I am not an impulsive gardener. Each plant is bought only after much consideration; every pot is lovingly handled before purchase, and each new piece of equipment researched and given detailed thought. My notebook is full of plans, drawings and checklists. Almost nothing is done spontaneously.
I like to take my time. To mull things over, consider my options and weigh up the situation. Thinking about a project is almost as pleasurable as doing it. (Occasionally, even more so.) None of which stops me putting the right plant in the wrong place finding a well-researched piece of kit doesn’t live up to its promise or my carefully laid plans going wildly astray.
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Now, when the garden is at rest, is the best time to draw up a wish-list. To see the garden naked, without leaves and flowers, gives a chance to understand its architecture. To discover possibilities that you cannot see when everything is in flower. For once I have the opportunity to, as they say, see the wood for the trees. Looking at the space on a cold winter’s day, mug of steaming cocoa in hand, allows me the luxury of clear thinking – a state of mind best achieved with an almost blank canvas in front of me.
I had a well-thought-out plan for the garden this winter.
A New Year project that would involve taking up the gravel paths – the local cat population had declared my tenderly raked stones a giant litter box – and replacing it with reclaimed stone. These were New Year plans that were supposed to begin in January. The contractors threw a curve ball, however, with a surprise request to bring the plan forward. As a house restorer and gardener, I am rarely faced with anything happening more quickly than expected. Despite it turning my diary upside down, I jumped at the chance.
The unplanned-for events have probably brought almost as much pleasure as those oh-so-carefully considered ideas
The bareness of a winter garden allows me to make more brave decisions. Without its white flowers, each one as seductive as a cream meringue, I can feel less guilty about ripping out the Cornus kousa var. chinensis ‘China Girl’ that has grown too big for the border in which it was planted. Who knew she would get so big or be the happy host of a climbing rose that is now taller than the Cornus itself.
The idea of the tree’s demise would fill me with gardener’s guilt in summer, yet in the dead of winter feels more like the sensible idea it is. Without this overgrown tree’s shade and roots, I can fit in a new batch of roses, maybe even some of the trusty, much admired perennials this garden lacks and those irises I have promised myself.
Frustratingly, any major planning should really be done in summer, to give us time to mull over our fancies, knock the corners off them and set out a proper plan of action. But this is when we can barely see the space, its possibilities hidden by trailing wisteria and voluptuous roses. It is a darn sight easier to see where a crazily gambolling jasmine can be cut back when it has lost its leaves. Only once the beguiling flowers of my rambling rose James Galway have fallen can I finally see where the secateurs should be best employed.
Plans do go astray, but sometimes to our advantage
The resurfacing of paths and terraces is an extensive job in a small urban space. Such work comes under the heading of major construction. The original paths must be lifted, the incumbent surfaces removed and taken off site before the groundwork can begin. Any constructional work is also likely to uncover a myriad of unforeseen jobs to add to the list. The hidden remains of an irrigation system or a tangle of wires from disused garden lighting are just two of the treasures we found buried under the gravel.
Of course, there are less major plans for the coming year as well. A long list which, though small, is just as important as rebuilding the garden walkways. This will be the year that I finally get to replace the unhappy Clematis armandi with something that can thrive in its place at the bottom of the garden. And this year will see me (finally) getting to grips with the bed that has seen woodruff run amok. I may even work out where to place my much-needed shed. Could this also be the year in which the plants I fell in love with at RHS Chelsea two years ago finally get into the ground?
Plans do go astray, but sometimes to our advantage. A trip to buy white hellebores, such as the delightful ‘Christmas Carol’, was side-tracked by an impulse purchase of the deepest burgundy variety that turned out to be a stunning success. The plants relished their home in the window boxes, and flowered non-stop until late spring. A joy rather than a disappointment.
There was also my unplanned, screaming pink rhododendron (bought as ‘Cunningham’s White’) that I have mysteriously grown to love. Sometimes, nature seems to be a better judge of what we need than we are. And this is my point. I am continually let down by my over-planning, my need to get something ‘right’ and to circumnavigate any disappointment. The last-minute decisions, the unplanned-for events, have probably brought almost as much pleasure as those oh-so-carefully considered ideas.
Is this, then, the year I throw the plans out of the window? The carefully annotated drawings and endless lists. The year in which I garden more spontaneously, throwing my dreams to the wind? Maybe this will finally be the year I let things just happen.
