The Day You Realise You’ve Been Calling It the Wrong Thing
There is a particular moment that comes for every gardener who has moved beyond the supermarket orchid. You are standing in a nursery — perhaps at the Flower Market on Prince Edward Road West, or the landscaper’s supply yard in Fanling, or one of those improbable garden centres tucked into the industrial blocks of Kwun Tong — holding a plant whose label you cannot read. Not cannot read in the sense of illiteracy. Cannot read in the sense that the words on the label — Loropetalum chinense var. rubrum ‘Burgundy’ — appear to be not English, not Chinese, but some third language apparently designed by a committee of Victorian pedants with a grudge against comprehensibility.
You turn the label over. The back says “Full sun to partial shade. Water regularly. Striking burgundy foliage.” Well, that’s helpful. But the name — the name feels like a locked door, and behind it, you sense, is the difference between buying a plant and understanding a plant.
This guide exists for that moment. It is not a complete course in botanical Latin — there are books for that, and they are heavy and require a chair — but a practical decoding manual for the language that governs every plant label you will ever encounter. By the time you finish reading, you will be able to stand in a nursery, read a label, and know, without asking anyone, whether that Helleborus × hybridus will survive on your balcony, what colour its flowers will be, and whether it’s the kind of plant that wants to be left alone or the kind that requires daily attention and possibly therapy.
Let’s begin with why any of this matters.
Why Botanical Latin Exists (And Why It’s Never Going Away)
The problem with common names is that they are neither common nor names. Walk into any garden centre in Hong Kong and you will find plants labelled “daisy,” “fern,” “palm,” or — my personal favourite — “green plant.” These are not names. These are categories so broad as to be useless. The word “daisy” describes roughly 23,000 species in the Asteraceae family, ranging from ankle-high ground covers to three-metre shrubs. Asking for “a daisy” at a nursery is like walking into a bookshop and asking for “a book.”
But the problem gets worse. The same plant may have seven different common names in seven different regions. What an English gardener calls “love-in-a-mist” (Nigella damascena) is “devil-in-a-bush” in parts of Scotland, “Jack-in-prison” in Devon, and heizhongcao (黑種草) in Chinese. None of these names tell you anything useful about the plant. They are charming, but charm does not help you figure out whether it needs acid soil.
Botanical Latin — which is not actually Latin, but a technical nomenclature built on Latin and Greek roots, regulated by the International Code of Nomenclature for algae, fungi, and plants — was formalised by Carl Linnaeus in 1753 with the publication of Species Plantarum. Linnaeus did not invent the two-name system (binomial nomenclature), but he systematised it so thoroughly that every plant on Earth now carries a name that is unique, internationally recognised, and — crucially — informative.
The system works like this: every plant has a two-part scientific name. The first part is the genus (capitalised), the second is the specific epithet (lowercase). Together, Rosa banksiae tells you, anywhere in the world, that you’re talking about Lady Banks’ rose — the thornless, climbing, yellow-flowered species named for the wife of Sir Joseph Banks, the eighteenth-century botanist who sailed with Captain Cook. No common name achieves anything close to this precision.
But botanical names do something else that common names cannot: they describe the plant. They encode information about its appearance, its habitat, its discoverer, its geographic origin, its growth habit. They are, in effect, miniature botanical descriptions compressed into two or three words. Learning to decode them is like learning to read a second, hidden label — one that tells you far more than the nursery’s marketing copy ever will.
The Two-Word System: Genus and Species, Demystified
Let’s start with the basics. A scientific plant name has two essential parts: the genus and the specific epithet. The genus is the larger grouping — think of it as the surname. Rosa, Salvia, Acer, Quercus. Genera contain anywhere from a single species (monotypic) to thousands. Euphorbia contains over 2,000 species ranging from tiny annual weeds to tree-sized succulents — a reminder that genus membership guarantees only a certain type of flower structure, not a similar appearance.
