A leap year. An extra day to play catch up, to tidy up all those astronomical quarter days that have been cluttering things up for the last four years. Ok, I’ll be honest, I don’t really know why we have leap years, and if I did once know I have long forgotten. But I do know that it has a special, unusual feel to it.

I spent my leap year day doing something unusual and special too. Stepping away from what has been a busy time with work, and indulging myself in a trip to Kristy Ramage’s garden near Raglan, Monmouthshire.

I was meant to be there to learn about garden structures, but actually, I just wanted to see Kristy’s house and garden. Oh my days, what a magical place. All espaliers and sight-lines, and topiary and hens. But what I really got out of it was how little there is out in February, and what a tough month it is to photograph. Amazing for appreciating the bones of a garden; nightmare for actual flowers. Even the snowdrops are over, leaving me with blossom and hellebores, and chomping at the bit for magnolia.

The first spring bulbs

I came home again with eyes open and a heart ready for beauty. February requires this; you need a little more acuity to find the jewels. One of my solutions to this is to frame the jewels in a container, and to bring it closer to the eyes.

With the assistance of some small gauge chicken wire, I have nurtured some bulbs through the colder months and they are starting to flower in the most gloriously cheerful colours. As the first one bloomed, I carefully pulled off the protective wire and tucked in moss around the flowers.

This is a great tip for all bulbs and shorter flowers in pots. Moss or gravel not only looks lovely and ‘finished’ but it also means that the petals are protected from splashing if there is a sudden downpour, or you are a little heavy handed with the watering.

Second tip: if you rely on rain to water your pots, it is going to end in tears and disappointment. All pots need watering (and feeding) by hand in the growing season (i.e. before they flower) and bulbs are no exception. If you have stubby flowers, you only have yourself to blame. Unless we have a March heatwave, in which case, it isn’t your fault at all, they just bloomed too soon. But generally, water.

Bulbs in pots are wonderful for spending months of important but visually boring growing time out of the way, and then being moved to the pride of place as soon as they are looking wonderful. I am just mulling over whether I could put my oversized bowl on the kitchen table to make the most of the joy that they bring. Bear in mind though, the warmth of the house will bring flowers on and send them over quicker than being out in the February chills. A compromise position might be on a table in the courtyard where I can see them from the windows. Like so much in life, it is a tradeoff. Live fast and die young, or be sensible and hope that it pays off in the long-term.

Yes, I brought mine indoors. I am so bored of being the sensible one.  

The first blossom

Many will say that sloe is the earliest of the true spring blossoms, but it is not true. It is beaten every year by Cornus mas, the Cornelian cherry. Like gold leaf, it glitters in a rich, metallic yellow.

For more on blossom, which is best for cutting and which takes well to forcing, read a guest blog post for the utterly wonderful Pyrus here.

Although not the first, I truly think the most magnificent of the blossoms is the plum. I acquired a plum tree with the cottage next door and, as badly pruned as it is, it is currently a cloud of white. A soggy cloud, because it is absolutely pouring with rain.

Primroses

I have never paid much heed to the humble primrose and its only association for me has been that it is the name of one of the children in the Darling Buds of May. However, they are quietly but determinedly creeping across the mossy damp lawn at the front of the cottage. Not much grows there, with it being so shaded by the big lime trees, but they are popping up all over the place.

Much loved by foragers as well as flower lovers, you can coat them in egg white and sugar and decorate a cake with them. Sadly, I have neither the time nor the inclination to do that right now (and if I did, I would use a viola), but luckily that means that there will be more seeds on this year’s primroses to scatter and spread.

Hellebores 

And of course there are hellebores. Of course there are. I grow mine at the end of the kitchen garden, down by the studio, because the soil is moist and shady. The thing about hellebores, unless you grow them in pots, is that you have to lie on the ground to appreciate how utterly wonderful they are. And I do adore a hellebore, so cutting them and bringing them indoors is the best thing to do.

Philip Craddock, florist to the stars, swears blind that you can cut hellebores with the stamens intact if you make a slit all the way up the stem a millimetre deep and then plunge them into cool water for 24 hours. I am trying it now. I’ll let you know if they hold.

Post script

In keeping with the theme of February’s flowers are there if you look, after I had finished writing this, I saw that the pot next to my studio door is full of Muscari neglectum. Muscari armenaicum, the paler blue variety, run wild in my front garden (very few things grow there, which is why I never mention it) but I prefer the more dramatic, fade to black, colour scheme of the M. neglectum.