It is froth time in the garden. Up and down the country, rivers of apple blossom are in full spate and hawthorn, or May blossom, provides a frothy icing along motorway embankments and field edges.
The celebration continues at ground level, too. Sweet woodruff, Galium odoratum, carpets one of my shady beds. Its common name attests to the smell of newly-mown hay emitted as the plant dies down. It is a pleasure to be weeding in amongst it in July and August. Early in the year, its little stems are dressed in whorls of vivid green leaves - a perfect foil for hellebores and dark trilliums. Now, though, each one is crowned with a starburst of tiny white flowers.
The white foam is punctuated by slender towers of Tellima grandiflora and the tall stems of Ranunculus aconitifolius. I am planting more of this white buttercup to swell the wave that already flows through the woodruff. This is the single-flowered form described by plant collector Reginald Farrer as "that noble fairy". The double-flowered form, Ranunculus aconitifolius 'Flore Pleno', is exquisite; a mass of tiny pompoms, white with a green centre, held on wiry stems. It has been in cultivation for centuries, disseminated by gardeners who recognise its worth. It is easy to split the thick, white roots in winter - they almost fall apart, dividing into separate "spiders", which can be planted individually or potted up. Still, it takes time and trouble, and few nurseries now offer it. I have removed chunks of woodruff ready to be transferred to the foot of our native hedge: pots of the ranunculus take their place, once I have loosened up the soil with a fork.
Woodruff requires no maintenance apart from an occasional thinning out, but elsewhere in the garden I offer a helping hand to maximise the frothy effect. Close to the house, one of our best shrubs, Exochorda x macrantha 'The Bride', is at its flowery best - or at least half of it is. The original plant was unceremoniously dug up to grace one of our stands at an RHS show. That was nearly 20 years ago, and when it was replanted it was nurtured back to good health. In recent years part of it has shown signs of its age, some branches bearing few flowers and looking withered.
In contrast, the other half is a picture, a waterfall of white blossom cascading over the stone wall above which it was replanted. On closer inspection, it became clear that one branch had layered itself. As the branch touched the earth, roots formed, giving the shrub a new lease of life. To prevent the older branches becoming a drain on the new root system, I chopped them out with hefty loppers.
Not all the froth is icing sugar-pink and white. Great mounds of Euphorbia palustris light the way through the top of the garden. Each head is composed of scores of tiny flowers surrounded by glowing, lime-green bracts or cyathium leaves. These beacons have no doubt evolved to draw in pollinating insects to the insignificant flowers, aided also by exquisite perfume. One spurge, E. mellifera, is renowned for its perfume - its common title is 'Honey Spurge' - but most of the family share this attribute. Some of my E. palustris have become sizeable bushes. Especially in a year such as this, with plenty of rain followed by unseasonably warm weather, growth is speedy and sappy. The huge heads of my euphorbias are in danger of collapse, especially if there are gales or heavy rain - a few pea sticks pushed in around the stems should save them. I use hazel cut from the hedge, but city-dwellers could save winter shrub or tree prunings for the same results.