The specific epithet is where the real information lives. It is almost always a descriptive word — an adjective, a possessive noun, or a geographical reference. Consider Salvia nemorosa. Salvia tells you it’s a sage (from the Latin salvere, “to be well,” reflecting its historical medicinal use). nemorosa means “of the woods” or “of the grove” — it tells you where this plant naturally grows. In one two-word name, you now know that this is a woodland sage, which means it probably tolerates partial shade and likes soil with some organic matter.
Or take Acer palmatum, the Japanese maple. Acer is the maple genus (Latin for “sharp,” referring to the pointed leaves, and also the root of “acerbic”). palmatum means “palm-like” — the leaves are shaped like a hand with spread fingers. The name is a miniature botanical illustration.
Some specific epithets are geographical: chinensis (from China), japonica (from Japan), canadensis (from Canada), californica (from California). Some honour people: banksiae (for Lady Banks), wilsonii (for the plant hunter Ernest Henry Wilson), fortunei (for Robert Fortune, who smuggled tea plants out of China). Some describe colour: alba (white), rubra (red), lutea (yellow), nigra (black), viridis (green), purpurea (purple). And some describe form: pendula (weeping), columnaris (columnar), prostrata (prostrate, ground-hugging), scandens (climbing).
Once you begin to notice these patterns, plant labels start to read like telegraphic biographies. Echinacea purpurea: “purple hedgehog” (echinos = hedgehog, from the spiky central cone; purpurea = purple). Ginkgo biloba: “silver apricot with two lobes” (gin = silver, kyo = apricot, from Japanese; biloba = two-lobed, describing the fan-shaped leaf). Wisteria sinensis: “Wister’s plant from China” (named for Caspar Wistar, an American anatomist; sinensis = Chinese).
Once you begin to notice these patterns, plant labels start to read like telegraphic biographies.
The Descriptive Words That Actually Tell You How to Grow the Plant
Now we get to the practical part — the words on a label that, once decoded, function as growing instructions. These are the adjectives that Linnaeus and his successors borrowed from Latin and Greek and applied to plants with an almost clinical precision. Learn these, and you will never again wonder whether a plant needs sun or shade, moisture or drought, acid or alkaline soil.
Let’s start with the words that describe leaf characteristics — because leaves, unlike flowers, are present for most of the year and tell you a great deal about a plant’s needs. Angustifolia means narrow-leaved; plants with narrow leaves (like Lavandula angustifolia) are typically adapted to dry, sunny conditions — narrow leaves reduce water loss. Macrophylla means large-leaved (Hydrangea macrophylla — those enormous leaves that wilt dramatically in afternoon sun, telling you this plant wants partial shade and consistent moisture). The suffix -ifolia simply means “leaved” and is one of the most useful decoding tools you have: rotundifolia (round-leaved), cordifolia (heart-leaved), lanceolata (lance-shaped leaves), ternifolia (leaves in groups of three).
Words describing the plant’s overall form are equally practical. Repens means creeping — if you see repens or reptans on a label, the plant will spread horizontally and may need containment. Scandens means climbing; this plant needs a structure. Fruticosa means shrubby; arborea means tree-like. Humilis means low-growing — the same root as “humble.” A plant labelled Chamaecyparis obtusa ‘Nana Gracilis’ is a dwarf, slow-growing Hinoki cypress — the cultivar name ‘Nana Gracilis’ reinforces what humilis would have told you if it had been the specific epithet instead.
Size words: gigantea (giant), grandiflora (large-flowered), maxima (largest). If a plant is called Gunnera manicata — the specific epithet means “with long sleeves” or “with hands,” referring to the leaves that can reach two metres across — you should probably not install it in a window box. Conversely, minima, minor, nana, pumila all mean small. A Nandina domestica ‘Nana’ is the dwarf sacred bamboo that stays under 60 centimetres; the species can reach two metres. The difference matters.
Habitat words are perhaps the most valuable. Palustris means “of the marsh” — this plant wants wet feet. Maritima means coastal — it tolerates salt spray and wind. Saxatilis means “growing among rocks” — alpine or crevice plant, needs sharp drainage. Sylvatica or sylvestris means woodland — shade-tolerant, leaf-mould lover. Pratensis means of the meadow — full sun, tolerates competition from grasses. Arvensis means of the cultivated field — this is a plant that thrives in disturbed soil, which is another way of saying it’s probably a weed (albeit sometimes a beautiful one).
