The garden is falling asleep. Leaves sit in untidy piles ready for their transfer to string bags, where they will eventually break down into ‘gardeners’ gold’. Pelargoniums are shuddering at the recent cold snap, and bags of late-flowering tulip bulbs sit quietly waiting to be planted.
The spindle-stemmed twigs of the wisteria are almost all down now and poised to be shredded for compost. The branches of the fig tree reach toward the sky, awaiting their fate with the tree surgeon. A few late roses droop, hanging their heads as they too are ready to sleep.
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I look forward to winter in the garden, especially the seasonal tidy up, which I usually do all too late, when everything has turned to mush. Pelargoniums ‘Attar of Roses’ and ‘Prince of Orange’ will get their late autumn prune and then be brought inside for shelter. Pelargonium ‘Lord Bute’ has proved unkillable, so I might leave him to face the winter outside, close to the warm air of the Aga outlet.
A risk, but it has worked before, and the stems have bulked up against the cold weather, emerging each spring as a stronger plant. The fancier, more fragile ‘pellies’, as I call them, are treated as annuals as I have yet to get one to overwinter even indoors.
I embrace the wildness of the winter garden, finding beauty in the muted colours and crisp, tangled stems.
The window boxes need something of a seasonal makeover. The Pelargonium sidoides will stay put, as they are less tender than one might think, or at least mine are. The Pittosporum tobira too, but there will be the addition of hellebores this year – a deep-red cultivar did well last Christmas, shaking off the snow, its burgundy-coloured faces smiling benignly throughout Yuletide and well into spring.
Keeping thyme, lemon verbena and curry plants going through the wet, cold days of winter is almost impossible, as they hate having wet feet, but their almost-certain demise frees up a few terracotta pots.
The box of bulbs-in-bags has already come out from its summer home in the cellar. It is as if Christmas has come early, and I have already unwrapped parcels of Muscari ‘Jenny Robinson’ and Crocus
A few late bulbs are glaring at me accusingly. “Why aren’t we in yet?” they seem to say. My life is full of jobs done too late olivieri subsp. balansae ‘Orange Monarch’ from their crinkly wrappings. They keep in better condition in brown paper bags than anything else I’ve tried – bags large enough to let them breathe, and loosely sealed, then hidden in old wine boxes to keep them dry. A few late bulbs are glaring at me accusingly. “Why aren’t we in yet?” they seem to say.
My life is full of jobs done too late. I see nothing negative about this time of year, nothing to be sad about. I like the idea of over-wintering, a chance for a plant to sleep. There is never a frost so severe in my neck of the woods that I need to protect anything in the ground, but plants in pots are a different matter. Delicate ferns, chocolate cosmos and Dianthus all need a little protection. I slide them under the garden table, where they still get a little light, but are safe from the biting wind and endless rain. It seems to be wet that kills more the cold. Should there ever be a frost, I can always bring them temporarily into the dry cellar.
I learned about winter watering the hard way, losing many a plant during its dormant months. It is all too easy to overwater. Few of them need more than an occasional trickle while they sleep. That said, I’ve never had any luck with the suggestion to lift pelargoniums from their pots and wrap them in newspaper, the plants emerging in early spring as dead twigs. There is no single answer to keeping anything in fine fettle over winter. Rosemary is unshakable, as tough as old boots, but I have lost a potted lavender or two over the years.
There is a duty of care to winter gardening that appeals to me. Protecting tender growth from frost is an act of nurture and also a challenge. Keeping a plant safe from bad weather can give you a sense of purpose when there are few reasons to be outdoors.
A small task I deem essential at this time of year is to clear any deep piles of wet leaves from around the stems of shrubs. It is a messy job but necessary to ensure the plants underneath do not rot.
Wet leaves are brushed from the hedges and topiary too. As the weather becomes colder, I like to turn over the stone balls that line the paths and drag pots from their terracotta feet, hunting for sleeping slugs. You can tidy up too much. I leave stems and seedpods to wave in the winter wind.
A few late bulbs are glaring at me accusingly. “Why aren’t we in yet?” they seem to say. My life is full of jobs done too late.
The seeds provide food for the birds. The bare, crisp stems give a certain architecture to the garden; the dried flowerheads of the hydrangeas shining gold against the dark yew hedges in the low afternoon light. Rose hips, little globes of rust and garnet red, are left in place to glow until the bushes get their new year pruning.
Until the annual rose pruning, the secateurs come out of their holster only to remove any long branches that might flap around in the wind, rocking the bushes and their roots in the process. As much as possible is left in place, to provide a winter home for insects and pollinators, but also to bring a romantic, sleeping-beauty feel to the space.
I embrace the wildness of the winter garden, finding beauty in the muted colours and crisp, tangled stems. There is much temptation to plan for next year, but I’m resisting any idea of making plans for a few weeks, until the space is as bare as possible, which will allow for clearer thinking. That doesn’t mean I won’t sit and dream – just that I refuse to commit myself to paper or go hunting for inspiration. At least, not until next month.
