Sabia que em Portugal existem 17 espécies autóctones de roseiras?
As roseiras foram outrora as rainhas indiscutíveis dos jardins. Nelas se celebrava a delicadeza, a fragrância e o labor da poda. Hoje, porém, parecem ter sido exiladas da modernidade. São raras nos canteiros urbanos, raríssimas nas varandas, e quase ninguém as cultiva por prazer.
Ainda assim, no silêncio do meio rural, as roseiras resistem. Encontram-se diante das casas, em muros baixos ou canteiros antigos, florescendo de maio a setembro, de norte a sul do país. São sentinelas de outros tempos, guardiãs de memória e perfume, que continuam a anunciar a estação quente mesmo quando o resto do mundo parece tê-las esquecido.
Nos viveiros, as novas modas cobriram o seu nome com pó e o perfume que outrora era sinónimo de civilização desapareceu do ar dos jardins. Ainda assim, as roseiras continuam connosco. Persistem discretas, nas sebes e taludes, nas orlas húmidas e margens de caminhos.
Continuam a florir no silêncio dos lugares esquecidos, oferecendo abrigo à fauna, alimento a aves e mamíferos, e cor e forma à paisagem. São as nossas roseiras autóctones, parte viva da herança vegetal de Portugal.
Sabia que em Portugal existem 17 espécies autóctones de roseiras? O nosso território, entre o Atlântico e o Mediterrâneo, é um dos mais ricos da Europa neste género. Estão tão esquecidas, que a maioria das espécies é conhecida pelo nome de roseira-brava ou nem sequer apresenta um nome vulgar…
São elas:
- Roseira-brava (Rosa sempervirens);
- Roseira-brava (Rosa agrestis);
- Roseira-brava (Rosa villosa);
- Roseira-canina (Rosa canina);
- Roseira-de-folhas-glandulosas (Rosa micrantha);
- Roseira-de-pés-glandulosos (Rosa pouzinii);
- Roseira-ferrugínea (Rosa rubiginosa);
- Rosa arvensis;
- Rosa tomentosa;
- Rosa corymbifera;
- Rosa andegavensis;
- Rosa stylosa;
- Rosa squarrosa;
- Rosa blondaeana;
- Rosa deseglisei;
- Rosa vosagiaca;
- Na ilha da Madeira, a endémica roseira-brava (Rosa mandonii).
Cada espécie possui o seu domínio e caráter, como se o território português lhes tivesse oferecido um papel próprio no grande teatro da paisagem.
A roseira-brava (Rosa sempervirens) entrelaça o litoral húmido e sombreado, a roseira-canina (Rosa canina) acompanha caminhos e sebes de norte a sul.
A Rosa arvensis prefere as planícies calcárias do centro-litoral, a roseira-ferrugínea (Rosa rubiginosa) e Rosa villosa encontram refúgio nas serras frias e pedregosas do interior.
A Rosa tomentosa cresce nos vales húmidos e sombreados, a roseira-de-folhas-glandulosas (Rosa micrantha) e Rosa corymbifera prosperam nas orlas dos pomares e dos matos.
A Rosa stylosa, Rosa andegavensis e Rosa deseglisei habitam discretamente as Beiras, a roseira-de-pés-glandulosos (Rosa pouzinii) e Rosa blondaeana sobrevivem em solos secos e calcários do sul, a rara Rosa squarrosa escolhe sebes altas e margens de caminhos pedregosos e Rosa vosagiaca surge onde o bosque se dissolve em mato claro.
Na Madeira, a roseira-brava (Rosa mandonii), endémica e delicada, sobrevive nas encostas húmidas da Laurissilva como herança vegetal de outro tempo.
Entre todas, há vidas mais frágeis do que outras. A roseira-ferrugínea (Rosa rubiginosa), vive restrita ao setor sudoeste da serra da Estrela, sobrevivendo apenas em orlas e clareiras de bosques de medronheiro, azereiro e azevinho.
Trata-se de uma espécie de identificação complexa, com registos escassos e incertos, não documentados nas últimas sete décadas. A população nacional é diminuta, composta por menos de cinquenta indivíduos maduros concentrados numa única subpopulação, extremamente vulnerável a incêndios, invasoras e à perda de diversidade genética.
Pela reduzida área de ocupação e pelo declínio continuado do habitat, foi classificada como Criticamente em Perigo. A sua conservação depende de ações urgentes de propagação em viveiro, reforço populacional, monitorização e salvaguarda de material genético em bancos de germoplasma.
A roseira-brava (Rosa sempervirens) entrelaça o litoral húmido e sombreado, a roseira-canina (Rosa canina) acompanha caminhos e sebes de norte a sul.
A Rosa arvensis prefere as planícies calcárias do centro-litoral, a roseira-ferrugínea (Rosa rubiginosa) e Rosa villosa encontram refúgio nas serras frias e pedregosas do interior.
A Rosa tomentosa cresce nos vales húmidos e sombreados, a roseira-de-folhas-glandulosas (Rosa micrantha) e Rosa corymbifera prosperam nas orlas dos pomares e dos matos.
A Rosa stylosa, Rosa andegavensis e Rosa deseglisei habitam discretamente as Beiras, a roseira-de-pés-glandulosos (Rosa pouzinii) e Rosa blondaeana sobrevivem em solos secos e calcários do sul, a rara Rosa squarrosa escolhe sebes altas e margens de caminhos pedregosos e Rosa vosagiaca surge onde o bosque se dissolve em mato claro.
Na Madeira, a roseira-brava (Rosa mandonii), endémica e delicada, sobrevive nas encostas húmidas da Laurissilva como herança vegetal de outro tempo.
Entre todas, há vidas mais frágeis do que outras. A roseira-ferrugínea (Rosa rubiginosa), vive restrita ao setor sudoeste da serra da Estrela, sobrevivendo apenas em orlas e clareiras de bosques de medronheiro, azereiro e azevinho.
Trata-se de uma espécie de identificação complexa, com registos escassos e incertos, não documentados nas últimas sete décadas. A população nacional é diminuta, composta por menos de cinquenta indivíduos maduros concentrados numa única subpopulação, extremamente vulnerável a incêndios, invasoras e à perda de diversidade genética.
Pela reduzida área de ocupação e pelo declínio continuado do habitat, foi classificada como Criticamente em Perigo. A sua conservação depende de ações urgentes de propagação em viveiro, reforço populacional, monitorização e salvaguarda de material genético em bancos de germoplasma.
Espécies como Rosa squarrosa e Rosa blondaeana, de distribuição muito restrita, partilham o mesmo destino silencioso. Mesmo as roseiras comuns, antes abundantes, sofrem com a eliminação das sebes tradicionais, a fragmentação do habitat e o esquecimento da agricultura de mosaico.