And then there are the seasonal words. Vernalis means spring-flowering. Aestivalis means summer. Autumnalis means autumn. Hiemalis means winter. Sempervirens means evergreen — always green. If you see sempervirens on a label, you know the plant will hold its leaves year-round, which means it’s useful for structure, hedges, and screening.
What Those Cultivar Names Are Trying to Tell You
Beyond the genus and species, you will often encounter a third name in single quotation marks — the cultivar name. “Cultivar” is a portmanteau of “cultivated variety,” and it designates a plant that has been selected, bred, or otherwise deliberately created by humans and maintained through propagation. The rules governing cultivar names are simpler than those for botanical names, but they reward attention in their own way.
Cultivar names can be broadly categorised into five types, and each type tells you something different. First, the commemorative name: ‘Lady Emma Hamilton’, ‘Gertrude Jekyll’, ‘Constance Spry’. These plants are named after people, and the naming usually implies something about the plant’s character — ‘Gertrude Jekyll’ is a shrub rose of exceptional fragrance and old-world form, entirely appropriate for the great Edwardian garden designer. Commemorative names are marketing as much as taxonomy, but they at least give you a clue about the plant’s vintage: a rose named for a Victorian or Edwardian figure is likely to be an old garden rose or English rose type, not a modern hybrid tea.
Second, the descriptive name in English or another modern language: ‘Ruby Slippers’, ‘Midnight Marvel’, ‘Summer Nights’. These are marketing names, pure and simple, but they usually describe something real — a colour, a season of interest, a mood. ‘Ruby Slippers’ oakleaf hydrangea (Hydrangea quercifolia ‘Ruby Slippers’) has flowers that turn deep pink, almost red. The name is accurate. It’s also cute, which tells you this is a plant aimed at the retail market, which means it has probably been selected for compact size and container-friendliness.
Third, the descriptive name in a European language: ‘Alba Plena’ (white, double), ‘Purpurea’ (purple), ‘Variegata’ (variegated), ‘Fastigiata’ (upright, columnar). These are older cultivars, often dating from the nineteenth century, and they use the same Latin-derived vocabulary as the specific epithets. ‘Alba Plena’ on a camellia or a peony tells you everything you need to know: white, fully double flowers. No marketing department was involved.
Fourth, the geographical or institutional name: ‘Hidcote’, ‘Sissinghurst’, ‘Wisley’. These names tell you where the plant was found, bred, or cultivated. ‘Hidcote’ lavender and ‘Hidcote’ hypericum both originated at Lawrence Johnston’s famous Cotswold garden. The name carries a certain cachet but also implies that the plant has been trialled in English conditions — useful if you garden in a similar climate, less so if you’re in subtropical Hong Kong.
Fifth, and most cryptic: the code name. ‘JFS-KW202’, ‘Bailone’, ‘Minfaa’. These are breeder’s reference codes, often trademarked or patented. ‘Bailone’ is the breeder’s code for the Cleveland pear (Pyrus calleryana ‘Chanticleer’, sometimes sold under the trademark name ‘Cleveland Select’). The industry has developed a bewildering system of “selling names” distinct from cultivar names — a single plant may have a botanical name, a cultivar name, a trademark, and a patent number. This is not biodiversity. This is intellectual property law.
The practical takeaway: read cultivar names as you would film titles. They’re trying to tell you something. Sometimes it’s useful. Sometimes it’s nonsense. But when a hydrangea is called ‘Limelight’, it is almost certainly lime-green. Trust that.
Pronunciation: Nobody Agrees, and That’s Fine
At some point in every gardener’s education, someone — usually a person with strong opinions and a membership in the Royal Horticultural Society — will correct your pronunciation of a plant name in a tone that suggests you have committed not merely an error but a moral failing. You said cle-MAH-tis. It’s CLEM-a-tis. Actually, it’s clem-AH-tis. Actually, nobody agrees, and the person correcting you is probably wrong.
