One of the joys of my laissez-faire, wild-style of gardening is coming upon self-sown plants. I refer to these as garden volunteers — brought by birds or other fauna (the possibility of having been deposited by genets and pine martens is thrilling!) or from seeds caught on the dogs’ fur as they come back from romps in the garrique and maquis.
This lone, scented violet recently appeared in the deep shade of a lentisk (Pistacia lentiscus). It could’ve been brought by ants or birds from one of the neighbouring gardens. I consider myself fortunate to have been on time to catch its first exquisite flower.
I wonder how this group of Acacia came here. I initially mistook them for Eucalyptus when newly germinated, and my first impulse was to pull them out, as Eucalyptus is notorious for its thirst, and is known to hog all available groundwater. I’m glad now I decided to let these volunteers develop a bit more until I could properly identify them as some species of Acacia.
None of the nearby gardens or abandoned orchards has this species, which I surmise is either A. longifolia for its long, narrow leaves or A. retinodes, also named sometimes as A. retinoides (‘containing resin’). Another likely candidate is Acacia saligna, also known as A. cyanophylla (cyan = blue, phylla = leaf) with similar leaf morphology, though from online photographs, A. saligna has the narrowest, willow-like leaves. Actually the leaves are not true leaves, but leaf stems or petioles, called phyllodes, but in the Acacia genus, these function like true leaves. The group is developing into a nice windbreak, precisely where I’d wanted a hardy band of trees to temper the punishingly cold and fierce winds from the west (mestral in Valenciano). Acacia are known to fix nitrogen on their roots and provide any extra, hopefully, for the cypresses that were planted there as a windbreak 4 years ago, but have not grown as rapidly. If you zoom into the photo, you may be able to discern some flower buds, and once they open, I may be able to confirm their species.
Underneath the Acacia and cypresses is another nitrogen-fixer and endemic plant — Dorycnium hirsutum. It also came up on its own in groups. Once I’d identified what they were, I let them be, and they have spread to form an ankle- to knee-high groundcover here, and randomly elsewhere in the garden. It is a handsome, tidy shrub, albeit not a showy one. It has small leaves coated in fine fuzz that enables them to withstand the extremes of heat and cold, drought and wet, and in the right light, the leaves are bluish-green. The plant itself is smothered in white flowers in spring and brown seedheads thereafter. The bees adore them. The British Royal Horticultural Society has awarded it a certificate of garden merit for its hardiness and ease of maintenance. It doesn’t need pruning to keep it in shape. I haven’t seen this plant in the surrounding abandoned or cultivated properties, and I wonder where it or its seeds have come from.
These garden volunteers know precisely where to plant themselves, and they do terrifically well, without any watering or other form of care necessary. When I try to emulate Mother Nature however, my best-laid plans fail. Where I had planted a few cyclamen corms, and improved the soil with vermicompost, expecting that the cyclamen would self-seed and in time form a lovely carpet of blooms, no baby cyclamen have appeared. But… and this is the miraculous thing — where I had NOT expected any self-seeding to happen, and moreover, where I had not taken care to add any vermicompost, there have appeared a flock of baby seedlings. I dare not tidy up around them. Perhaps the deciding factor in self-seeding is this: where a plant is happy, that is, where it gets the right amount of light or shade, just the right amount of water and drainage, and it is neither too hot nor too cold, nor is it subjected to too much wind or other disturbance, then it decides that its babies will fare well there too, and sets about multiplying itself. It will take some years before these baby cyclamen mature sufficiently to flower. Until then, every time I walk past them, my eyes will be monitoring them closely for the slightest signs of development.
Three years ago I came upon a ditch that was being repaired and recognized a wild form of Euphorbia characias. I knew it would be buried among the construction debris, and so I rescued a small rooted piece and planted it in a spot that is shaded for part of the day. I adore its blue-green leaves and acid green inflorescence that brighten this shady spot. It is not a particularly showy plant, but it has presence due mainly to its structure. And, it takes care of itself. It has since self-seeded among the rocks and boulders nearby, a sure sign that it is happy. And fortuitously, wherever it has planted itself, is in keeping with my plan to make this spot into a dry stream bed. A kare sansui Mediterranean-style.
So far, none of these volunteers has proved to be thuggish.
Olives, pines, and rocks 