Heather, heath, Home

Many, many years ago—maybe a couple of decades ago—we bought a little container of what we were told was Heather both for its low-growing habit and because it was supposed to flower exceptionally early. My hope was that the little charmers, which came from a nursery on Cape Cod, would find our rock garden a wonderful place in which to grow, thrive, and spread, but for some reason, after a few years of giving us a taste of Scotland, the mound that developed suffered what appeared to be a terminal rot and our attempt to recreate the moorlands seemed doomed. However, the Heather, which, I was told, is actually a Heath, didn't entirely give up the ghost, and though it flew, barely noticed, under the botanical radar for about a decade, it eventually came into its own and has started to give us lovely little sprays of pink flowers, beginning in March. It doesn't mind a dusting, or even a deluge, of snow. When I delight in these pretty blossoms, I feel like I should be donning a kilt.