I can pinpoint the exact moment that I decided that I was going to become a seed merchant. Where I was sitting, what I was doing. 

 

What I was doing was sorting out my seed tin.

 

Possibly this should be tins, in the plural. I had recently graduated to a tin for flowers and a tin for vegetables, plus an extra box for beans and peas. They seem to split and scatter, however you secure the envelopes. In January, I would tip them onto the rug in front of the fire, and put them carefully in piles. Early sowings for the hardy annuals, later ones for the tenders and the biennials. Tops of the toppling piles for the absolute must haves (aquilegia, tweedia, and copper stocks), with plenty of bread-and-butter stalwarts (ammi, cosmos, daucus, all the grasses). Half an eye on what I had and another on what I didn’t, because you never want to leave seed ordering too late and miss out, and however many I had, it was never enough. A different colour here, and new, improved variety there. 

 

And after an hour or so, with a notepad filling up with another list, with squares sketched on sheets of A3 to try and fit everything into my field in some semblance of order, I would put all the seeds back in the tin any old how. Because then, on another day, I could do it all again. Maybe alphabetically this time. Maybe into direct sown and indirect sown.

 

Some days, I just looked at them.

 

In the winter months, this activity brings me more joy than anything else I can imagine. Like a child being read their favourite bedtime story over and over, the repetition brings extra layers of bliss and comfort, and the sensation of putting all those envelopes into piles, imagining their transformation into scented, exuberant, colourful abundance, never ever grows old. 

 

Like so many, I thought that I could take it or leave it, that I could control my consumption. That there would be a point where I would finally feel that I had enough, that I had all the seeds my heart could desire. One day, surrounded by a sea of envelopes, an island amongst paper packets, I acknowledged defeat. 

 

There would never be enough and the only way to fund this spiralling habit was to become a dealer in these little envelopes of joy. I registered as a seed merchant. And the rest, as they say, is history.

 

To have in mind:

Shake the packets

I rarely throw seed envelopes away because I always want to keep a record of what I have sown and because I promise I will keep notes on different varieties and how they fared. However, this means I have been known to go to sow my Chioggia beetroot and find that I have three empty envelopes and absolutely no seed. There’s no way I would countenance a summer without it, so this really is one to check in advance of spring.

 

All or nothing

The idea of sorting them into piles, and then unsorting, and sorting again does have a practical application. Put them in piles of sowing time and you might find that you have lots of hardy annuals and no later tender flowers or biennials. If this is the case, I predict you with have buckets of colour in the early part of summer, and absolutely nothing in September. Similarly, put them in piles of big hitter blooms, fillers and foliage, and you might find that you have lots of green and not a lot of the focal flowers that make such an impact. You can even do this with warm and cools, just to see what the balance will be overall. 

 

Getting old

If the packet is completely split and the text rubbed off or faded, the chances are the seed is old. Many seeds don’t mind this too much, although the viability of all seed will drop off to some extent over time, so don’t worry unduly. However, there are a few seeds that should be replenished every year. 

  

Fresh seed

DAUCUS CAROTA, OR ANY TYPE OF CARROT

PARSNIPS

VIOLA

LARKSPUR

FOXGLOVES

POPPIES