The truth about botanical Latin pronunciation is that there is no single correct system, and there never has been. The plants were named by people speaking dozens of different languages, using a Latin that had already been dead for a millennium. Linnaeus was Swedish. The great nineteenth-century taxonomists were German, French, British, and American. They all pronounced the names differently, and their students pronounced them differently still. Add in the fact that many botanical names incorporate Greek roots, and some incorporate words from Japanese, Chinese, Arabic, and Nahuatl, and the idea of a single “correct” pronunciation becomes absurd.
There are, however, conventions, and it’s useful to know them so that when the RHS member corrects you, you can correct them back with slightly more authority. The classical convention, taught in most horticultural programmes, treats botanical Latin as reconstructed classical Latin: every vowel is pronounced, “c” is always hard (so Clematis is KLEM-a-tis, not clem-AH-tis), “g” is always hard (Geranium is geh-RAH-nee-um, not jer-AY-nee-um). The “ch” in Chamaecyparis is pronounced “k” — kam-ee-SIP-a-ris. This is the system used by the BBC’s gardening programmes, and it’s as close to a standard as exists in the English-speaking world.
The alternative is the traditional English system, which treats botanical names as if they were English words derived from Latin. In this system, Clematis is clem-AH-tis, Geranium is jer-AY-nee-um, and Forsythia — named for William Forsyth — is for-SIGHTH-ee-a rather than the classical for-SITH-ee-a. This is the pronunciation used by most working gardeners and nursery professionals in Britain and America, and it is perfectly acceptable in any context except, possibly, a botany conference.
My advice: learn the classical rules if you enjoy precision. Use the traditional English pronunciations if you want to be understood by people who actually dig holes for a living. And when someone corrects you, smile and say, “Interesting — how do you say it in your area?” This shifts the conversation from “I am right and you are wrong” to “pronunciation is delightfully regional, isn’t it,” which is both true and more pleasant.
A final word on the names honouring people. When the specific epithet ends in -ii (like wilsonii, fortunei, banksii), it commemorates a man. When it ends in -iae (like veitchiae), it commemorates a woman. And for those who wonder: yes, the vast majority of commemorative names honour men. This reflects the history of botany, not the plants themselves. The plants are blameless.
Reading Between the Lines: What the Label Deliberately Leaves Out
A plant label is a document of omission as much as information. The nursery has no legal obligation to tell you that the plant you are holding will, within three years, outgrow your balcony, collapse under its own weight, or become invasive. They are required to tell you the name. Everything else is marketing.
The first thing to check, and the thing most labels obscure, is eventual size. A label that says “Height: 50 cm” without specifying whether that’s at maturity or in the pot is useless. The true height of a plant — what it will reach after five or ten years — is information you need to seek elsewhere. The RHS Plant Finder and the Missouri Botanical Garden’s Plant Finder are both excellent online resources; for Hong Kong-specific information, the Agriculture, Fisheries and Conservation Department’s Hong Kong Herbarium records are surprisingly thorough and criminally underused.
Second, hardiness. Labels almost never tell you the plant’s USDA hardiness zone or its heat tolerance, because including that information would limit sales. Most of Hong Kong falls into USDA Zone 11, with some elevated areas in Zone 10. A plant labelled “hardy” in a British nursery is hardy to maybe Zone 7 or 8 — it wants a winter chill that Hong Kong cannot provide and will languish. Conversely, a plant labelled “tender” in the UK will probably thrive in Tuen Mun. The word “hardy” on a label is meaningless without a zone reference; ignore it and look up the plant yourself.
Third, and most cynically, light requirements. “Full sun” on a label produced in the Netherlands means full Dutch sun — gentle, filtered, rarely above 25°C. “Full sun” in Hong Kong means 35°C with 90 percent humidity and UV levels that will bleach leaves within a week. For Hong Kong gardeners, the practical translation is: “full sun” on a European label means “partial shade” in Hong Kong. “Partial shade” on a European label means “full shade” in Hong Kong. “Full shade” on a European label means “this plant will die, but it will die slowly and without drama.”
