End of month view: January

So here we are then, at the turn of another year; and so I took a look back at what things were like this time last year (one of the many benefits of following the End of Month View meme kindly hosted by Helen at The Patient Gardener).

This may become an annual event: I see that last year, the first time I did this, I was also comparing and contrasting, though on that occasion I was monitoring change over a mere three or four months; this time it's a whole year's worth.

I had thought I'd hardly achieved anything during the year - the frustration of competing and always, it seems, more urgent claims from small children, animals, work and the running of a somewhat chaotic household.

But from comparing these photos I discover things have actually, in some bits of the garden at least, changed quite a lot.

They say the longest journeys start with a single step. Perhaps I should just stop beating myself up about how little progress I've made towards the dream garden in my head; and start celebrating the fact that I've made any progress at all. Because as long as you make just a little progress every day, before you know it you've changed your little corner of the world more than you ever thought possible.

And besides, just think what I could achieve by January 2013!

The Vegetable Garden:

This time last year it looked like this...

And now....

Actually I'm rather regretting having taken this picture so far back: the shot I took last year is taken standing just behind the far tree in this picture. I cannot believe that just a year ago I was looking at bare ground here.

In just a single year I have dug over all that scrubby-looking grass and turned it into an incredibly productive vegetable patch that has fed my family almost completely: I have only had to start buying veg from the shops this month for the first time since last March, and that's only because I didn't get around to planting my kale out early enough.

The patch of black-polythene-covered veg patch you can see in the distance (the whole of the 2011 picture) is about 80ft of veg garden; the grassy bit in the foreground is the bit I'm going to expand into this year, I hope. I've just got a greenhouse to move, then I can start the same old routine of cutting back hedges, putting in rabbit fencing and opening up the ground. Can't wait.

The Fruit Garden:

In 2011:

 ..and now:

Not a lot of change here, then, apart from a lot more grass (and some optimistic scaffold boards). But there is much planning afoot in the background and I'm just about to start work on this bit too: in fact this week should see me cutting back those hedges and covering the grass with black plastic ahead of a serious bit of fruit cage construction and path layout. If you want to know the details: there's more on t'other blog.

The Herb Garden:

in 2011:

and now:

This is one of the areas I've been working really hard on, though there's not anything too spectacular to show for it yet: I find when you're developing gardens that things tend to get a whole lot worse before they start looking better.

This rocky bed is slowly being transformed into a herb garden, and this year it's been comprehensively cleared. I've dug out two out of the three grandma roses planted incongruously and entirely pointlessly in the middle of the equally pointless lawn at the top of the slope: this lawn also has its days numbered, as in April I'm planning on replacing it with chamomile.

The big hairy fuchsia bush in the top picture is long gone, as are about four large stumps (crowbar and fencer's graft and a lot of sweat) a skip load of Anemone x japonica 'Honorine Jobert' (sounds like vandalism but, believe me, this was invasive beyond the call of duty - and besides, I've kept one small clump at the far end for digging up and moving somewhere it can be better behaved).

So all in all the whole thing looks a great deal tidier, if rather empty at the moment. But I am stewing up the plant order to end all plant orders this spring as I will be packing this space with every kind of herb you can think of: hundreds of them, in the most wonderful planting fest. It's going to make my year.

The Pot-Pourri Garden:

in 2011:

and now:

This is another area that has required an awful lot of clearing before I can do anything with it. I've still only got around halfway around the circle - around as far as that big bush in the background (it's a Philadelphus and I am in a dilemma about it: it looks rather lovely in the summer as it's an 'Aureus' with pretty golden foliage, but appearances are deceptive as it's previously outgrown its welcome at some stage and been hacked down to a stump which has then regrown. It looks very, very ugly at this time of year and I can't help wanting it out: but it's so nice in the summer.... ack. Cannot decide.)

This bit was actually one of the nicest areas of the garden last summer as I filled it with annuals - cosmos, nicotiana and marigolds mostly - so it was exuberant with colour. Now it's filling up with bulbs: I have planted half of my 200 tulips in here, although rather worryingly there's no sign of them yet and I'm fretting about mouse attack. We'll find out in a month or two, I suppose....



The Tropical Garden:

in 2011:

and now:

Still feeling a bit of a fraud (and slightly silly) calling this a tropical garden as it looks anything but tropical in January frosts. But though you can't quite make it out unless you know what you're looking at, there's a small loquat tree establishing itself in front of the bank, and a Pawlonia getting its feet down a little further along.