A Lista Vermelha da Flora Vascular de Portugal Continental recorda que cada haste perdida é um elo da memória natural que se rompe, e que proteger estas espécies é também preservar a nossa paisagem agrícola e cultural.
No conjunto, estas roseiras desenham um mapa de contrastes, do verde húmido do Atlântico ao calor seco do Alentejo, das serras interiores às dunas claras. São costuras vivas do território, essenciais à vida de insetos, aves e pequenos mamíferos, unindo o país num contínuo de perfume e acúleos.
Por isso, nos jardins naturalizados e nas quintas onde se pratica a agroecologia, começam a regressar ao seu lugar de honra, não como ornamento, mas como expressão de uma paisagem paciente e generosa.
A vida destas plantas é uma lição de harmonia. As flores simples de cinco pétalas atraem abelhas, borboletas, moscas e besouros. São pequenas estações de polinização que garantem o alimento de centenas de espécies.
No outono, os frutos vermelhos, os cinórrodos, alimentam tordos, pintassilgos, melros e pequenos mamíferos, que ao dispersar as sementes perpetuam o ciclo da vida. Mesmo quando o inverno cobre os campos de cinza, as roseiras continuam a ser abrigo e refúgio.
As suas raízes firmam os taludes e impedem a erosão, os seus acúleos oferecem proteção a ninhos, e o seu porte espesso compõe uma arquitetura vegetal que protege o solo e suaviza o clima.
Durante séculos, as roseiras silvestres serviram também o homem. Delas se fizeram sebes vivas que delimitavam propriedades, protegiam culturas e resguardavam pomares.
A roseira-canina (Rosa canina) foi, e continua a ser, o principal porta-enxerto das roseiras cultivadas pela sua resistência, adaptabilidade e longevidade. Resistentes, suportam a enxertia de variedades ornamentais e de corte, garantindo plantas robustas e duradouras.
Esta aliança entre o silvestre e o cultivado permite a continuidade do género Rosa, onde a força genética das espécies autóctones sustenta a delicadeza das flores criadas pelo homem, servindo de base invisível às rosas ornamentais que povoam os catálogos e viveiros de todo o mundo. A horticultura moderna vive graças à força das suas ancestrais silvestres.
Em muitas regiões vitícolas europeias, as roseiras continuam a ser companheiras das vinhas, plantadas nas extremidades das linhas. Além do valor simbólico e estético, funcionam como bioindicadores naturais de doenças fúngicas, em especial do oídio e do míldio.
Em muitas regiões vitícolas europeias, as roseiras continuam a ser companheiras das vinhas, plantadas nas extremidades das linhas. Além do valor simbólico e estético, funcionam como bioindicadores naturais de doenças fúngicas, em especial do oídio e do míldio.
Por manifestarem precocemente os sintomas, permitem intervenções mais rápidas e precisas, reduzindo a necessidade de tratamentos. Esta antiga prática, enraizada na sabedoria agrícola, é hoje reconhecida como uma ferramenta ecológica de monitorização.
Mas as rosas não foram apenas sebes vivas ou cavalos de enxertia. Foram alimento e remédio, parte da farmacopeia popular e da cozinha rural. Os cinórrodos, secos ou cozidos, foram durante séculos preparados em chás e xaropes ricos em vitamina C, utilizados contra constipações e febres.
Nas aldeias serranas, faziam-se doces e compotas de frutos de rosa, e nas feiras de outono vendiam-se sacos com pétalas secas, usadas em infusões aromáticas ou para perfumar naturalmente a roupa e os lençóis.
A roseira-ferrugínea (Rosa rubiginosa), de cujas sementes se obtém o valioso óleo de rosa-mosqueta, continua a ser procurada por laboratórios e pequenas oficinas artesanais para preparar unguentos, cremes e bálsamos de cicatrização. São heranças silenciosas de uma economia vegetal que ligava saúde, paisagem e tradição.
Cultivada desde a Idade Média para fins medicinais e cosméticos, a antiga e nobre rosa-gálica (Rosa gallica), embora introduzida, enraizou-se na cultura europeia como símbolo de pureza e beleza. Dela se extraía a delicada água de rosas e o precioso óleo essencial, usados em unguentos, perfumes e rituais de cuidado que atravessaram séculos e que ainda hoje inspiram a cosmética natural contemporânea.
As roseiras portuguesas são, acima de tudo, resistentes. Crescem em solos pobres, suportam geadas e calor, raramente adoecem. Essa resiliência natural é a razão pela qual deviam regressar aos jardins. Contudo, a estética contemporânea afastou-as. As suas flores são singelas e de curta duração, uma beleza que se oferece de uma só vez e se despede sem alarde.
Nos jardins públicos e privados, procura-se a floração contínua, o impacto visual, a cor permanente. As roseiras autóctones não competem com isso. São flores de tempo e de paciência, não de espetáculo. Talvez por isso as tenhamos esquecido.
Mas quem as cultiva sabe que o seu perfume, ainda que efémero, é de uma intensidade impossível de reproduzir em laboratório, e que a sua presença, mesmo sem flor, é de uma elegância sóbria, intensamente viva.
As roseiras acompanharam o meu percurso profissional. Estudei na escola agrícola em Santo Tirso, onde nas aulas práticas tínhamos forçosamente de aprender a podar e a enxertar roseiras. Mal sabia que essa disciplina diária, repetida ano após ano, seria um alicerce silencioso do meu início de carreira em Serralves.
A escola era famosa pela sua Festa das Rosas, uma celebração anual em que toda a comunidade se reunia em torno da floração e da arte da poda. Era um acontecimento simbólico e alegre, que transformava a escola num jardim vivo, com os arcos do mosteiro repletos de cor, concursos de variedades e demonstrações de enxertia que reuniam mestres e alunos.
Aprendíamos que a poda tem uma liturgia própria e que o ofício agrícola é também arte, cultura e partilha. Mais tarde, ensinei esta arte a centenas de pessoas, em cursos, formações e programas de televisão.
Mas as rosas não foram apenas sebes vivas ou cavalos de enxertia. Foram alimento e remédio, parte da farmacopeia popular e da cozinha rural. Os cinórrodos, secos ou cozidos, foram durante séculos preparados em chás e xaropes ricos em vitamina C, utilizados contra constipações e febres.
Nas aldeias serranas, faziam-se doces e compotas de frutos de rosa, e nas feiras de outono vendiam-se sacos com pétalas secas, usadas em infusões aromáticas ou para perfumar naturalmente a roupa e os lençóis.
