Start with shrub roses, floribundas, Knock Out, Drift or Oso Easy roses.
Look for varieties marked as disease resistant such as ‘Carefree Beauty’ or ‘Oso Easy’.
Pick the Right Location
Ensure the spot gets atleast 6 hours of direct sun daily.
Choose an area with good airflow, to prevent disease
Avoid spots with heavy soggy soil.
Prepare the Soil
Amend heavy clay with compost or sand to improve drainage
Dig holes about 18 inches wide and deep.
Mix in compost or aged manure. to enrich the soil.
Plant Your Roses: For bare-root roses:
Soak in water, for a few hours before planting
Create a soil mound in the planting hole.
Spread roots over the mound fill halfway, water. then fill completely
For container roses:
Remove from the pot.
Loosen roots and plant at the same soil level,
Water throughly
Water Correctly
Water deeply once or twice a week.
Use a hose at the base to keep leaves dry
If your tap water is heavily chlorinated or contains hard minerals. consider using a simple filtration system to improve plant health. Learn more about the breakdown of how a water filter can help (click here)
In hot weather water more often if soil is dry a few inches down
Feed Your Roses
Fertilize three times per season: • Early spring when new growth appears • After the first bloom • Midsummer (if still blooming)
Use balanced fertilizer (10-10-10) or organic options like compost tea
Always water before, and after fertilizing.
Prune and Deadhead Prune in late winter or early spring:
Remove dead damaged, or weak canes
Open up the center for airflow.
Shape like a vase.
During the season:
Snip spent blooms just above the first set of five leaves.
Apply Mulch
Add a 2 to 3 inch layer of organic mulch such as bark or compost
Keep mulch a few inches, away from the base of the plant.
Watch for Pests and Disease
Common pests: aphids beetles
Blast with water or use insecticidal soap.
Check regularly for black spot or mildew. Use fungicides if needed.
Protect in Winter
Stop feeding in late summer to help roses harden off.
If you’ve got a rose that actually does well in your yard quietly, without fuss it’s worth trying to grow more of it. Whether it’s a variety you like or one passed down from someone you miss, taking cuttings is one way to keep it going.
Spring and early summer are best for softwood cuttings. These are the flexible green stems just below faded flowers. You can also try semi-hardwood in late summer, or hardwood in winter (Softer ones usually root quicker.)
Instructions
Cut just under a node. Aim for a 4 to 8 inch stem with three to five nodes. Remove the bloom and all but the top leaf or two. Wound the base a little by scraping or slicing the bottom inch. That helps trigger roots. You can dip the end in hormone powder, but skipping it works too.
Place the cutting in a pot filled with half perlite, half potting mix. Water it. Cover with a clear bag or jar to keep in the moisture. Keep it out of direct sunlight. Shade helps (so does patience, hehe)
Some cuttings root in a few weeks, while others don’t show any promise. Check now and then, if one rots, toss it. If one roots, great.
Look for signs like new leaves or roots poking out the drainage holes. When it’s strong enough, pot it up or plant it out. Give it 9 to 12 months before expecting much. (remember, patience again)
This doesn’t need to be exact. You don’t need a greenhouse or fancy tools, all you need is just pruners, a pot, and some time. Take a few cuttings and see what sticks. Some will fail. Some won’t, just get yourself in the feedback loop.
And when one finally takes, it’s enough. A small win from something you already had.
Want more roses? You’ve got two solid options: cuttings or grafting. One’s fast and direct. The other’s a bit more involved. Let’s break it down so you can get started.
Cuttings
Benefits: Cuttings are quick and simple.
Grab a softwood stem just under a faded bloom in late spring.
Semi-hardwood in late summer and hardwood in winter also work—just slower.
Prep your spot first. (preferrably use a tray with perlite and coarse sand)
Cut early while the plant’s still hydrated. RootBoost helps, but it’s not essential.
Slice each stem into sections with four nodes. Keep just one leaf at the top. Dip the end, press it into the mix, cover with a bottle or bag. Mist to keep things moist. Some cuttings root in two weeks. Others won’t. That’s fine—take several.
Grafting
Grafting’s more technical but powerful. In the UK, most roses are grafted onto Rosa laxa. It gives the rose a stronger base and controls aggressive varieties like rugosa. Here’s how it works: make a T-shaped cut in a one-year-old rootstock, insert a bud, clip it, and cut back in spring. That bud takes over.
Spot rootstock regrowth by checking leaf color, thorn direction, and stem pattern.
Tip for Rosa Laxa: leaves look silver, thorns hook down, and stems shift from green to brown with pale streaks.
Don’t clip those shoots, rip them out at the base to stop regrowth.
Summary
Cuttings give you the original rose, rooted on its own. Grafting builds a stronger plant by pairing two parts together. Choose based on the plant, your time, and what result you’re after.
Caring for roses isn’t just a technical process. It’s part ritual, part quiet pleasure. And you don’t have to be an expert to do it well. All you need is six hours of sun and a bit of stillness in your mornings, you’re already close.
Here are a bunch of pointers and reminders to help your roses flourish (mostly in chronological order) and get the most bang for buck out in the garden:
Raised beds help, but even a simple patch away from trees works.