There are also major earthworks going on here: I've dug out the border in front of the path, partly so I could plant the other half of my 200 tulip bulbs and partly so I had somewhere to put all the wonderful things I want to grow here this year. I have gingers and yacon and lots and lots of taro root (that's Colocasia esculenta to you, mate) as well as non-edibles like Geranium maderense and cycads. I'm also going to experiment here with growing large-leaved things that aren't really tropical but look it: so we're talking squashes and courgettes and pumpkins and rhubarb. And maybe some Cavolo Nero kale.

Another area where the plans are racing ahead of the actual work, then....

The Hill:

in 2011:

and now:

The one bit of the garden that's looking, if anything, scruffier than it did last year (though can you see how well the snowdrops have spread? Nothing to do with me, honest guv).

Not so much as a slight shuffle towards the nuttery I hope this will become one day. It's the far end of the garden, so I reckon will probably be the last to get the treatment. In my defence, though, I have been doing a lot of work on the hedge, or rather the hazels perched precariously on top of the vertiginous bank here (as was I, pruning saw in hand, while hacking away at them):

Just to give you an idea of how high this is, my head reaches up to that first patch of leaves on the right.

The grass has carried on growing on the hill right through autumn into early winter thanks to all that warm weather, and it's been so wet we haven't got the mower anywhere near it. So in a sudden flash of inspiration brought on by my dilemma over what to do about my sheep who have run out of grass in the field where they're currently living, I put the two together and have decided that this is going to become a sheep paddock for the next month or two.

Sheep = mobile lawnmowers = job done. Plus I get well-fed sheep and a lot of natural fertiliser too. I may have to fence off those snowdrops though...

Wordless Wednesday: Perfect

Wordless Wednesday: Early

 

Seduced by snowdrops

Too late: their spell has worked. I may not be a full-fledged galanthophile yet, but I have definitely stepped over the edge of the slippery slope. This one is G. 'John Gray'

I can't help it. I have tried to resist: but I am being bewitched by little white flowers.

I think it's something to do with the fact that I've never been able to grow snowdrops before: in the dry acid sand of my previous Surrey garden they just turned up their toes and died.

But in my current damp, shady, chalky garden they're coming up all over the place, and I really had never realised how utterly captivating they are. They may be tiny: you may have to get down on your hands and knees and do complicated things with the petals before you can see inside (you end up blowing air at them and all sorts) but ah: they are so charming.

G. 'Warham': it's the leaves that make this particular variety so special (and a good thing too: the flowers don't turn up for a while)

It wasn't helped this year by a visit I made to a snowdrop-lover's garden for work in late January (which is where all the photos in this post were taken, explaining why only the very earliest are in flower yet).

It was early in the year, on a rather uninviting and cloudy day; many of the 34 different varieties were still well underground. But I hadn't realised, before I went there, that snowdrops did flower at different times of the year; in fact you can pretty much have a snowdrop somewhere in the garden from about October till March.

You have to look closely (of course): but see those little yellow-tinted humps? G. 'Sandersii': possibly the snowdrop I covet most of all

On the differences between the varieties: well I can see the point of doubles versus singles, and I also was very taken by the yellow ones (they're that particular shade of buttery yellow that just looks delicious). But like Victoria, mostly to me a snowdrop is a snowdrop is a snowdrop.

G. gracilis, with smaller, strappy, glaucous leaves, rather like a grass with attitude before the flowers emerge

I can also just about see the attraction of some of the rarer 'novelty' snowdrops like G. elwesii 'Grumpy', whose markings make it look as if it's got a face on it, though not £60 worth of attraction - the going rate for a 'Grumpy' bulb these days. And I don't think I shall ever feel that £357 on a single bulb of G. plicatus 'E.A. Bowles' was money well spent.

G. elwesii: in flower in late January

However: the idea of having snowdrops of a host of different leaf colours, widths and sizes followed by flowers fat, slim, green- or yellow-tipped, over several months at the bleakest time of the year: now that I can understand.

G. 'Barbara's Double': you'll have to take my word for it, but this is a good choice for a late-ish double flower that's not too fat and ungainly

I came away from my visit to Dr Lloyd's garden with a shopping list, of varieties which were coming out then (late January) and which would be out over the next month or so. They are, in order (more or less) of appearance:

Galanthus 'John Gray': reliable, vigorous and emerging when few others were: and the flowers are large to the point of being top-heavy

G. 'Dionysus'

G. 'Dionysus': another double: and a rather finer one than the overstuffed-cushion of many double snowdrop flowers. These have fewer inner petals and a more elegant flower shape all round.

G. 'Ophelia': one of the best doubles, richly-coloured green splashes and huge heads: this was emerging on my visit, no doubt open by early February

G. 'Atkinsii'

G. 'Atkinsii': Another larger-flowered snowdrop: highly thought-of for its vigorous habit and its long, elegant petals

G. nivalis 'Sandersii': oh I fell in love with this one. Butter-yellow ovaries, for want of a more romantic name, are such a surprise and delight emerging from the ground in January: for this snowdrop I would get down on my knees every morning.

