Philadelphus

If you could bottle June, it would smell like philadelphus. There is something about mock orange blossom that is so perfectly, achingly summery that it almost hurts — that rich, honeyed, orange-blossom sweetness carrying across the garden on a warm evening. 'Belle Étoile' is the one I come back to. Each flower is white with a faint rosy-purple stain at the centre, like a blush, and the fragrance is the strongest of any variety I've grown.

It's a big, generous shrub — mine is about eight feet tall now and in June it's smothered in flowers. Not dainty. Not restrained. Absolutely covered. The branches arch under the weight of bloom and the whole thing has a slightly dishevelled, abundant quality that I find completely irresistible.

As a cut flower, philadelphus is criminally underused. A few branches in a large jug will scent an entire room — properly scent it, not just a hint but a wall of warm, sweet perfume every time you walk through the door. The flowers shatter after a few days, dropping white petals everywhere like confetti, which I consider a feature rather than a problem.

You can't buy it from a florist, which is part of its charm. This is a garden flower, a borrowed-from-a-friend's-garden flower, a lean-over-the-fence-and-ask-for-a-cutting flower. And when someone gives you a branch of philadelphus from their garden, you know they're giving you something real.