10 Reasons I Regret Planting Rosa Banksiae
(But Not Really)
by Asha Renew
There are mistakes we make in the garden—poor plant choices, unruly growers, flowers that refuse to bloom no matter how we coax them. And then there are the so-called mistakes that turn out to be anything but, the plants we half-regret even as we adore them.
Rosa banksiae—Lady Banks’ rose—is one such creature. I planted her with little thought for the consequences, lured in by the promise of soft yellow blossoms and delicate, thornless canes. I did not truly understand what I was inviting into my garden. And now, of course, it is too late.
Let me tell you why I regret it.
1. She Is Always Green
A proper rose should have the decency to rest, to shed her leaves in winter and allow the garden to sleep. Not Lady Banks. She remains clothed in green through every season, climbing higher and higher, defying the frost with her glossy, evergreen foliage. It is a terrible thing, really—to look out on a bleak January morning and find something still thriving. Where is the lesson in patience, the forced appreciation of bare branches? No, she insists on presence, refusing to let the garden slip into dormancy.
2. She Will Not Stop Flowering
A rose should make you wait, should build anticipation, should bloom with an air of precious rarity. But Lady Banks has no sense of restraint. When spring arrives, she erupts into a profusion of tiny, butter-yellow blooms, so many that the weight of them bows the branches, cascading in great golden waterfalls. It is excessive, really, almost indecent—the way she smothers herself in flowers, as if she has never heard of moderation.
3. She Covers Everything in Sight
The old fence I meant to replace? Vanished. The unsightly shed? Swallowed whole. I had plans, once—schemes for new trellises, fresh paint, a carefully curated view. But Lady Banks has rendered them all irrelevant. Her long, sinuous canes reach and drape and weave, concealing everything in their path. I can hardly remember what the garden looked like before her arrival. Perhaps it was tidier, more controlled. But then again, perhaps it was duller.
4. She Grows Too Fast
Some plants creep and linger, making you earn their affection. Not this one. A mere sapling when I planted her, she is now a behemoth, sprawling over fences, climbing into trees, stretching toward the sky with a determination that borders on the outrageous. She has turned the garden into a jungle, a secret bower, a place of tangled green mystery. It is inconvenient. It is impractical. And yet, I would not have it any other way.
5. She Has No Thorns
A rose should come with a bit of danger, a touch of treachery—something to keep you wary as you reach for the blooms. But Lady Banks is all softness, her canes smooth and harmless, inviting touch rather than drawing blood. It feels almost dishonest, this lack of defense, as though she is too gentle for her own good. But then again, is it not a rare gift to be so utterly, effortlessly kind?
6. She Smells of Violet and Honey
Some roses announce themselves with perfume, rich and heady, filling the air with the scent of summer. Lady Banks is more subtle. You must lean in close to catch her fragrance, a delicate mix of violets and honey, something almost nostalgic, like a memory just out of reach. It is maddening, really—this soft, elusive sweetness that refuses to be bottled, to be held.
7. She Belongs to Another Time
Rosa banksiae is no modern invention. She has been weaving her way through gardens for centuries, beloved in China long before she was introduced to the West. The variety I planted—Rosa banksiae lutea—was named for Lady Dorothea Banks, wife of the famed botanist Sir Joseph Banks, who helped bring countless exotic species to British gardens. There is something wonderfully old-fashioned about her, something that speaks of walled gardens and sprawling country estates, of secret corners and forgotten doorways. She does not merely grow; she transports.
8. She Invites the Birds
A garden should be a refuge, a place where life gathers. Lady Banks provides shelter in abundance, her thick, climbing canes forming a sanctuary for nesting birds. The sparrows and finches flit among her branches, weaving their homes in her green embrace. It is an intrusion, really—the way they chatter and stir and make their presence known. But what kind of garden would it be without them?
9. She Knows No Boundaries
A fence means nothing to her. A trellis is merely a suggestion. If I had wanted a polite, well-mannered rose, I should have chosen another. But Lady Banks has no interest in staying where she is put. She spills over walls, climbs into neighboring trees, stretches toward windows as if longing to see inside. She is, in short, entirely unruly. And yet, how can I begrudge her for it? A garden should be a place of exuberance, not restriction.
10. She Has Taken Over My Heart
Yes, she is too much. Yes, she defies control. Yes, she is everything I did not anticipate. And yet, I cannot regret her. She is the garden’s wild soul, its breath of untamed beauty, its promise that some things are best left to grow as they will.
So, do I regret planting Rosa banksiae? Not for one single moment.