for sun or shade. In this instance, I planted these trees for their more obvious visual qualities and their backstory – they’re in the American Woodland, after all.
This instinct to plant for our own pleasure, though, is gradually being replaced by an awareness that we share the garden with other creatures and that we should bear their needs and preferences in mind when we make planting decisions. Hence the recent move to single over double flowers in the herbaceous border, the advice to leave at least a corner of the garden less tidy.
While I wouldn’t go out of my way to plant something that offers absolutely nothing for local wildlife, I probably fall into the first camp. I know much more about what makes me happy in the garden than might please a bee. But it appears that the two can coincide in unexpected ways.
When we think of attracting bees, we tend to picture flower beds, meadows or prairies, perhaps even vast Mediterranean fields of sunflowers. But perhaps all this time we’ve been undervaluing how important some of the less showy flowering trees can be for pollinators. And the level of constant activity on both the honey locust and black gum over the past month or so has been astonishing.
As the years have passed and the garden has matured, I’ve noticed a massive increase in the numbers of birds, insects, lizards and, yes, even snakes that have made La Corolla their home. Right now, we’re discovering that wild boar have a particular fondness for the bulbs of the orchids popping up in the orchard.
I like to think that one of the main reasons the garden is so full of life is simply this: if you plant it, they will come. I planted tulip trees, honey locusts and black gums with a particular aim in mind. But it appears that there are always plenty of other creatures out there ready to spot an attribute I might have missed. A happy accident for all concerned.