A roseira-ferrugínea (Rosa rubiginosa), de cujas sementes se obtém o valioso óleo de rosa-mosqueta, continua a ser procurada por laboratórios e pequenas oficinas artesanais para preparar unguentos, cremes e bálsamos de cicatrização. São heranças silenciosas de uma economia vegetal que ligava saúde, paisagem e tradição.
Cultivada desde a Idade Média para fins medicinais e cosméticos, a antiga e nobre rosa-gálica (Rosa gallica), embora introduzida, enraizou-se na cultura europeia como símbolo de pureza e beleza. Dela se extraía a delicada água de rosas e o precioso óleo essencial, usados em unguentos, perfumes e rituais de cuidado que atravessaram séculos e que ainda hoje inspiram a cosmética natural contemporânea.
As roseiras portuguesas são, acima de tudo, resistentes. Crescem em solos pobres, suportam geadas e calor, raramente adoecem. Essa resiliência natural é a razão pela qual deviam regressar aos jardins. Contudo, a estética contemporânea afastou-as. As suas flores são singelas e de curta duração, uma beleza que se oferece de uma só vez e se despede sem alarde.
Nos jardins públicos e privados, procura-se a floração contínua, o impacto visual, a cor permanente. As roseiras autóctones não competem com isso. São flores de tempo e de paciência, não de espetáculo. Talvez por isso as tenhamos esquecido.
Mas quem as cultiva sabe que o seu perfume, ainda que efémero, é de uma intensidade impossível de reproduzir em laboratório, e que a sua presença, mesmo sem flor, é de uma elegância sóbria, intensamente viva.
As roseiras acompanharam o meu percurso profissional. Estudei na escola agrícola em Santo Tirso, onde nas aulas práticas tínhamos forçosamente de aprender a podar e a enxertar roseiras. Mal sabia que essa disciplina diária, repetida ano após ano, seria um alicerce silencioso do meu início de carreira em Serralves.
A escola era famosa pela sua Festa das Rosas, uma celebração anual em que toda a comunidade se reunia em torno da floração e da arte da poda. Era um acontecimento simbólico e alegre, que transformava a escola num jardim vivo, com os arcos do mosteiro repletos de cor, concursos de variedades e demonstrações de enxertia que reuniam mestres e alunos.
Aprendíamos que a poda tem uma liturgia própria e que o ofício agrícola é também arte, cultura e partilha. Mais tarde, ensinei esta arte a centenas de pessoas, em cursos, formações e programas de televisão.
Os vídeos sobre poda de roseiras que gravei para a SIC e para a RTP
continuam a ser vistos por milhares de pessoas. Em cada gesto de
tesoura ensina-se muito mais do que técnica, ensina-se respeito pela
forma, pelo tempo e pela vida que se renova a cada corte certo.
Foram estas plantas, de uma simplicidade antiga, que acompanharam a minha vida. Nos jardins de Serralves, onde o tempo se media pelo som das podas e o ciclo das estações, tive o privilégio de gerir um dos maiores roseirais do país.
Ali aprendi que as rosas são professoras silenciosas. Ensinam-nos a observar, a esperar, a aceitar. Durante anos, iniciei centenas de pessoas nos trabalhos de propagação, poda e manutenção. Vi nascer amores inesperados pela jardinagem e paixões arrebatadas por aquelas flores de perfume quase espiritual.
Nos últimos dias de abril, vinham ao roseiral os mais devotos, para assistir ao desabrochar das primeiras Bela Portuguesa lá no alto da pérgula. Era um ritual de primavera. O ar enchia-se de fragrância e o murmúrio das visitas confundia-se com o zumbido das abelhas. Nenhuma fotografia consegue capturar aquele instante.
Recentemente, o roseiral de Serralves foi profundamente renovado, substituindo-se grande parte das antigas coleções por variedades mais resistentes e adaptadas ao contexto atual.
Esta transformação reflete uma nova consciência ecológica: num tempo de alterações climáticas, em que o aumento das temperaturas e a irregularidade das chuvas favorecem pragas e doenças, é essencial optar por plantas mais resilientes e com menor exigência fitossanitária. As roseiras, sensíveis por natureza, tornam-se assim embaixadoras discretas da adaptação climática nos jardins históricos.
Entre as variedades modernas, de flores perfeitas e longas mas desprovidas de aroma, e as antigas, de curta floração mas perfume inebriante, sempre preferi as segundas.
A Bela Portuguesa (Rosa ‘Bela Portuguesa’), criada em Lisboa por Henri Cayeux no início do século XX, é uma trepadeira vigorosa, de grandes flores cor-de-rosa pálido e presença quase escultórica.
A chamada Santa Teresinha (Rosa ‘Cécile Brünner’), nome carinhoso dado em Portugal a uma variedade francesa criada em 1881 por Marie Ducher e apresentada pelo seu genro Joseph Pernet Ducher, é uma das roseiras mais cultivadas e estimadas do mundo.
Pertence ao grupo das Polyantha, conhecidas pelas flores pequenas e delicadamente perfumadas, que florescem em cachos abundantes ao longo da primavera e do verão. O seu porte gracioso e a cor rosada suave fizeram dela presença habitual em jardins familiares e conventuais, onde passou a ser associada à devoção de Santa Teresa do Menino Jesus, origem provável do nome popular português.
Embora de origem francesa, tornou-se parte da tradição afetiva dos jardins portugueses, símbolo de ternura e simplicidade.
Ambas representam um património botânico e cultural que importa preservar. Quando ofereci borbulhas da Bela Portuguesa (Rosa ‘Bela Portuguesa’) a um dos viveiros mais antigos do país, para que pudesse manter viva esta variedade, senti que estava a devolver ao tempo um pedaço de beleza.
Recordo também os anos de aprendizagem e amizade vividos com o médico Rocha e Melo, distinto neurocirurgião e jardineiro apaixonado. Foi ele, juntamente com o senhor Fernando Guedes, da Sogrape, então administradores do Parque de Serralves, quem me entrevistou e contratou para a função que mais tarde viria a desempenhar como Encarregado-Geral dos Jardins.
Nos jardins de Serralves, caminhávamos longamente a discutir podas de fruteiras, variedades de camélias e roseiras, adubações e tratamentos fitossanitários.
Almoçávamos no Círculo Universitário do Porto ou na Casa de Chá de Serralves, invariavelmente conduzidos ao mesmo tema, sobre a arte de plantar com sentido, de escolher o sítio certo para uma árvore, devolver vida à terra cansada. Foi um homem de ciência e de sensibilidade, que me ensinou que o rigor técnico e o amor pela terra são inseparáveis.
