The website for Hampstead and District Gardeners

There's a Spring in my Step

I've been thinking!*  I've always scoffed at gardeners who claim to enjoy plunging their hands into the soil, getting in touch with the earth, as being akin to tree huggers (what's wrong with tree huggers?). Until recently.

There's never been a month when I haven't spent time in our garden. Until this winter. Heavy snow mid-December, followed by persistent rain, the festive season, a brief hiatus between Christmas and new year when I pruned the climbing roses, sharp prolonged frosts in January and then Covid, kept me off my borders for almost two months. By early February the garden was looking the worse for wear. Patios and paths green and slippery with lichen, overgrown clematis Montana spread across the pergola plunging the Catio into darkness. Fern fronds collapsed, perennial top growth desiccated, dried ornamental grasses strewn all over the show. Instead of relishing my return I felt quite overwhelmed; where to start?

My initial foray outdoors was no further than the patio doors. I could feel a small flicker of anticipation as I looked out at the neglected borders. The sun was shining, it was 10°c, and so my love affair with my garden was rekindled.

Very soon I had resumed my default position, on my knees, hands in the soil. And it was at this point, as I was reacquainting myself with my borders, that I understood.

I had forgotten how intimate my relationship is with my borders; how I know every inch of the soil. Watching plants grow is such a nurturing experience. At this time of year, when everything is still bleak and spartan, what a joy it is to see the tips of daffodils poking through the soil. A patch of alliums has sprung up in a forgotten place, in perfect harmony with the ornamental grasses. Snowdrops literally flowering overnight.

After prolonged sub-zero temperatures it's been touch and go with the perennials. How relieved I was to see the deep maroon buds of phlox, sedum, pulmonaria, hardy geraniums. It's so tempting to start pruning back the dead top growth on the penstemons, euphorbias and salvias but I must curb my impatience. Quite a few perennials that I planted last autumn have been worked loose in the soil by the frosts; I've firmed them back in but I'm not hopeful after their new rootballs exposure to the elements.

There's something very reassuring about the cycles of nature, the subtle changes that herald the evolving seasons. The way you suddenly notice that it's not getting dark until 5.30ish. There's always that one day when suddenly you can feel spring in the air. Birdsong alters; I can't identify particular songs, but I know that certain calls instantly remind me of that particular time of year. Nature is irrepressible! Tell me this, how can a tray of dormant begonia tubers, stored over winter, in egg boxes, in a dark drawer, in a bedroom that has the same temperature year-round, know that spring is coming by producing new pips every February?

I think I almost prefer the onset of spring to the height of summer. I always experience a niggling pessimism on the longest day of the year. Often summer hasn't even started yet and already it's downhill all the way! From the moment the first bulbs emerge I'm in a state of restrained anticipation. I get terribly excited when I see the bright red shoots on climbing roses silhouetted luminous against the bright winter sunshine. And as for cuttings, it takes Herculean effort not to pull them up to see if they've rooted yet. Suffice it to say that this year I've stuck them in trays with cloches on, in the unheated greenhouse so that I can't fiddle with them and yes, they are still alive!

So brush off your kneelers, sharpen your secateurs and get yourself outside. Spring is just around the corner.

*  My late great mother-in-law thought nothing of ringing us up at 6am in the morning, with this as her opening line, when the thought took her.