I have already reported on my conspicuous lack of success with tomatoes. For years I also tried to grow annual ornamental sweet peas—Lathyrus odoratus–with only limited results. This year is different. I have thriving sweet peas for exactly one reason—I ignored them completely from the time they were planted.
I didn’t order any sweet pea seeds this year because I have learned my lesson and didn’t want to waste my time and energy yet again. However, I found one of last y ear’s packages in the back of the refrigerator and planted them late. I set the pot out on the porch where it would catch rainwater and did nothing else. The germination rate was impressive. I stirred myself enough to place the pot in a shady location and then went on ignoring it. The growth rate increased. I put a small trellis into the pot to give the tendrils some support and put the pot back in the shade. Now the hot, sticky weather has descended and it is generally much hated by sweet peas. My neglected, contrarian sweet peas are going great guns in the shady spot and I should have some flowers soon.
Now I have apparently cracked the sweet pea code and next spring I might even order some new sweet pea seeds. Then again, doing so might jinx my newfound good luck. Perhaps the best course of action is to order them and then put them in the refrigerator for a year. You never know…
In the meantime, I have been thinking about perennial sweet peas. If you have driven out in the country in mid summer, you have probably seen one species, everlasting pea, or Lathyrus latifolius, growing by the side of the road. The flowers are pale pink to rose pink and look just like those of annual sweet peas and other members of the pea and bean family. They scramble over the earth blooming beautifully over a fairly long season. My daughter used to pick lots of them from roadsides near our central New York summer cottage. They work in small flower arrangements, but unlike their annual cousins, they have no scent. This is a major drawback for me. The other major drawback is their vigorous habit, which can easily turn into invasiveness. As much as I love the looks of everlasting pea, I am not sure I can put up with its expansionist tendencies.
A more sensible choice might be Lord Anson’s pea, which sounds like something out of a Victorian novel. Lord Anson was George Anson, an eighteenth century aristocrat, sea captain and, eventually, Admiral of the Fleet, who managed an arduous but ultimately lucrative circumnavigation of the globe. His pea, which hails originally from South America, is a perennial with butterfly-like, fragrant blue flowers. Its current Latin name is Lathyrus nervosus, which sounds like a Victorian nervous complaint. An older Latin name is Lathyrus magellanicus, a tribute to the fact that Lord Anson collected the plant’s seeds near the Strait of Magellan and managed to get enough viable seed back to England. The name seems a perfect tribute to the wandering natures of the first global circumnavigator, explorer Ferdinand Magellan, as well as Lord Anson.
Lord Anson’s pea can clamber up to a height of fifteen feet, making its way aloft by means of tendrils. The leaves are an appealing shade of blue green. While it has the vigor of most sweet peas—the notable exceptions being any sweet peas planted on my property in the last ten years—it does not seem to be invasive. I have not seen it wandering around the countryside in central New York or anywhere else, though I have seen it in a few gardens from time to time. It is hardy in my USDA Zone 7a garden and in fact will succeed from Zone 3 through Zone 10, which makes me wonder why more people don’t grow it.
I suspect it is more appreciated in Lord Anson’s home country of England, as I have seen several write-ups in English garden publications and columns. In England, people grow it in partial shade, but in this part of the world, I would be more inclined to put it in a place where it receives morning sun and a bit of afternoon shade—possibly an eastern exposure.
Lord Anson fixed his sights on Spanish galleons and eventually captured one, loaded with pieces of eight. This enabled him to fix up his ancestral home. Lord Anson’s pea fixes nitrogen in the soil, which is a wonderful thing for the earth around my family home. I feel a kinship with Lord Anson just thinking about it. The flowers attract butterflies. Perhaps some Red Admirals, which are plentiful around my garden, will find their way to the sweet peas named after a legendary seafarer.
Lord Anson’s pea is hard to find on this side of the Atlantic. I checked various databases, including the University of Minnesota’s Plant Information Online, and it lists only one supplier, a California concern called Seedhunt. Its website is http://www.seedhunt.com. They are sold out of Lord Anson’s pea this year, but I will make a note to order some seed next winter.
When I think of all the futile effort I have put into growing sweet peas over the years, perhaps the effort needed to obtain Lord Anson’s pea will be miniscule by comparison.