Dizia-me muitas vezes que um médico que só sabe medicina nem medicina sabe. Eu sempre soube que o mesmo vale para a agricultura.
Nos jardins de Serralves, caminhávamos longamente a discutir podas de fruteiras, variedades de camélias e roseiras, adubações e tratamentos fitossanitários.
Almoçávamos no Círculo Universitário do Porto ou na Casa de Chá de Serralves, invariavelmente conduzidos ao mesmo tema, sobre a arte de plantar com sentido, de escolher o sítio certo para uma árvore, devolver vida à terra cansada. Foi um homem de ciência e de sensibilidade, que me ensinou que o rigor técnico e o amor pela terra são inseparáveis.
Dizia-me muitas vezes que um médico que só sabe medicina nem medicina sabe. Eu sempre soube que o mesmo vale para a agricultura.
Durante anos, fui guia botânico da Associação dos Amigos do Jardim Botânico da Ajuda, conduzindo grupos de portugueses nos grandes festivais de jardinagem de Inglaterra, como o Chelsea Flower Show e o Hampton Court Palace Garden Festival, ansiosos por descobrir o que o mundo vegetal podia oferecer de novo.
Nestes festivais, no início dos anos 2000, vi pela primeira vez roseiras inoculadas com micorrizas serem comercializadas.
Foi um momento de revelação, porque logo aí percebi que o futuro da horticultura passava por reconhecer que a força de uma planta começa no invisível, nas alianças subterrâneas entre raízes e fungos.
A convivência com as micorrizas aumentou a minha consciência para métodos alternativos aos convencionais, mostrando-me que a vitalidade de um jardim nasce do equilíbrio e não da química. Esta descoberta resume tudo o que acredito sobre o cultivo e sobre a vida: não há crescimento sem partilha.
Foi um momento de revelação, porque logo aí percebi que o futuro da horticultura passava por reconhecer que a força de uma planta começa no invisível, nas alianças subterrâneas entre raízes e fungos.
A convivência com as micorrizas aumentou a minha consciência para métodos alternativos aos convencionais, mostrando-me que a vitalidade de um jardim nasce do equilíbrio e não da química. Esta descoberta resume tudo o que acredito sobre o cultivo e sobre a vida: não há crescimento sem partilha.
Nos meus tempos de agricultor e viveirista, entre tomilhos e alfazemas, havia sempre espaço para uma roseira antiga. A rosa-gálica (Rosa gallica) e a Rosa centifolia insistiam em florir e perfumar o ar.
Ali, as roseiras conviviam com as ervas aromáticas como se fossem velhas amigas. O seu perfume misturava-se com o das mentas e das santolinas, e o jardim tornava-se um lugar onde a beleza e a utilidade se encontram.
No plano económico e cultural, a roseira ocupa um lugar sem rival. A flor cortada mais cultivada do planeta é a moderna Rosa × hybrida, descendente de séculos de hibridação entre espécies asiáticas e europeias.
Hoje é produzida em muitos países do mundo, em estufas e em campo aberto, com milhões de pés plantados para corte e jardim. As variedades incorporam quase todas as cores imagináveis, do branco imaculado aos tons muito escuros, quase negros, fruto do melhoramento genético. Contudo, em muitos casos o perfume perdeu protagonismo e muitas permanecem fechadas num botão que se abre para o impacto visual mas pouco para o aroma.
Há, porém, outra roseira que continua a perfumar a economia. A Rosa damascena, cultivada na Bulgária, na Turquia, no Irão, na Índia e em Marrocos para produção de óleo essencial.
Para cada quilograma de óleo de rosa de alta qualidade são necessárias algumas toneladas (3 a 5 ton/kg) de pétalas frescas, colhidas manualmente ao amanhecer.
Nas regiões produtoras multiplicam-se festivais, visitas aos campos e às destilarias dos aromas, onde a ciência, a tradição e o turismo se entrelaçam. No vale das Rosas da Bulgária, por exemplo, o festival anual atrai milhares de visitantes que participam no ritual da colheita e da destilação, integrando turismo, cultura e paisagem perfumada.
Sonho com um jardim botânico de plantas autóctones de Portugal, com um lugar especial para as nossas roseiras. Um espaço que reúna, conserve e mostre estas plantas, para que todos as possam conhecer, cheirar e compreender.
Imagino-o como um santuário de biodiversidade, onde cada espécie seja identificada, estudada e cultivada.
Onde se possa ensinar que a roseira-canina (Rosa canina) é o coração das sebes vivas, que a roseira-brava (Rosa sempervirens) sobe por entre os carvalhos, que a roseira-brava (Rosa mandonii) é uma joia escondida da Madeira. Seria um jardim pedagógico e sensorial, um lugar de encontro entre ciência e poesia.
As roseiras autóctones não precisam de ser reinventadas. Precisam apenas de ser olhadas de novo. São a memória viva de um país que floresce devagar. São belas, resistentes e generosas.
Se o mundo moderno as esqueceu, é porque se esqueceu também da delicadeza e da paciência que elas ensinam. Um dia, talvez regressem aos jardins. Até lá, continuarão a florir nos lugares onde a pressa não chega.
Cultivá-las é um gesto de gratidão. É reconhecer que a natureza não precisa de ser reinventada para ser perfeita. As roseiras portuguesas são a prova de que a beleza pode ser simples, que o perfume pode durar um instante e ser eterno, e que o verdadeiro luxo de um jardim é a calma silenciosa das suas flores abertas ao tempo.
Did you know that Portugal has 17 native wild rose species?
Roses were once the undisputed queens of gardens. In them, people celebrated delicacy, fragrance, and the careful craft of pruning. Today, however, they seem to have been exiled from modernity. They are rare in urban beds, rarer still on balconies, and almost no one grows them for sheer pleasure.
And yet, in the quiet of rural life, roses endure. They stand before houses, along low walls or in old flowerbeds, flowering from May to September, from north to south of the country. They are sentinels of other times, guardians of memory and perfume, still announcing the warm season even when the rest of the world seems to have forgotten them.
In nurseries, new fashions have covered their name with dust, and the perfume that once meant civilisation has vanished from the air of gardens. Still, roses remain with us. They persist discreetly, in hedgerows and embankments, in damp edges and along paths.
They keep flowering in the silence of neglected places, offering shelter to wildlife, food to birds and mammals, and colour and form to the landscape. These are our native wild roses, a living part of Portugal’s plant heritage.
Did you know that Portugal has 17 native wild rose species? Our territory, poised between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, is one of the richest in Europe for this genus. They are so forgotten that most species are known simply as wild rose, or have no common name at all.