Give your roses drainage and space to breathe.
When planting, make the hole slightly larger than the container, keep the graft line just above the soil, and tuck in a handful of bone or alfalfa meal.
The early effort sets the tone.
Mulch helps.
A couple of inches of shredded bark holds moisture and gives the soil consistency.
Watering should be like writing letters: not rushed, not daily, but full when done. Wet leaves invite problems. Aim for morning, close to the roots.
Fertilizing follows the plant’s rhythm.
As leaves appear, start with nitrogen or alfalfa meal.
Epsom salts encourage new canes.
When shoots reach four or five inches, add a slow-release fertilizer. Every few weeks after that, use something gentle like fish emulsion. Container roses need more frequent feeding since water drains nutrients more quickly.
In late summer, shift to a fertilizer with less nitrogen. Bone meal encourages deeper roots and steadies the plant before winter.
Stop feeding altogether six to eight weeks before the first expected frost.
Growth pushed too late struggles to survive cold.
Prune with intent. In early spring, when buds swell, remove dead wood and crossed branches.
Aim for an open center.
Trim strong canes to around six or eight inches.
As blooms fade, cut back to the first five-leaflet set. It keeps things tidy and encourages more flowers.
If that all feels like a lot, there are easier paths. The Oso Easy series lives up to the name, if you are looking for more information.
Here is a phrase I like to remind myslef of: The garden doesn’t need perfection. It just needs my presence.
Roses are often selected not only for their beauty but for the sensory experiences they offer.
Whether it is the color, the shape of the bloom, or the scent, roses make a distinct impression. Whenever possible, choose roses in person to evaluate their fragrance and appearance firsthand, rather then ordering what “looks good” online.
Before planting, assess the growing environment. Consider the soil, sunlight, and available space. Compact varieties suit container planting near doorways or patios, while climbing or rambling types are ideal for trellises or natural structures. Ensure the site receives at least six hours of sunlight daily and provides adequate drainage and avoid overcrowding, roses require good air circulation to thrive (key points)
The planting process depends on the form in which the rose is purchased. Bare-root roses, typically available from late autumn to early spring, should be soaked in water prior to planting. Dig a hole twice as wide as the root system, form a small mound of soil in the center, spread the roots evenly, and fill in with soil. Peat-free compost may be used, provided it remains moist. For container-grown roses, remove from the pot and position the plant so the graft is just above soil level.
Apply a 2 to 3 inch layer of bark mulch around the base to retain moisture and regulate soil temperature. Water deeply at the base in the morning to ensure hydration and prevent disease. Avoid wetting the foliage. (this is even more key)
I’ll throw in another quote:
Roses do not require perfection, only appropriate care and attention to their environment.
Some pages in my gardening journal have softened with time. The corners are frayed and a few are stained from teacups or thumbprints still carrying compost. I don’t mind. In fact, I like it. Neatness was never the point.
I didn’t grow up journaling. But once the garden became more than a pastime, more than just a weekend habit, I found myself wanting to keep track. Not only of the flowers and failures, but of how things felt while I was out there. What I noticed. What I needed to say, even if only to myself.
There are the usual notes: “Eggshells deterred slugs around the delphiniums.”“Yellow climber bloomed again. Mid-April this time.”
But more often, it drifts into something softer: “The compost smelled sweet again. That’s usually a good sign.”“Smells like my grandfather’s shed. Sharp, musty, comforting.”
One I keep returning to was written last winter, just after trimming the roses (see Post 2). I remember brushing soil off my gloves and sitting on the low wall thinking I should write it down before I forgot. It read, cutting back is another way of holding on.
That’s the thing about these scribbles. They’re more than reminders. They’re conversations—with memory, with the weather, with some quieter part of me I don’t always hear in the rush of the day.
I’ve started giving myself little nudges in the margins, for days when the words don’t come easy:
What surprised me today?
What did I let go of?
What am I still holding tight?
What do I want to carry forward?
What scent stayed with me?
That last one… I’ll be writing about it more in Post 4. Scent has its own way of anchoring us. Of bringing something back without asking.
Sometimes I sketch a rosehip, a feather, the bend of a stalk that refused to stand straight. I don’t aim for accuracy. Just memory. Sometimes I tuck things in. A curled leaf. A flattened petal. The papery skin from garlic I forgot to plant. Each one its own quiet story.
On wet mornings, when my knees ache and the shears feel too heavy, I make tea and open the journal. I don’t always read it. Sometimes I just hold it. Let my eyes fall where they will.
The margins are where the real garden lives. Not in the rows, but in the in-betweens. Where things are messy and meaningful. Where nothing needs fixing.
This journal, like the garden, has grown into its own sort of companion. Neither of them perfect. But both rooted in love, and still learning.
Some pages in my gardening journal have softened with time. The corners are frayed and a few are stained from teacups or thumbprints still carrying compost. I don’t mind. In fact, I like it. Neatness was never the point.
I didn’t grow up journaling. But once the garden became more than a pastime, more than just a weekend habit, I found myself wanting to keep track. Not only of the flowers and failures, but of how things felt while I was out there. What I noticed. What I needed to say, even if only to myself.
