Before the thaw
Monday 8 February
The hellebores are frozen. I know not to worry, they will perk up again, but it is a sad sight. An almost perfect circle of stem with the most exquisite flower touching the cold soil. Their reappearance every year is a source of much joy (mostly because I’m not sure they do brilliantly where they are and I do have to keep restocking them) and I feel like we have been pulled back into winter, just when we had touched spring. The snowdrops on the other hand, look absolutely fine.
Wednesday 10 February
A day of meetings enlivened by a dusting of snow. It is light, almost imperceptible, and it falls at a time when the rest of the country is carpeted in the stuff, but it is snow nevertheless. We watch it swirl outside the window and I think, for the hundredth time this month, that I wish I’d got round to lifting my dahlias.
Thursday 11 February
The air is bitter cold and, although there is no frost, the ice is deep. Despite me providing her with a perfectly nice bowl full of fresh tap water in the house, Maud will only drink out of a muddy bucket in the courtyard, down the side of a potless wisteria. Usually I can just crack the ice for her but now there is no water, only one great big block of unyielding ice. She does not understand this and scrapes the door to go out roughly every twenty minutes. I cannot begin to describe how annoying this is.
Friday 12 February
My first ever job was in a garden centre. I was all of fifteen and it was the Wyevale on the Knowle Road out of Hampton in Arden. I do know that consumerism as a panacea is capitalism’s darkest lie but I crave a quick fix and I sneak out of work at lunchtime. The local Wyevale has gone now, replaced by an Otter nurseries. With Christmas present vouchers, I indulge in many little pots of dwarf narcissi, an unexpected find of some Crème de Cassis dahlia tubers (I saw some at the wonderful Laundry Garden grown by Jenny Williams a few years ago and have been hunting for them ever since), and some recklessly unnecessary but beautiful seeds. Poppies since you were wondering. For half an hour, the awful music, the carpet tiled floor, and the smell of bagged compost soothed my soul.
Saturday 13 February
Shared understanding needs language, and language needs words. In order to discuss which walk we might do, the walks are named for the animals we see on them. The pheasant walk is an everyday favourite although not without its problems. The horse walk is a bit longer and to be indulged in on a Sunday evening. The sheep walk we did once and never again. The pig walk is a rare treat and tonight, in the sharp cold and the bright evening we set out. And sure enough, there are two Saddleback pigs in the old orchard leaning on the gate and watching us pass.
Sunday 14 February
A day of biding my time. Although the cold has gone, the conditions are still not clement. I transcribe and post my interview with Sarah Statham in a new section of Gather, devoted to interviews with my favourite flower and gardening people. Milli Proust is already in there, soon to be joined by many more.
May your garden thaw and your Valentine's be full of love,
G x