The summers of England always promise a landscape where the majestic beauty of roses triumph. As most of the year here is grey and drizzly, the reign of the roses in summertime is a real blessing. Their colours and frills seem to decorate every garden, park, and side-bush of the paths, with a spectrum spanning garnet red, sweetheart pink, butter yellow, classic coral and vanilla ice-cream. This year I also experienced among the many roses a kaleidoscope of aromas as delightful as a fairy-tale pantry: vintage tea, cinnamon chai, almond cream, summer berries, sparkling wine, and fuzzy peach.
But the most breath-taking were those with the petals of ever-changing sunrises and sunsets that danced and multiplied all around our red front door in grand showy explosions. There seemed to be as great a number of them as there are combinations of colours that can paint the sky at dawn or dusk. At the start of this month it seemed they had all but died down in anticipation for the beginning of autumn, but I was mistaken. They were only in a dreamy slumber, for after perhaps a week they fired up again in all their glory after their replenishing rest, to give one last dazzling display before the autumn winds must carry them away.
These sweet, laughing roses are born in the hues of pink marshmallow and lemon curd, but become consumed by a pure, passionate magenta as lovely as a princess jewel. The gold-dust pollen that spills out from the heart of the rose is the colour of fine saxophone, and a delicate tangerine light seems to play across the surface of the petals. The scent of these rainbow roses is golden: the aroma of soft peach and bright mango caresses and enlivens the soul with joy and jazz.