My rose collection

In my garden in Bran, in Romania’s Brașov County, the roses grow under the gaze of the mountains. In the morning, the light slowly reveals their colors; after rain, the petals hold the weight of the drops for a while. There are days when the flowers seem to gather all the warmth of summer, and days when a single late bud changes the way I see fall.

Today my collection numbers more than 80 bushes. But it began long before I planted my first one. It started in the garden of my paternal grandmother, who raised me, among the roses she tended with a love that, as a child, I understood mostly through colors and fragrance.

From my grandmother’s garden to mine

I remember how carefully my grandmother bent over her roses. For her, caring for them had a naturalness I only came to understand later. The flowers were part of the life of the house, of the passing seasons, of the things you look after without always asking what you get in return.

That’s where my love for them comes from. I didn’t inherit only the memory of a beautiful garden, but also the wish to keep close something that grows, blooms and asks for patience.

In this way, the roses in my garden carry on a family story. The place is mine, the choices are mine, but in the joy of an open flower I find something of my childhood.

A collection finding its place among the mountains

In Bran, a rose’s beauty shows over several seasons. The flower matters, of course, but you also come to value how the bush gets through winter, how it starts growing again in spring and what’s left of the bloom after a few days of rain.

Over time, I’ve started paying closer attention to these things. A shade can catch my eye instantly, but trust in a flower is earned over time.

Every spot in the garden has its own character: more sun, a few hours of shade, shelter or wind. I’m learning to match them to the plants’ needs and to accept that general advice is only the start of the conversation. The rest is told by the soil, the weather and the rose itself.

My collection changes along with this understanding. I want plants that feel at home here, but I also keep the curiosity to try, now and then, a rose I fell in love with for its flower.

Munstead Wood, one of my favorites

Among the roses I’ve grown closest to is Munstead Wood, bred by David Austin. I’ve had it for about five years, in a partly shaded spot, where it has done very well.

Its deep red flowers with purple tones and its strong fragrance would have been enough to catch my attention. But what really endeared it to me is how it has behaved in my garden: it came through the winters well, the flowers held up nicely in the rain, and it bloomed again in two or three flushes.

Over time, observations like these become part of your bond with a plant. You no longer see just the name of a variety, but the years you’ve watched it grow. Read the Munstead Wood profile →

The beauty of a lived-in garden

My roses are part of a garden that’s lived in. They grow alongside the other flowers, the grass we walk through barefoot and the dogs’ paw prints. Sometimes they’re in full bloom; other times they have dropped petals, stems that need care or leaves that ask for my attention.

I’m learning to take in both the flower and the work around it at a glance. To enjoy what’s beautiful now, without putting off joy until everything is perfect.

Maybe that’s the real value of the collection for me: every season gives me a reason to go back into the garden and look again, carefully.

The story goes on, rose by rose

In the profiles of the roses in my collection I’m gradually gathering the variety names, photos and observations about how they grow for me. That’s where the details belong; here stays the thread that ties them together — a love of roses that began in my grandmother’s garden and carries on among the mountains.

Do you have a rose that holds a memory for you? Write and tell me its story — I’d love to hear it.