January 26, 2026 Alister Clark, J. Henry Chesterton, Eloise Ray, Take Chelsea Home by Chris Young, and Jacqueline du Pré

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Today’s Show Notes

January has a way of making everything feel more honest. The garden is not performing. It is resting.

This is the month of silhouettes — hedges reduced to outline, paths only faintly visible beneath the snow, branches writing their thin handwriting against the sky.

It is a fitting day for stories like these: of people and gardens shaped by patience, of beauty made to endure, and of the quiet satisfaction that comes from bringing something living safely home.

Today’s Garden History

1864 Alister Clark was born in Brighton, Victoria.

Australia would come to know him as one of its most influential rose breeders, but Alister Clark’s story begins with land and with loss.

His father, Walter Clark, built a homestead called Glenara, with gardens set high above Deep Creek near the township of Bulla. It was the kind of property that seemed to declare permanence.

But Alister’s mother died when he was just one year old. And in 1873, his father was violently killed.

Alister, still young, was sent away — back to Scotland — and raised by relatives, separated from the country that would later become the center of his life.

He followed the expected path: Cambridge, a law degree, a formal education meant to steady him. But when Alister married a wealthy New Zealand heiress, he returned to Australia and bought Glenara back from his father’s estate.

The place became not just an ancestral property, but a devotion.

Alister lived the life of a gentleman of his era. He was a huntsman, a polo player, a racehorse owner, a golfer, and a photographer. But his most consuming passion was roses.

He maintained a ten-hectare garden once described as “a place of great charm and beauty,” a phrase that somehow understates the seriousness of his work as a rosarian.

A newspaper described Glenara in 1928 as an “old-world garden,” with spreading lawns and sheltering trees, and roses gradually taking over the orchard — encroaching on grapes and vegetables, as though beauty, once established, refuses to be contained.

At first, Alister ordered roses from England. But imported roses often failed to meet expectations once climate and growing conditions had their say.

So Alister began to breed.

He wanted roses that could live honestly in Australian conditions — hot, dry summers, mild winters, drought that does not negotiate. The key to his work was Rosa gigantea, vigorous, heat-tolerant, and resilient.

His first great success was ‘Jessie Clark,’ named for his niece. Then came others — names that still feel like people passing through a garden gate: Lorraine Lee, Nancy Hayward, Sunny South, Black Boy, Squatter’s Dream.

Alister did not breed roses as trophies. He bred them to be companions.

His roses were meant to climb, to ramble, to flower continuously, and to hold their own. Many were released for philanthropic purposes, passed on to societies and organizations for propagation and sale, as if the point of a new rose was not ownership, but circulation.

After his death in 1949, many of his roses were lost. Labels fade. Gardens change hands. Names slip away.

But decades later, people went looking. Some of Alister Clark’s roses were found again.

Today, near Bulla, the Alister Clark Memorial Rose Garden holds the surviving collection, maintained by volunteers. A life’s work still blooming, because of one man’s devotion to creating living beauty that could endure.

1883 J. Henry Chesterton died on a riverbank in Colombia.

Henry began as a valet traveling through South America, an unlikely start for a plant collector. But gardens have always made room for unlikely beginnings.

Somewhere along his journey, Henry fell hard for orchids. Not a mild appreciation, but a hunger.

After building an impressive collection, he wrote to Sir Harry Veitch in England with one urgent question: how do you pack living plants for a long voyage by sea?

Help was arranged.

Months later, Henry Chesterton arrived unannounced at the Chelsea nursery gates, carrying orchids so carefully tended they survived the journey. The Veitch nursery bought the entire collection, and Henry was sent back to South America — not as a valet, but as a plant hunter.

His task was to find the “scarlet Odontoglossum,” an orchid long rumored, often found, and rarely delivered alive.

Henry succeeded. The plant flowered in Chelsea in 1873 — a flower long whispered about, opening at last under glass, thousands of miles from where it grew.

Plant hunting carried a cost.

Henry Chesterton died in 1883, still a young man, after leaving his hotel sickbed too soon, believing he had recovered enough to travel. His obituary called him reckless.

But sometimes reckless simply means unwilling to turn back from something you love. And Henry loved hunting orchids.

Unearthed Words

1905 Landscape architect Eloise Ray was born.

Speaking of the great private estates she helped design, and what it took to keep them alive, Eloise once remarked:

“We would estimate the need for at least eight full-time gardeners for most of our estates.”

Eight gardeners — a number that sounds almost mythic now.

Later, she warned against choosing what looks easy — lawns, shortcuts, simplicity — without understanding what landscapes truly demand.

It is very January wisdom: less romance, more structure, and a bare-bones respect for the invisible labor behind beauty.

Book Recommendation

Take Chelsea Home: Practical Inspiration from the RHS Chelsea Flower Show by Chris Young

This is a rare Chelsea book that does more than admire the spectacle — it translates it.

Paths. Proportion. Planting combinations. Structure.

Chris Young selects some of the most influential show gardens and uses them as benchmarks, not for imitation, but for practical inspiration in gardens big and small.

In late January, when you are planning more than planting, this is the kind of book that turns Chelsea — often called the catwalk of garden design — into a garden you can actually make for yourself.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

1945 Cellist Jacqueline du Pré was born.

Her talent was immense, and illness cut her career short far too early. There is a rose named ‘Jacqueline du Pré’ in her honor.

Soft white blooms brushed with blush, a strong fragrance, and flowers that open simply, revealing bright stamens like a note held in the air.

Her namesake rose does not replace what was lost. It simply gives us a living way to remember — something that blooms, fades, returns, and for a moment, makes the air sweeter without asking for applause.

Perhaps that is something the rosarian Alister Clark understood too — that the best roses are not meant to impress from a distance, but to stay with us, to add cheer, to help us remember, and to endure.

Final Thoughts

January leaves the garden in outline. And sometimes, most unexpectedly and most profoundly, that is when we see it most clearly.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener.
And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.