Knautia

Knautia macedonica is the flower that taught me about the space between flowers — the air, the movement, the way some plants let the garden breathe. It grows to about two feet with wiry, branching stems that hold small, pincushion-like flower heads well above the foliage. Those flowers bob and weave in the slightest breeze on stems so thin they're almost invisible. The effect is less like a planted border and more like a constellation — dark red dots floating in space.

The colour is a deep, complex crimson — not quite red, not quite maroon, with a slight plum undertone that changes depending on the light. In full sun it's a warm, glowing claret. In shade or under cloud it darkens to something closer to dried blood. Against the silver of artemisia or the blue of scabious, it's a pairing that looks effortless and took nature millions of years to perfect.

Butterflies and bees work these flowers constantly. The pincushion shape provides a perfect landing platform, and the nectar is apparently excellent — I've seen six-spot burnets and marbled whites on mine in high summer, which always feels like a reward for choosing the right plant.

It flowers for months — June to September without a pause — and self-seeds generously into gravel paths and gaps in paving. I let the seedlings stay wherever they appear, because a knautia that's chosen its own spot always looks better than one you planted. There's a lesson in that. The best gardens have a little wildness in them.