I planned a white border at my last house and the result became a source of considerable amusement to my friends. I planted an alba rose centre stage. It was beautiful, but pink! White lychnis bloomed with a soft pink eye, white iris opened with throats of startling yellow; everything conspired against my intended display of pure white. Other colourful flowers arrived from who knows where.
The result was charming, but it was never white. Friends followed progress with interest, and, in spite of evidence to the contrary, always teasingly referred to that part of garden as my 'white border'.
I have learnt not to make bold claims for colour control in my present garden. White flowers now grow where they will, campanulas seed themselves in cracks between flagstones, lychnis coronaria dots itself about the garden and I have to wait until flowering to discover whether the plant is white or splashed with pink or brilliant scarlet.
White flowers are as beautiful in bright sunshine as they are in evening shade.
My big Shasta daisies are as tough as old boots. They bring light to a corner of the garden where an old boat has been upturned to use as a seat.
The 'Melancholy Gentleman', astrantia major, obligingly fills an inhospitable area beneath the walnut tree.
Whites and nearly whites - I love them!