They are:
- Wild rose (Rosa sempervirens)
- Wild rose (Rosa agrestis)
- Wild rose (Rosa villosa)
- Dog rose (Rosa canina)
- Small flowered sweet briar (Rosa micrantha)
- Pouzini’s rose (Rosa pouzinii)
- Sweet briar (Rosa rubiginosa)
- Rosa arvensis
- Rosa tomentosa
- Rosa corymbifera
- Rosa andegavensis
- Rosa stylosa
- Rosa squarrosa
- Rosa blondaeana
- Rosa deseglisei
- Rosa vosagiaca
- On the island of Madeira, the endemic wild rose (Rosa mandonii)
Each species carries its own domain and temperament, as though Portuguese territory had offered each of them a role in the great theatre of the landscape.
The wild rose (Rosa sempervirens) weaves itself through the humid, shaded coast, while the dog rose (Rosa canina) accompanies paths and hedges from north to south.
Rosa arvensis prefers the limestone plains of the central coastal region, while sweet briar (Rosa rubiginosa) and Rosa villosa find refuge in the cold, stony mountains of the interior.
Rosa tomentosa grows in damp, shaded valleys, while small flowered sweet briar (Rosa micrantha) and Rosa corymbifera thrive on the edges of orchards and scrub.
Rosa stylosa, Rosa andegavensis, and Rosa deseglisei inhabit the Beiras discreetly, while Pouzini’s rose (Rosa pouzinii) and Rosa blondaeana survive on dry, calcareous soils in the south. The rare Rosa squarrosa chooses tall hedges and the margins of stony paths, and Rosa vosagiaca appears where woodland loosens into open scrub.
In Madeira, the wild rose (Rosa mandonii), endemic and delicate, survives on the humid slopes of the laurel forest, a vegetal inheritance from another time.
Among them all, some lives are more fragile than others. Sweet briar (Rosa rubiginosa) lives restricted to the south western sector of Serra da Estrela, surviving only on edges and clearings of woodlands of strawberry tree, Portuguese laurel, and holly.
It is a species of complex identification, with scarce and uncertain records, undocumented in the last seven decades. The national population is tiny, composed of fewer than fifty mature individuals concentrated in a single subpopulation, extremely vulnerable to fire, invasive species, and the loss of genetic diversity.
Because of its very small area of occupancy and the ongoing decline of its habitat, it has been classified as Critically Endangered. Its conservation depends on urgent actions in nursery propagation, population reinforcement, monitoring, and the safeguarding of genetic material in germplasm banks.
Species such as Rosa squarrosa and Rosa blondaeana, with very restricted distributions, share the same silent fate. Even the common roses, once abundant, suffer from the removal of traditional hedges, habitat fragmentation, and the forgetting of mosaic agriculture.
The Red List of the Vascular Flora of Mainland Portugal reminds us that every lost stem is a link in natural memory that breaks, and that protecting these species is also preserving our agricultural and cultural landscape.
Taken together, these roses draw a map of contrasts, from the humid Atlantic green to the dry heat of Alentejo, from interior mountains to pale dunes. They are living stitches of the territory, essential to the life of insects, birds, and small mammals, binding the country into a continuum of perfume and thorns.
That is why, in naturalised gardens and on farms where agroecology is practised, they are beginning to return to a place of honour, not as ornament, but as the expression of a patient and generous landscape.
The life of these plants is a lesson in harmony. The simple five petalled flowers attract bees, butterflies, flies, and beetles. They are small stations of pollination that sustain the food web of hundreds of species.
In autumn, the red fruits, the rose hips, feed thrushes, goldfinches, blackbirds, and small mammals, which, by dispersing seeds, keep the cycle of life turning. Even when winter covers fields in ash, roses remain shelter and refuge.
Their roots hold embankments and prevent erosion, their thorns protect nests, and their dense habit builds a vegetal architecture that guards the soil and softens the climate.
For centuries, wild roses also served people. They became living hedges that marked property boundaries, protected crops, and sheltered orchards.
Dog rose (Rosa canina) was, and remains, the main rootstock for cultivated roses because of its resilience, adaptability, and longevity. Hardy plants can receive grafts of ornamental and cut flower varieties, ensuring robust, long lived roses.
This alliance between the wild and the cultivated allows the continuity of the genus Rosa, where the genetic strength of native species sustains the delicacy of flowers created by humans, serving as the invisible foundation of ornamental roses that fill catalogues and nurseries worldwide. Modern horticulture lives thanks to the strength of its wild ancestors.
In many European wine regions, roses remain companions to vineyards, planted at the ends of rows. Beyond symbolic and aesthetic value, they function as natural bioindicators of fungal diseases, especially powdery mildew and downy mildew.
By showing symptoms earlier, they allow quicker and more precise interventions, reducing the need for treatments. This old practice, rooted in agricultural wisdom, is now recognised as an ecological monitoring tool.
But roses were not only living fences or grafting horses. They were food and medicine, part of folk pharmacopeia and rural cooking. Rose hips, dried or cooked, were for centuries prepared as teas and syrups rich in vitamin C, used against colds and fevers.
In mountain villages, people made jams and preserves from rose fruits, and in autumn fairs they sold bags of dried petals, used in aromatic infusions or to naturally scent clothes and bed linen.
Sweet briar (Rosa rubiginosa), whose seeds yield the prized rosehip oil, continues to be sought by laboratories and small artisan workshops to make ointments, creams, and healing balms. These are quiet inheritances of a plant economy that once joined health, landscape, and tradition.
Cultivated since the Middle Ages for medicinal and cosmetic purposes, the old and noble Gallic rose (Rosa gallica), though introduced, took root in European culture as a symbol of purity and beauty. From it people extracted delicate rose water and precious essential oil, used in ointments, perfumes, and care rituals that crossed centuries and still inspire contemporary natural cosmetics.
Portuguese roses are, above all, resilient. They grow in poor soils, withstand frost and heat, and rarely fall ill. That natural resilience is why they should return to gardens. Yet contemporary aesthetics pushed them away. Their flowers are simple and short lived, a beauty offered all at once, then departing without fanfare.
In public and private gardens, people seek continuous flowering, visual impact, permanent colour. Native wild roses do not compete with that. They are flowers of time and patience, not of spectacle. Perhaps that is why we forgot them.
But those who grow them know that their perfume, even if brief, has an intensity impossible to reproduce in a laboratory, and that their presence, even without flowers, carries a sober elegance, intensely alive.
Roses accompanied my professional path. I studied at the agricultural school in Santo Tirso, where in practical classes we were obliged to learn how to prune and graft roses. Little did I know that this daily discipline, repeated year after year, would become a silent foundation for the beginning of my career at Serralves.