G. nivalis 'Scharlockii': a later variety, probably early to mid February: this one has green tips to the outer petals too and is a slender, elegant flower

G. 'Warham': Slightly later than most, but you forgive it everything for its foliage: I never realised snowdrops had such varying foliage. This one is broad, a glaucous silvery grey with a pale silver stripe. Fabulous from January even though the flowers don't turn up for a month after.

G. 'Straffan': another vigorous one, emerging early to mid February so one of the later varieties

And just as a postscript, the varieties I rejected:

G. reginae-olgae: this flowers in autumn. I'm sorry but there is something in me that rebels viscerally against a snowdrop in autumn. I could not bear to have it in my garden: it would offend my very soul.

G. ikariae latifolius: purely and simply on the recommendation (or anti-recommendation?) of Dr. Lloyd, who has been pulling out the stuff for years as it's vigorous to the point of being invasive. I've got enough weeds: don't need any more.

And a post-postscript: any mis-identifications of photos in this article are purely the result of my somewhat hit-and-miss hearing while scuttling around behind Dr Lloyd on a chilly day in Exeter, and no reflection on her own expertise.

February flowers

It's a bit chilly and rather damp, but the garden is slowly, imperceptibly, filling up with flowers again.

The bulbs are getting my gardening fingers itching: clump after clump of snowdrops has appeared in the long grass and I didn't even realise they were there. They've hung on in the face of decades of neglect (I'm told by my neighbours it's over 20 years since a gardener lived here): and though I'm also told they aren't nearly as plentiful as they once were, I'm planning to do something about that. I have visions of sheets of snowdrops underplanted with aconites and cyclamen dancing in my head...

But for now I'm just enjoying what I have. It's even better in the greenhouse, where the overwintering geraniums are putting on a fabulous show and cheering me up no end (do they ever rest, do you think?) and even my little scented-leaf pretties are shyly unfurling a few petals.

So, in the wind and the rain, I've been out today taking a few photos for Garden Bloggers' Bloom Day, hosted by Carol at May Dreams Gardens. Enjoy!