Soil preferences are equally misleading. “Well-drained soil” means very different things in a London clay garden and a Hong Kong rooftop container. In both cases, it means the plant hates having its roots sitting in water. But what the label doesn’t tell you is whether the plant needs acidic soil (Rhododendron, Camellia, Pieris), alkaline soil (Dianthus, Lavandula, Syringa), or doesn’t care (Rosa, most Salvia, and anything called a weed). The specific epithet sometimes helps here — calcicola means “lime-dwelling” and implies alkaline soil — but most labels will not include this information because it would discourage purchases.
The solution, as with most things in gardening, is to assume the label undersells the difficulty and to do your own research. A plant label is a starting point, not a contract. The plant does not know what the label said.
Five Labels, Decoded: A Practical Exercise
Let’s apply everything we’ve covered to five real plant labels — the kind you might encounter this Saturday at a nursery in Yuen Long or on a lazy afternoon browsing online catalogues. For each, I’ll translate the name into plain English and, more importantly, into growing instructions.
1. Brunnera macrophylla ‘Jack Frost’
Genus: Brunnera — named for Samuel Brunner, a Swiss botanist. Specific epithet: macrophylla — large-leaved. Cultivar: ‘Jack Frost’ — descriptive marketing, referring to the silver-frosted appearance of the leaves.
Translation: A shade-loving perennial with large, heart-shaped leaves that appear dusted with silver. In spring, it sends up sprays of tiny blue flowers that look exactly like forget-me-nots (it’s in the same family, Boraginaceae). The large leaves tell you it wants moisture and shade; in Hong Kong, grow it in full shade with consistent watering, and it may survive as a winter annual. It will not survive a Hong Kong summer outdoors. Accept this.
2. Rhododendron arboreum subsp. delavayi
Genus: Rhododendron — from Greek rhodon (rose) and dendron (tree). Specific epithet: arboreum — tree-like. Subspecies: delavayi — named for Père Jean Marie Delavay, a French missionary and plant collector in Yunnan.
Translation: A tree-sized rhododendron from southwest China, collected by a nineteenth-century missionary-botanist. The fact that it’s from Yunnan (which shares climatic similarities with parts of Hong Kong’s higher elevations) and that it’s tree-sized (meaning it’s robust) suggests it might work in the cooler parts of Hong Kong — but rhododendrons generally require acidic soil and cool nights. This is a plant for the Peak or Lantau highlands, not for a balcony in Mong Kok. The collector’s name tells you it’s a species, not a hybrid, which means it will be less floriferous but more reliable.
3. Agave americana ‘Marginata’
Genus: Agave — from Greek agauos, meaning noble or admirable. Specific epithet: americana — from the Americas. Cultivar: ‘Marginata’ — margined, describing the yellow stripes along the leaf edges.
Translation: The century plant with variegated leaves. This is one of the easiest labels to decode. Agave tells you: succulent, drought-tolerant, spiky, eventually produces a spectacular flowering spike and then dies. americana tells you: large. ‘Marginata’ tells you: decorative yellow edges. Growing instructions: full sun, neglect, space for a plant that will reach two metres across before it flowers and dies, leaving behind a ring of pups. Excellent for Hong Kong rooftop gardens. Will outlive you, but not in the way you think.
The plant does not know what the label said. It will grow according to its own nature, not according to the promises printed on a plastic stake.
4. Osmanthus fragrans ‘Aurantiacus’
Genus: Osmanthus — from Greek osme (fragrance) and anthos (flower). Specific epithet: fragrans — fragrant. Cultivar: ‘Aurantiacus’ — orange-coloured.
Translation: A fragrant flowering shrub with orange flowers. Osmanthus fragrans is the sweet olive, a classic Chinese garden plant (桂花, guìhuā) whose tiny flowers perfume entire streets in autumn. fragrans reinforces what Osmanthus already told you: this plant is grown for scent. ‘Aurantiacus’ tells you the flowers are orange rather than the typical cream. Growing instructions: full sun to partial shade, well-drained soil, heat-tolerant. An excellent choice for Hong Kong gardens and balconies. The genus name alone should have sold you: “fragrant flower.”
