I never thought I’d be one of those people who obsessed about their roses. Turns out I am. Which means I was wrong about ‘those people’ as they are clearly pretty cool.
It’s really because I’ve never had a garden of my own. And the fact that Corner Cottage’s previous occupants studded the grounds with various varieties of the glorious bush, which as previously mentioned, are all giving of their utmost in the bursting-out-all-over stakes.
So of course, your bloggus ignoramus undertook a comprehensive academic research programme in the hallowed halls of google and Wikipedia, lasting all of 20 minutes. But as we all know, that’s ample time to set a plethora of hares running down a surfeit of, er, rabbit holes. So many, in fact, that they can’t possibly all be resolved in this blog. But that’s never stopped us before, eh?
Just look at the history of the rose. Apparently it’s been cultivated by people for at least 5,000 years. And the first of those people were in China, whence it has spread around the world, carried by folks enamoured with the blossom’s beauty and, in most cases, its intoxicating scent. And it’s been endlessly hybridised, creating ever more gorgeous and exotic varieties.
In nature, the genus Rosa has some 150 species and well over 30,000 varieties. In fact, the typical velvety bloom we’re most familiar with these days is a hybrid of the old format with tea roses in 1867. The offspring of this rather forced union are called modern garden roses; the older models are now called . . . old garden roses. Or heirloom roses. And no, I haven’t worked out what tea roses are or were. We don’t have all day.
Then there are dog roses, which are a wild variety of old garden roses, with a much simpler structure, having a single row of petals in its corolla (no, not the Toyota version), rather than the numerous rows which give many varieties their complex, multi-layered structure. Much like a cabbage – hence the cabbage rose, the really flouncy, blousy kind which I’m told were bred by Dutch horticulturalists starting around the 17th century. And this kind is also known as the Provence Rose (logically, coming from Holland).
But let us depart from the endless fascination of rose kinds and their names, because as you’ll be aware, the rose has accumulated a potpourri of symbolic associations, appears in all kinds of literature, makes for a cool tattoo, and has been adopted by numerous brands as their emblem. Part of this enthusiasm create rose symbols lies in the flower’s powerful real-life qualities. It is (or can be) a magnificent colour; it does (often) have a complex, luscious shape; many have a luscious, complex perfume.
And, as US ‘80s rock hair models Poison so sagely pointed out, every rose has its thorn. Well, technically it’s a ‘prickle’ because they are merely parts of the epidermis, while your true thorn is part of the woody structure of the plant itself. And roses will generally have more than just the one. But other than that, good point, Poison – rock on, aged dudes.
So where are we? Well, we could prolong this agony with lengthy discussions of all the various symbolic applications of roses, but let’s wrap it up (like a nice bouquet) with a few choice factoids.
Such as . . . did you know that the rose is not only the national flower of England, where it is also the emblem of the Houses of Lancaster (red) and York (white), so that when these dynasties joined battle in Tudor times, it was of course called the Wars of the Roses. It’s also the national floral emblem of the U.S.A. (no, didn’t know that either), where Iowa, North Dakota, Georgia, New York and Oklahoma also boast the rose as their symbol.
Then there’s the Canadian province of Alberta – official flower, the rose. And while we’re on a roll, let’s just mention Portland (Oregon), Pasadena (California), and Guadalajara (Mexico), all dubbing themselves ‘City of Roses.’ Now there’s a war of the roses in the making.
And so to language, because all these associations give us a potent means of expression, from your ‘rosy cheeks’ to your ‘budding’ poet / writer / musician. There’s the fabled bed of roses, which if you think about it, might be OK for a while but would soon pose serious hygiene challenges and would probably be prohibitively expensive. And we’re assuming this is roses without their prickles, which would make for no kind of bed at all.
In literature, you could write several PhD dissertations on roses, but what springs to mind is William Blake:
O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
I always found Blake and his mystical hoo-ha a bit dark and disturbing, and this seemingly innocuous little rhyme really backs that impression up. Sure, the rose is beautiful, but the beauty hides the agent of its own death. So don’t get too comfortable, folks. Don’t derive a few minutes’ pleasure from a beautiful thing . . . it’s dying. Thanks Will – ever the glass half-empty, eh?
And of course, that other English Will, Shakespeare himself, whose plays and poetry are rich with flowers and who had Juliet lament that hot young Romeo was a member of the Montague family:
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet
Which you may acknowledge is true, and the old fella put it rather nicely, as he tended to do.
There’s so much more we could go into, but to paraphrase Jane Austen, I have delighted you for long enough. On the other hand, the roses this time of year are an unexpected delight which will last as long as we’re here – an annual feast to savour.