The school was famous for its Festa das Rosas, an annual celebration when the whole community gathered around flowering time and the art of pruning. It was a symbolic and joyful event, turning the school into a living garden, with the monastery arches full of colour, variety contests, and grafting demonstrations that brought together masters and students.
We learned that pruning has its own liturgy, and that agricultural craft is also art, culture, and sharing. Later, I taught this art to hundreds of people, in courses, trainings, and television programmes.
The videos on rose pruning that I recorded for SIC and RTP are still watched by thousands of people. In each movement of the pruning shears, one teaches far more than technique, one teaches respect for form, for time, and for life renewed by each correct cut.
These plants, of an ancient simplicity, accompanied my life. In the gardens of Serralves, where time was measured by the sound of pruning and the cycle of seasons, I had the privilege of managing one of the largest rose gardens in the country.
There I learned that roses are silent teachers. They teach us to observe, to wait, to accept. For years, I introduced hundreds of people to propagation, pruning, and maintenance. I saw unexpected loves for gardening being born, and passions ignited by those flowers with an almost spiritual perfume.
In the last days of April, the most devoted would come to the rose garden to watch the first Bela Portuguesa opening high on the pergola. It was a spring ritual. The air filled with fragrance and the murmur of visitors blended with the hum of bees. No photograph can capture that instant.
Recently, the rose garden of Serralves was profoundly renewed, with much of the old collections replaced by more resistant varieties better adapted to current conditions.
This change reflects a new ecological awareness. In a time of climate change, when rising temperatures and irregular rainfall favour pests and diseases, it is essential to choose more resilient plants with lower phytosanitary demands. Roses, naturally sensitive, thus become discreet ambassadors of climate adaptation in historic gardens.
Between modern varieties, perfect and long lasting yet devoid of scent, and older ones, shorter flowering but intoxicatingly perfumed, I have always preferred the latter.
Bela Portuguesa (Rosa ‘Bela Portuguesa’), created in Lisbon by Henri Cayeux in the early twentieth century, is a vigorous climber, with large pale pink flowers and an almost sculptural presence.
The so called Santa Teresinha (Rosa ‘Cécile Brünner’), a Portuguese affectionate name for a French variety created in 1881 by Marie Ducher and introduced by her son in law Joseph Pernet Ducher, is one of the most cultivated and beloved roses in the world.
It belongs to the Polyantha group, known for small, delicately perfumed flowers that bloom in abundant clusters throughout spring and summer. Its graceful habit and soft pink colour made it a familiar presence in family and convent gardens, where it came to be associated with the devotion to Saint Thérèse of the Child Jesus, the likely origin of the Portuguese popular name.
Though French in origin, it became part of the affectionate tradition of Portuguese gardens, a symbol of tenderness and simplicity.
Both represent a botanical and cultural heritage worth preserving. When I offered buds of Bela Portuguesa (Rosa ‘Bela Portuguesa’) to one of the oldest nurseries in the country, so that it could keep this variety alive, I felt I was returning to time a fragment of beauty.
I also remember the years of learning and friendship with Dr Rocha e Melo, a distinguished neurosurgeon and passionate gardener. It was he, together with Mr Fernando Guedes of Sogrape, then administrators of the Serralves Park, who interviewed me and hired me for the position I would later fulfil as Head Gardener.
In the gardens of Serralves, we walked long hours discussing fruit tree pruning, camellia and rose varieties, fertilisation, and phytosanitary treatments.
We lunched at the Círculo Universitário do Porto or at the Tea House of Serralves, invariably led back to the same theme, the art of planting with meaning, choosing the right place for a tree, giving life back to tired soil. He was a man of science and sensitivity, who taught me that technical rigour and love for the land are inseparable.
He often told me that a doctor who only knows medicine does not even know medicine. I have always known the same is true for agriculture.
For years, I was a botanical guide for the Association of Friends of the Ajuda Botanical Garden, leading Portuguese groups to major gardening festivals in England, such as the Chelsea Flower Show and the Hampton Court Palace Garden Festival, eager to discover what the plant world could offer anew.
At these festivals, in the early 2000s, I saw for the first time roses inoculated with mycorrhizae being sold.
It was a moment of revelation, because I immediately understood that the future of horticulture lay in recognising that the strength of a plant begins in the invisible, in the underground alliances between roots and fungi.
Living with mycorrhizae increased my awareness of alternative methods to conventional ones, showing me that the vitality of a garden is born of balance, not chemistry. This discovery sums up everything I believe about cultivation and about life. There is no growth without sharing.
In my years as a farmer and nurseryman, among thymes and lavenders, there was always room for an old rose. Gallic rose (Rosa gallica) and Rosa centifolia insisted on flowering and perfuming the air.
There, roses lived alongside aromatic herbs as if they were old friends. Their perfume mingled with that of mints and santolinas, and the garden became a place where beauty and usefulness meet.
Economically and culturally, the rose holds an unrivalled place. The most cultivated cut flower on the planet is the modern Rosa × hybrida, descended from centuries of hybridisation between Asian and European species.
Today it is produced in many countries, in greenhouses and in open fields, with millions of plants grown for cut flowers and gardens. Varieties incorporate almost every imaginable colour, from immaculate white to very dark, almost black tones, the fruit of breeding. Yet in many cases fragrance has lost its place, and many remain closed in a bud that opens for visual impact but barely for scent.
There is, however, another rose that still perfumes the economy. Rosa damascena, cultivated in Bulgaria, Turkey, Iran, India, and Morocco for essential oil production.
For each kilogram of high quality rose oil, several tonnes of fresh petals are needed, around three to five tonnes per kilogram, harvested by hand at dawn.
In producing regions, festivals, field visits, and tours of distilleries multiply, where science, tradition, and tourism intertwine. In the Valley of Roses in Bulgaria, for example, the annual festival attracts thousands of visitors who take part in the ritual of harvesting and distillation, weaving tourism, culture, and perfumed landscape.
I dream of a botanical garden of Portugal’s native plants, with a special place for our wild roses. A space that gathers, conserves, and shows these plants, so that everyone can know them, smell them, and understand them.
I imagine it as a sanctuary of biodiversity, where each species is identified, studied, and cultivated.
A place where one can teach that dog rose (Rosa canina) is the heart of living hedges, that the wild rose (Rosa sempervirens) climbs among oaks, that the wild rose (Rosa mandonii) is a hidden jewel of Madeira. It would be a pedagogical and sensory garden, a meeting place between science and poetry.
Native wild roses do not need to be reinvented. They only need to be looked at again. They are the living memory of a country that flowers slowly. They are beautiful, resilient, and generous.
If the modern world forgot them, it also forgot the delicacy and patience they teach. One day, perhaps, they will return to gardens. Until then, they will keep flowering in places where haste does not reach.