5. Ficus pumila ‘Minima’
Genus: Ficus — fig. Specific epithet: pumila — dwarf, small. Cultivar: ‘Minima’ — smallest.
Translation: A very small creeping fig. pumila is one of those botanical jokes that reveals itself only with time: this plant is “dwarf” only in leaf size. The vine itself can cover a wall in two years. ‘Minima’ tells you the leaves are even smaller than the species — perhaps 1 cm rather than 2 cm — making it ideal for terrariums, bonsai companion planting, or covering a small vertical surface. Growing instructions: shade to partial shade, moisture, something to climb on. Do not plant it against a wall you value unless you are prepared to own a green wall. The label says “dwarf.” The plant does not agree.
A Beginner’s Reference: The Forty Words You Actually Need
What follows is not a comprehensive botanical Latin dictionary. There are books for that. What follows is the forty most common descriptive words you will encounter on plant labels in Hong Kong nurseries, with their practical translations. Commit these to memory — or, more realistically, bookmark this page — and you will be able to decode roughly eighty percent of the labels you encounter.
Colour: alba (white), rubra (red), lutea (yellow), viridis (green), caerulea (blue), nigra (black/dark), argentea (silver), aurea (golden).
Size: gigantea (giant), grandis (large), maxima (largest), minor (smaller), minima (smallest), nana (dwarf), pumila (dwarf/small), humilis (low-growing).
Form: pendula (weeping), columnaris (columnar), prostrata (prostrate/creeping), repens (creeping), scandens (climbing), fruticosa (shrubby), arborea (tree-like).
Leaf: macrophylla (large-leaved), angustifolia (narrow-leaved), rotundifolia (round-leaved), cordifolia (heart-leaved), sempervirens (evergreen).
Habitat: palustris (marsh/wet), maritima (coastal), saxatilis (rock-dwelling), sylvatica (woodland), pratensis (meadow), arvensis (field/cultivated ground).
Geography: chinensis (from China), japonica (from Japan), sinensis (Chinese), nipponica (Japanese).
Other useful terms: officinalis (medicinal/historical use), vulgaris (common), esculenta (edible), odorata or fragrans (fragrant), spinosa (spiny/thorny).
One final convention worth knowing: the multiplication sign (×) before a genus or species name indicates a hybrid. × Halimiocistus is a hybrid genus (a cross between Halimium and Cistus). Helleborus × hybridus indicates a hybrid hellebore of mixed parentage. The × tells you this plant has been created by human intervention, not found in the wild. It does not tell you whether the hybrid is sterile (some are, some aren’t) or whether it will come true from seed (it almost certainly won’t).
The Label as Invitation
We began with the moment of incomprehension — the label as locked door. What I hope has become clear by now is that the label was never a door at all. It was an invitation, written in a language that anyone can learn, to understand plants not as decorative objects but as living organisms with histories, preferences, and personalities encoded in their very names.
Botanical Latin is not a barrier erected by botanists to exclude amateurs. It is a tool created by botanists to include everyone — a universal language that, once learned, allows a gardener in Hong Kong to communicate precisely with a gardener in Cape Town about a plant native to the Himalayas. The fact that the language sometimes sounds absurd to modern ears (“Paeonia lactiflora ‘Bowl of Beauty'”) is not a bug. It is evidence that the naming system has been running continuously for almost three centuries, accumulating its own peculiar poetry along the way.
The next time you stand in a nursery holding a label that reads Cercis canadensis ‘Forest Pansy’, you will know: Cercis is the redbud genus, from the Greek kerkis, a weaver’s shuttle, referring to the shape of the seed pod. canadensis tells you it’s from eastern North America — which means it wants cold winters, and you should think carefully before planting it in Hong Kong. ‘Forest Pansy’ tells you the leaves are deep purple, almost burgundy, and that someone in a marketing department earned their salary that day. The label has opened. You can read it now.
And if you cannot — if some name still resists your best efforts at decoding — remember that the plants themselves do not care what you call them. They will grow, or not, according to their own nature, indifferent to the Latin on the plastic stake at their feet. Your job is not to memorise every name. Your job is to pay enough attention that the names start to make sense.
The plants have been waiting for you to ask.