End of month view: January 2011

Ever since I saw this meme, hosted by Helen at The Patient Gardener (thanks Helen!) I knew I was going to have to join in. What better way of keeping tabs on how your garden is changing through the year: rewarding yourself for the little improvements you've made, showing you where your priorities should be and reminding yourself how much it matters that you didn't get around to raking the leaves/pruning that shrub/clearing that border when you were supposed to. I've got the added incentive of a new garden: so (a pure indulgence I'm afraid) I've also added a smaller 'before' photo first, taken shortly after we arrived here last autumn, to compare and contrast: sometimes, big change, more often, a reminder that there's so much left to do. And, I have to say, also a reminder of how lovely and warm it was last autumn: my goodness but the comparison makes the garden now look even chillier than it feels. My veg garden is where the main work has been going on. The picture taken in autumn was taken a little further back (the second tree up is the one you can see in the foreground of this month's photo): but several months of cutting back hedges and intensive rabbit-fencing now means I now have half a chance of growing vegetables in this strip. I've only reached about halfway down the available space but what I have up and running is about 80ft by 12ft. As you can see I've also started growing things: that cloche is over my overwintering broad beans (there are autumn-sown onions in there too). And just check out that pile of green waste (this is the lower slopes of a mountain rising up behind). We already spent all day yesterday burning the first lot: now I just have to barrow this pile up to the hill and we can start all over again. On the other side of the gate into this area is what's going to be my fruit cage (-that-doesn't-look-like-a-fruit-cage). Design plans still ongoing.... I've cleared the veg beds which were here when we came, and very nice the beetroot were too, and this area is now also home to a second greenhouse - relocated (with help from Paul Debois - who found time in between lugging sheets of rusty metal around to take a photo - and a very large rented van) from my old allotment in Surrey. The pit is there a) to capture unwary husbands helping to erect said greenhouse and b) originally as a shed base, but then I changed my mind and decided it would block the view too much. Oh yes, and I've been stripping acres of ivy plus not a few roof tiles off the single garage, which is now de facto my shed, having been wrenched with many protestations off my husband who rather fancied it as a wood store. My technique was a cunning mix of bribery and compromise: he needed somewhere to put his motorbike, I needed somewhere to put my potting bench. QED. Spot the difference? What will be my cutting garden: haven't touched it. Apart from the lawnmowing, but even that was by proxy. The rock garden, or herb garden as it shall be known (as I am allergic to rock gardens) is looking considerably more wintery these days: I've done a little clearing here but this is the start of my Really Messy Garden as I am poised to do my Grand February Springclean any moment now. So what you have here is basically the remains of last year's plants: sad, yes, but the little beasties have appreciated the extra hibernating opportunities and I'm hoping I've helped protect the emerging shoots of some of the more tender plants in there (fuchsias, mainly: that great big bush to the right is a fuchsia, and a mighty fine one at that. It's in the wrong place, though: how do you go about moving a huge great thing like that?!). Popping up all over the place in the rock garden are my lovely snowdrops: now there's a phrase I've never been able to use before. Condemned to a snowdrop-less existence because of the acid sand I used to garden on (kept meaning to buy Galanthus elwesii which can apparently cope with drier conditions but never quite got around to it) I now have the damp chalk and shade they relish. The garden is full of snowdrops, and my heart is just singing. Hmm... another spot the difference. This is where most of the clearing needs to be done: great swathes of dead rogersia leaves and the new shoots of daylilies and geraniums struggling to make it up through the brown slimy mush currently collapsed on their heads. Plus zillions of dead stems, asters and valerian mostly, needing to be snipped out at the base. The spring clear-up is my first major job of the season, and also one of my favourites; it's like sweeping a brush over the garden and clearing the way for the new growth to come. I love it. The mahonia which grows here is a very fine specimen and has given me something to look at all winter, for which I'm grateful. I'm wondering whether to raise the crown on this one, however, and see if I can grow something underneath: I have fond memories of a mahonia tree in a client's garden I used to look after and would dearly love something like it myself. Wonder if this one can be persuaded...? Oh now this is a little depressing. I haven't touched this bit either - even, as you can see, to the point of not removing the sunflower stems which are now lurching even more drunkenly in various different directions. But then the bluetits did love hanging upside down off them enjoying the seeds, right through till the end of December. About the only change here has been Guineapig Palace, just visible beyond the viburnum ('Dawn' - another one whose flowers have been keeping me going through the coldest months). Previously a shepherd's hut my carpenter husband made for a garden show, now housing Nibbles, Marmalade and Smokey Bacon who are in seventh heaven with the run of a shed-sized hutch and very snug and cosy. The hill is also looking a little bleak (I took this month's standing with the trampoline behind me: it is still a little bone of contention in our house that we are looking at a large lump of blue plastic in such a lovely environment). The kids built a den up at the top, nicking the trampoline cover and a large ladder to do so, but otherwise not much has been happening here apart from... Aren't they lovely?

Plant envy

I turned up at a client's garden for the first time in a little while the other day to find this.

Isn't it beautiful? It is, of course, the dog's tooth violet, Erythronium dens-canis, and I am spitting mad.

The reason I'm so bloody furious is that I can't grow the damn thing. Never have been able to. I must have wasted twenty quid over the years on buying its funny-looking bulbs and though I have planted them by the book - partial shade, moist but well-drained, lots of leafmould - they stubbornly refuse to do their stuff. Yet here they were: a little clump, nestling among the spring bulbs on the rockery. And she hadn't even really done much other than plonk them in there. When told of my incredulity at the ease with which they sprang up she just said, "Really? I've never had any trouble."

Why do gardeners always say that?

Dog's tooth violets are not the only thing I can't grow. There's quite a long list, actually.

• snowdrops (going to try the elwesii types at some point though -you never know)
• chillies (this year's failed to germinate, again)
• trilliums (but I'm in good company)
• heliotrope: how do you overwinter them?
• Nicotiana sylvestris: germinate beautifully and then sulk, permanently
• morning glory: ditto (going to try sowing in late May this year)

And if any of you lot say you've never had any trouble, I'll torture you till you tell me which plants you can't grow and then show you how brilliantly they're doing in my garden. So there.

Plant of the month - January

Helleborus x hybridus


This lovely pure flower is a real sign that spring is on the way in my garden. I have a few - this white one, which occasionally sports flecks of burgundy at the base of the petals; one deepest purple, though that isn't quite out yet, and some rather dirty pinks which I'm probably going to rogue out at some stage. But I can't grow snowdrops in my soil (though I'm going to try Galanthus elwesii soon in the hope that it'll live up to its publicity and grow in poor dry soils - unlike most snowdrops) - so Hellebores are my substitute. I love the fact that you have to get right in there to see the flowers, modestly nodding amid deeply-cut leaves but hiding the most exquisite form and shape. And the leaves provide an evergreen ground cover the rest of the year. I clip the old leaves down to the ground every autumn to give a fresh flush over winter, and then I can look forward to the flowers in all their beauty when nothing else is out yet. Glorious.