Uploaded July 2026 | Updated September 2026, 3 weeks ago
Bred by David Austin in 1990, The Prince opens with velvet shades of deep amaranthine crimson, the colour of ancient tapestries and sealing wax. As the bloom matures, the petals slowly darken into sumptuous tones of royal amethyst, particularly beneath cool skies, as though the flower has exchanged a courtier's cloak for the robes of an enigmatic medieval heir.
Its fragrance is every bit as lavish as its colouring. A rich Old Rose perfume rises from the densely layered petals, carrying notes that many enthusiasts describe as ripe blackcurrants, autumn apples, and dark fruits—a scent of memory and occasion.
Like so many roses of deep colour, it rewards with subtle transformations that unfold over several days. One morning it is crimson; a few evenings later it has become a flower worthy of illuminated manuscripts and cathedral stained glass, glowing with impossible shades of purple.
The Prince belongs to twilight, when colours deepen, fragrances gather in the cooling air, and the garden begins to feel less like a collection of plants than a place where old stories are waiting to be told.
At a modest 3-4 feet, and happy in Zones 5b and milder, this denizen of drama can make one rethink wandering in the garden on a summer’s eve, perhaps in formal wear with a glass of champagne.
Bred by David Austin in 1990, The Prince opens with velvet shades of deep amaranthine crimson, the colour of ancient tapestries and sealing wax. As the bloom matures, the petals slowly darken into sumptuous tones of royal amethyst, particularly beneath cool skies, as though the flower has exchanged a courtier's cloak for the robes of an enigmatic medieval heir.
Its fragrance is every bit as lavish as its colouring. A rich Old Rose perfume rises from the densely layered petals, carrying notes that many enthusiasts describe as ripe blackcurrants, autumn apples, and dark fruits—a scent of memory and occasion.
Like so many roses of deep colour, it rewards with subtle transformations that unfold over several days. One morning it is crimson; a few evenings later it has become a flower worthy of illuminated manuscripts and cathedral stained glass, glowing with impossible shades of purple.
The Prince belongs to twilight, when colours deepen, fragrances gather in the cooling air, and the garden begins to feel less like a collection of plants than a place where old stories are waiting to be told.
At a modest 3-4 feet, and happy in Zones 5b and milder, this denizen of drama can make one rethink wandering in the garden on a summer’s eve, perhaps in formal wear with a glass of champagne.