To cultivate them is a gesture of gratitude. It is to recognise that nature does not need to be reinvented to be perfect. Portuguese roses are proof that beauty can be simple, that perfume can last an instant and still feel eternal, and that the true luxury of a garden is the quiet calm of its flowers opened to time.
The wild rose (Rosa sempervirens) weaves itself through the humid, shaded coast, while the dog rose (Rosa canina) accompanies paths and hedges from north to south.
Rosa arvensis prefers the limestone plains of the central coastal region, while sweet briar (Rosa rubiginosa) and Rosa villosa find refuge in the cold, stony mountains of the interior.
Rosa tomentosa grows in damp, shaded valleys, while small flowered sweet briar (Rosa micrantha) and Rosa corymbifera thrive on the edges of orchards and scrub.
Rosa stylosa, Rosa andegavensis, and Rosa deseglisei inhabit the Beiras discreetly, while Pouzini’s rose (Rosa pouzinii) and Rosa blondaeana survive on dry, calcareous soils in the south. The rare Rosa squarrosa chooses tall hedges and the margins of stony paths, and Rosa vosagiaca appears where woodland loosens into open scrub.
In Madeira, the wild rose (Rosa mandonii), endemic and delicate, survives on the humid slopes of the laurel forest, a vegetal inheritance from another time.
Among them all, some lives are more fragile than others. Sweet briar (Rosa rubiginosa) lives restricted to the south western sector of Serra da Estrela, surviving only on edges and clearings of woodlands of strawberry tree, Portuguese laurel, and holly.
It is a species of complex identification, with scarce and uncertain records, undocumented in the last seven decades. The national population is tiny, composed of fewer than fifty mature individuals concentrated in a single subpopulation, extremely vulnerable to fire, invasive species, and the loss of genetic diversity.
Because of its very small area of occupancy and the ongoing decline of its habitat, it has been classified as Critically Endangered. Its conservation depends on urgent actions in nursery propagation, population reinforcement, monitoring, and the safeguarding of genetic material in germplasm banks.
Species such as Rosa squarrosa and Rosa blondaeana, with very restricted distributions, share the same silent fate. Even the common roses, once abundant, suffer from the removal of traditional hedges, habitat fragmentation, and the forgetting of mosaic agriculture.
The Red List of the Vascular Flora of Mainland Portugal reminds us that every lost stem is a link in natural memory that breaks, and that protecting these species is also preserving our agricultural and cultural landscape.
Taken together, these roses draw a map of contrasts, from the humid Atlantic green to the dry heat of Alentejo, from interior mountains to pale dunes. They are living stitches of the territory, essential to the life of insects, birds, and small mammals, binding the country into a continuum of perfume and thorns.
That is why, in naturalised gardens and on farms where agroecology is practised, they are beginning to return to a place of honour, not as ornament, but as the expression of a patient and generous landscape.
The life of these plants is a lesson in harmony. The simple five petalled flowers attract bees, butterflies, flies, and beetles. They are small stations of pollination that sustain the food web of hundreds of species.
In autumn, the red fruits, the rose hips, feed thrushes, goldfinches, blackbirds, and small mammals, which, by dispersing seeds, keep the cycle of life turning. Even when winter covers fields in ash, roses remain shelter and refuge.
Their roots hold embankments and prevent erosion, their thorns protect nests, and their dense habit builds a vegetal architecture that guards the soil and softens the climate.
For centuries, wild roses also served people. They became living hedges that marked property boundaries, protected crops, and sheltered orchards.
Dog rose (Rosa canina) was, and remains, the main rootstock for cultivated roses because of its resilience, adaptability, and longevity. Hardy plants can receive grafts of ornamental and cut flower varieties, ensuring robust, long lived roses.
This alliance between the wild and the cultivated allows the continuity of the genus Rosa, where the genetic strength of native species sustains the delicacy of flowers created by humans, serving as the invisible foundation of ornamental roses that fill catalogues and nurseries worldwide. Modern horticulture lives thanks to the strength of its wild ancestors.
In many European wine regions, roses remain companions to vineyards, planted at the ends of rows. Beyond symbolic and aesthetic value, they function as natural bioindicators of fungal diseases, especially powdery mildew and downy mildew.
By showing symptoms earlier, they allow quicker and more precise interventions, reducing the need for treatments. This old practice, rooted in agricultural wisdom, is now recognised as an ecological monitoring tool.
But roses were not only living fences or grafting horses. They were food and medicine, part of folk pharmacopeia and rural cooking. Rose hips, dried or cooked, were for centuries prepared as teas and syrups rich in vitamin C, used against colds and fevers.
In mountain villages, people made jams and preserves from rose fruits, and in autumn fairs they sold bags of dried petals, used in aromatic infusions or to naturally scent clothes and bed linen.
Sweet briar (Rosa rubiginosa), whose seeds yield the prized rosehip oil, continues to be sought by laboratories and small artisan workshops to make ointments, creams, and healing balms. These are quiet inheritances of a plant economy that once joined health, landscape, and tradition.
Cultivated since the Middle Ages for medicinal and cosmetic purposes, the old and noble Gallic rose (Rosa gallica), though introduced, took root in European culture as a symbol of purity and beauty. From it people extracted delicate rose water and precious essential oil, used in ointments, perfumes, and care rituals that crossed centuries and still inspire contemporary natural cosmetics.
Portuguese roses are, above all, resilient. They grow in poor soils, withstand frost and heat, and rarely fall ill. That natural resilience is why they should return to gardens. Yet contemporary aesthetics pushed them away. Their flowers are simple and short lived, a beauty offered all at once, then departing without fanfare.
In public and private gardens, people seek continuous flowering, visual impact, permanent colour. Native wild roses do not compete with that. They are flowers of time and patience, not of spectacle. Perhaps that is why we forgot them.
But those who grow them know that their perfume, even if brief, has an intensity impossible to reproduce in a laboratory, and that their presence, even without flowers, carries a sober elegance, intensely alive.
Roses accompanied my professional path. I studied at the agricultural school in Santo Tirso, where in practical classes we were obliged to learn how to prune and graft roses. Little did I know that this daily discipline, repeated year after year, would become a silent foundation for the beginning of my career at Serralves.
The school was famous for its Festa das Rosas, an annual celebration when the whole community gathered around flowering time and the art of pruning. It was a symbolic and joyful event, turning the school into a living garden, with the monastery arches full of colour, variety contests, and grafting demonstrations that brought together masters and students.
We learned that pruning has its own liturgy, and that agricultural craft is also art, culture, and sharing. Later, I taught this art to hundreds of people, in courses, trainings, and television programmes.
