The Wellington Botanic Garden stretches as far as the eye can see. We are overwhelmed, defeated by its 25 hectares. After half a day here, we have barely covered half its grounds.
The slopes of dramatic hydrangeas, the garden of fragrances, the duck pond, the garden of herbs, and on and on. We fear we will never finish seeing all of the natural wonders.
So we decide to be prudent and make haste while there is still light. Though the garden is open 24 hours, it is only between dawn and dusk that we can truly take in the conifers and the cacti, the flowers and the mosses.
And there is Der Rosengarten.
Readers of George R. R. Martin’s epic A Song of Ice and Fire heptalogy (though the impatient ones would note that it’s still two volumes short) will recall Highgarden, the seat of House Tyrell whose sigil is a golden rose on a pale green field.
Constructed in 1950, the Lady Norwood Rose Garden would rival any in Highgarden, with around hundreds of different cultivars of the family Rosaceae. If the golden roses and green fields that surround Highgarden signify its Golden Age, then the endless hues here – red, white and pink; champagne yellow and lemony golds; sky blues and passionate oranges; salmon, cream, violet-teal and the modest blush of peach – ring in an Age of Rainbows.
The Italians call the rose garden catinaccio and the romance of that imagery resound here. Different species, cultivars and hybrids battle for space and supremacy, yet in their warring some symphony emerges.
We recall the words of House Tyrell – “Growing Strong” – and decide that this is certainly true here. The roses of Der Rosengarten flourish splendidly.
The classic red rose never goes out of style but here, on this branch, are petals the shade of Merlot. Burgundy roses like a winter cape to wrap around us as the wind chill deepens. Some roses are so dark they are nearly black, mysterious and maleficent.
Roses the colour of coral, the hue of desire. Roses as green as thorns, their petals indistinguishable from their leaves. Roses barely kissed by the palest of pinks yet with a fragrance so heady it would outlast any perfume.
The attar of damask roses, we reckon, would be worth its weight in gold and then some.
You wander from rose bush to rose bush, taking in their fragrance, carefully framing and photographing the best blooms. I wait, sitting on one of the benches. The song “Rose, Rose, I Love You” come to mind. Perfect for this moment though it’s not the flowers that I’m enamoured with.
It is almost evening when we finally take our leave. In a few hours, the light of glow worms will sparkle across the darkest parts of the park, like stars across the sky of Westeros, like golden roses in the garden of the House Tyrell.