There are the usual notes: “Eggshells deterred slugs around the delphiniums.”“Yellow climber bloomed again. Mid-April this time.”
But more often, it drifts into something softer: “The compost smelled sweet again. That’s usually a good sign.”“Smells like my grandfather’s shed. Sharp, musty, comforting.”
One I keep returning to was written last winter, just after trimming the roses (see Post 2). I remember brushing soil off my gloves and sitting on the low wall thinking I should write it down before I forgot. It read, cutting back is another way of holding on.
That’s the thing about these scribbles. They’re more than reminders. They’re conversations—with memory, with the weather, with some quieter part of me I don’t always hear in the rush of the day.
I’ve started giving myself little nudges in the margins, for days when the words don’t come easy:
What surprised me today?
What did I let go of?
What am I still holding tight?
What do I want to carry forward?
What scent stayed with me?
That last one… I’ll be writing about it more in Post 4. Scent has its own way of anchoring us. Of bringing something back without asking.
Sometimes I sketch a rosehip, a feather, the bend of a stalk that refused to stand straight. I don’t aim for accuracy. Just memory. Sometimes I tuck things in. A curled leaf. A flattened petal. The papery skin from garlic I forgot to plant. Each one its own quiet story.
On wet mornings, when my knees ache and the shears feel too heavy, I make tea and open the journal. I don’t always read it. Sometimes I just hold it. Let my eyes fall where they will.
The margins are where the real garden lives. Not in the rows, but in the in-betweens. Where things are messy and meaningful. Where nothing needs fixing.
This journal, like the garden, has grown into its own sort of companion. Neither of them perfect. But both rooted in love, and still learning.
The garden out back always quiets in autumn. Not silent, just less loud. Like it’s letting go of something it held all summer.
This is trimming season, but gently. Not the sort of cutting that tidies for show. The kind that makes room. The kind you do when your hands know something your head hasn’t quite named.
Every year, I end up in the same rhythm—emptying watering cans, brushing my thumb down stems, seeing which ones feel spent. A few weeds get tugged, but some I leave. Maybe I’ll come back for them. Maybe not. The world won’t end.
Pruning takes a quiet kind of trust. You’re not correcting a mistake. You’re believing in rest. In roots doing what they do best underground, without help or notice.
I stop feeding the roses once the nights drop. There’s a part of me that wants to keep going, especially when blooms keep coming, late and unexpected. But feeding too long confuses them. They don’t know when to stop. And there’s comfort in stopping, in letting things wind down.
Clippings go in the compost, always have. I don’t bag much anymore. Just layer stems and old leaves, maybe turn the pile with the garden fork once or twice if my shoulder allows. That warm, earthy smell rising from the centre—it always reminds me of damp library stacks. A strange association, I know. But it makes sense in my head.
And I don’t trim everything. Just the places that ask. Autumn isn’t for stripping bare. It’s for softening. Making space for what’s still to come, without hurrying it along.
Here are three things I tend to remember:
Mix your green clippings with dry leaves. It helps the pile breathe.
Stop feeding once night temperatures drop below ten. It gives the plant time to settle.
Prune lightly. Save the bigger shaping for winter’s end.
These aren’t rules, just rhythms. The kind you come to recognise after a few decades of watching, waiting, noting things down in the margins.
Last autumn I scribbled a line in my gardening journal, right beside a flattened rose petal. I’ll share the full page next time, but the line stayed with me: “cutting back is another way of holding on.”
Letting the garden grow wild in summer (see Post 1) helped me make peace with these slower months. Autumn doesn’t rush. It waits, steady and quiet. And I’m learning, still, how to follow its pace.
So I watch. I breathe. I prune a little, then rest my hands in my lap.
No rush. No pressure. Just a gardener, settling too.
I didn’t set out to stop weeding. It simply happened.
One late summer morning I stood at the back window, tea in hand, and noticed the garden had softened at the edges. The borage had crept across the path. Dandelions, bold as ever, nodded in the breeze. I thought about tidying. But the kettle was still warm and the day already felt full.
It wasn’t laziness. More like a quiet surrender. Not neglect. Just a gentle kind of permission. To let it be, for now.
That week I kept my gloves on the hook. The pruning shears stayed in the drawer. I walked the garden often, but didn’t step in. The roses looked a bit unruly, not unhappy. The bees came thick and slow, their hum louder than usual. I took it as a kind of blessing.
Grief, I’ve found, rarely announces itself. It seeps into small things. Through the compost bin. The undone corners. I didn’t have the words for it at the time, but cutting the roses felt wrong. Like interrupting a sentence still finding its shape.
So I left the garden alone. And nothing broke.
The soil stayed. The stems swayed and held. The roses bloomed with a tired sort of beauty. Not trimmed or showy. Just honest.
By the end of the month, I missed the rhythm. I reached for the shears, not to fix anything, but to say, I’m still here. A quiet gesture.
Letting the garden stay wild reminded me of something I’d almost forgotten. That not all beauty needs shaping. Some of it only shows up when you step back.
