Rambling Rose

There are garden roses, and then there is 'Albertine.' She is in a class of her own — a rambling rose of such extraordinary abundance that when she flowers in late June, the entire structure she's climbing disappears beneath a tidal wave of coppery-pink blooms. A wall, a pergola, an old apple tree — whatever you've given her to climb becomes irrelevant. She swallows it whole and replaces it with herself.

The flowers are double, loosely cupped, opening from coppery-salmon buds into a warm, peachy-pink that fades to softer blush as they age. At peak bloom, a single plant can carry hundreds of flowers simultaneously, and every one of them is pumping out the most glorious scent — rich, fruity, intensely sweet, with something of warm apricots and old wine. On a still June evening, you can smell an 'Albertine' from across the garden. It's the scent of midsummer distilled into a single plant.

She only flowers once. That's the deal with most ramblers — one magnificent, devastating, three-week performance and then nothing but foliage until next year. Some people can't accept that bargain. I think it's what makes her special. Anticipation is half the pleasure, and the knowledge that it won't last gives those three weeks an intensity that repeat-flowering roses never achieve. Every petal matters because the clock is ticking.

She's vigorous, thorny, and not interested in your opinion about where she should grow. The stems are thick and armed with serious hooks that will draw blood and shred clothing. Training her requires leather gloves and a certain stubbornness. But when late June arrives and the whole south-facing wall turns into that extraordinary sunset of copper and pink and cream, I'd forgive her anything. Some relationships are worth the scratches.