Hollyhock

If I could only have one flower growing by a door, it would be a hollyhock. There's something about that tall, upright stem leaning against a wall or a fence — it's the most quintessentially English thing a garden can do. 'Chater's Double' is the fully ruffled version, and the flowers are like crepe-paper rosettes stacked up a two-metre spike.

They come in the most extraordinary range — deep plum, salmon pink, pale lemon, pure white, a near-black maroon that's absolutely magnetic. I grow them from seed and let them self-sow, which means they turn up in slightly different places each year, which I love.

They're biennials really, which means they faff about growing leaves in their first year and then flower gloriously in their second, but once they're established and self-seeding you'll always have some coming into bloom.

I don't cut them for the house very often because they're so magnificent in situ, but occasionally I'll bring in a short stem and float the individual blooms in a wide bowl of water. They look like silk. They're not perfect flowers — they get rust, the leaves can look tatty by August — but that imperfection is part of the charm. Nothing that beautiful should also be easy.