The winter garden always hits the bleakest point in its cycle in January, the last of the valiant perennials having finally died back. I enjoy their skeletons, beautiful sepia-tinged echoes of summer’s glories, but, by now, they have all been blown or cut down in readiness for what is to come. And yet nothing ever truly stands still in the garden. There is already hope stirring beneath the soil, with green shoots poking their optimistic little heads through in every bed. Their slow winter growth means that we have a while to go yet before we see much more action from them, but the fact that they are there at all brings its own quiet joy.
Even the bleak mid-winter has its splashes of colour and, in my garden, these come in the form of chrysanthemums and the odd cyclamen. Their buds may yet be tight, but it won’t be long now before the Hellebore bed bursts into vivid life.
I have been astonished and delighted that a few heroic roses have clung on through the winter, continuing to flower in front of the cottage where it’s more sheltered and giving us the most uplifting welcome amidst the gloom. It is such a great delight to be able to bring in freshly cut roses at this time of year – they’re cheering up our winter kitchen suppers no end.
My quadrant beds are beginning to look promising as the first signs of next year’s alliums and lilies begin to pop up. It is a joy to see them amidst the phlomis foliage which, thankfully, hasn’t been affected by the frost. Not only does it give good ground cover, but it takes on a sparkling winter magic when covered in morning dew.
As with every year, the dormant hush in the garden is making us feel reluctant to take down the golden Christmas lights that are woven around the topiary and through the thatched roof. Somehow, it feels less pressing to divest the garden of its decorations than it does indoors. After all, we could all do with a little wintry enchantment to tide us over through the darkest, coldest months of the year.
The twinkling lights are particularly enchanting against the golden tones of our dried hydrangea heads, as well as our burnt hornbeam and beech leaves. I find myself drawn to them especially now, embracing the much-needed warm tones amidst an otherwise muted palette.