The videos on rose pruning that I recorded for SIC and RTP are still watched by thousands of people. In each movement of the pruning shears, one teaches far more than technique, one teaches respect for form, for time, and for life renewed by each correct cut.
These plants, of an ancient simplicity, accompanied my life. In the gardens of Serralves, where time was measured by the sound of pruning and the cycle of seasons, I had the privilege of managing one of the largest rose gardens in the country.
There I learned that roses are silent teachers. They teach us to observe, to wait, to accept. For years, I introduced hundreds of people to propagation, pruning, and maintenance. I saw unexpected loves for gardening being born, and passions ignited by those flowers with an almost spiritual perfume.
In the last days of April, the most devoted would come to the rose garden to watch the first Bela Portuguesa opening high on the pergola. It was a spring ritual. The air filled with fragrance and the murmur of visitors blended with the hum of bees. No photograph can capture that instant.
Recently, the rose garden of Serralves was profoundly renewed, with much of the old collections replaced by more resistant varieties better adapted to current conditions.
This change reflects a new ecological awareness. In a time of climate change, when rising temperatures and irregular rainfall favour pests and diseases, it is essential to choose more resilient plants with lower phytosanitary demands. Roses, naturally sensitive, thus become discreet ambassadors of climate adaptation in historic gardens.
Between modern varieties, perfect and long lasting yet devoid of scent, and older ones, shorter flowering but intoxicatingly perfumed, I have always preferred the latter.
Bela Portuguesa (Rosa ‘Bela Portuguesa’), created in Lisbon by Henri Cayeux in the early twentieth century, is a vigorous climber, with large pale pink flowers and an almost sculptural presence.
The so called Santa Teresinha (Rosa ‘Cécile Brünner’), a Portuguese affectionate name for a French variety created in 1881 by Marie Ducher and introduced by her son in law Joseph Pernet Ducher, is one of the most cultivated and beloved roses in the world.
It belongs to the Polyantha group, known for small, delicately perfumed flowers that bloom in abundant clusters throughout spring and summer. Its graceful habit and soft pink colour made it a familiar presence in family and convent gardens, where it came to be associated with the devotion to Saint Thérèse of the Child Jesus, the likely origin of the Portuguese popular name.
Though French in origin, it became part of the affectionate tradition of Portuguese gardens, a symbol of tenderness and simplicity.
Both represent a botanical and cultural heritage worth preserving. When I offered buds of Bela Portuguesa (Rosa ‘Bela Portuguesa’) to one of the oldest nurseries in the country, so that it could keep this variety alive, I felt I was returning to time a fragment of beauty.
I also remember the years of learning and friendship with Dr Rocha e Melo, a distinguished neurosurgeon and passionate gardener. It was he, together with Mr Fernando Guedes of Sogrape, then administrators of the Serralves Park, who interviewed me and hired me for the position I would later fulfil as Head Gardener.
In the gardens of Serralves, we walked long hours discussing fruit tree pruning, camellia and rose varieties, fertilisation, and phytosanitary treatments.
We lunched at the Círculo Universitário do Porto or at the Tea House of Serralves, invariably led back to the same theme, the art of planting with meaning, choosing the right place for a tree, giving life back to tired soil. He was a man of science and sensitivity, who taught me that technical rigour and love for the land are inseparable.
He often told me that a doctor who only knows medicine does not even know medicine. I have always known the same is true for agriculture.
For years, I was a botanical guide for the Association of Friends of the Ajuda Botanical Garden, leading Portuguese groups to major gardening festivals in England, such as the Chelsea Flower Show and the Hampton Court Palace Garden Festival, eager to discover what the plant world could offer anew.
At these festivals, in the early 2000s, I saw for the first time roses inoculated with mycorrhizae being sold.
It was a moment of revelation, because I immediately understood that the future of horticulture lay in recognising that the strength of a plant begins in the invisible, in the underground alliances between roots and fungi.
Living with mycorrhizae increased my awareness of alternative methods to conventional ones, showing me that the vitality of a garden is born of balance, not chemistry. This discovery sums up everything I believe about cultivation and about life. There is no growth without sharing.
In my years as a farmer and nurseryman, among thymes and lavenders, there was always room for an old rose. Gallic rose (Rosa gallica) and Rosa centifolia insisted on flowering and perfuming the air.
There, roses lived alongside aromatic herbs as if they were old friends. Their perfume mingled with that of mints and santolinas, and the garden became a place where beauty and usefulness meet.
Economically and culturally, the rose holds an unrivalled place. The most cultivated cut flower on the planet is the modern Rosa × hybrida, descended from centuries of hybridisation between Asian and European species.
Today it is produced in many countries, in greenhouses and in open fields, with millions of plants grown for cut flowers and gardens. Varieties incorporate almost every imaginable colour, from immaculate white to very dark, almost black tones, the fruit of breeding. Yet in many cases fragrance has lost its place, and many remain closed in a bud that opens for visual impact but barely for scent.
There is, however, another rose that still perfumes the economy. Rosa damascena, cultivated in Bulgaria, Turkey, Iran, India, and Morocco for essential oil production.
For each kilogram of high quality rose oil, several tonnes of fresh petals are needed, around three to five tonnes per kilogram, harvested by hand at dawn.
In producing regions, festivals, field visits, and tours of distilleries multiply, where science, tradition, and tourism intertwine. In the Valley of Roses in Bulgaria, for example, the annual festival attracts thousands of visitors who take part in the ritual of harvesting and distillation, weaving tourism, culture, and perfumed landscape.
I dream of a botanical garden of Portugal’s native plants, with a special place for our wild roses. A space that gathers, conserves, and shows these plants, so that everyone can know them, smell them, and understand them.
I imagine it as a sanctuary of biodiversity, where each species is identified, studied, and cultivated.
A place where one can teach that dog rose (Rosa canina) is the heart of living hedges, that the wild rose (Rosa sempervirens) climbs among oaks, that the wild rose (Rosa mandonii) is a hidden jewel of Madeira. It would be a pedagogical and sensory garden, a meeting place between science and poetry.
Native wild roses do not need to be reinvented. They only need to be looked at again. They are the living memory of a country that flowers slowly. They are beautiful, resilient, and generous.
If the modern world forgot them, it also forgot the delicacy and patience they teach. One day, perhaps, they will return to gardens. Until then, they will keep flowering in places where haste does not reach.
To cultivate them is a gesture of gratitude. It is to recognise that nature does not need to be reinvented to be perfect. Portuguese roses are proof that beauty can be simple, that perfume can last an instant and still feel eternal, and that the true luxury of a garden is the quiet calm of its flowers opened to time.
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