The ground lies undisturbed. The fork and trowel sit in silence. The rake unused, almost forlorn. At this point in the year, there is nothing much to plant or prune, little to trim or tie up. Most of this month’s gardening is done in my head rather than with my hands.
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That said, there is still important work to be done. By which I mean dreaming. The kitchen table is scattered with more garden catalogues. My laptop is open at a page of perennials and my notebooks are overflowing with lists. Each brochure and online shop brings with it a trug-full of opportunities. These displays, and especially their gorgeous photography, are the stuff of dreams. Turn the pages for overflowing buckets of pastel-coloured dahlias; grasses whose feathery plumes are caught romantically in the evening light and entire hosta plants that appear without a single hole in their leaves. This is cold, wet-weather gardening at its best: page after page of possibilities to be considered while drinking tea by the fire.
And not only plants; oh, dear me, no. Each copper spade, stone bird bath and tiny greenhouse beckons. I swear the display of leather garden gloves are waving directly at me. Every advertisement and photo is bursting with hope for a better, more beautiful garden.
There is temptation at every turn. The hose that doesn’t kink. The plant protectors that will guard my seedlings from slugs and the bug hotel for all the new pollinators that are on their way to my garden.
Each page also poses a question. Would hoggin work better than gravel? Is there a more sustainable way of keeping my garden pots watered? And the eternal question of how to bring more wildlife into the garden. Would those rows of perfectly filled raised beds on that website be the answer to the marauding squirrels and pigeons (answer: probably not) that have marred my previous attempts at growing my own salads?
The choice is as baffling as it is dazzling. Could this be the moment my dreams turn into nightmares?
Much of the time spent gardening in winter is in fact ‘dream-time’. I am all for it. The hours are spent imagining a garden very different to my own. A garden which, in truth, can only be achieved by moving house. I admit I bought my home because of the building rather than the land it came with. Yet having created a garden on that tiny patch, I know that I could probably handle a larger one, and so the flower catalogues and nursery websites, gardening magazines and manuals soon shift a gear into property searches. Yes, this was my ‘forever home’, but I remain unsure that this is my ‘forever garden’. A thought confirmed by the endless inspiration with which I find myself surrounded. ‘Besieged’ might be a more accurate description.
The newly prepared bed awaits my choice, but I’m in a quandary about how my favourites will fare together.
My current most well-thumbed collection are the rose catalogues. I turn the pages hopefully, praying for the return of those beloved cultivars now retired, yet find myself beguiled by those that have taken their place. Rose catalogues offer us page upon page of soft porn, a veritable 50 shades of pink. Buying
roses is as exciting as garden shopping gets.
I am all a dither at the promise of Elizabeth (= ‘Ausmajesty’), Eustacia Vye (= ‘Ausegdon’) and Emily Brontë (= ‘Ausearnshaw)’, yet will they work together or will they fight? There is some urgency to this decision. I decided last summer that the garden needs more roses and have ripped out one of my three Cornus kousa to create a suitable space. The newly prepared bed awaits my choice, but I’m in
a quandary about how my favourites will fare together. One is bound to sulk. I look in vain for advice of which pinks will work together and what I should put among them to balance the saccharine tones. The choice is as baffling as it is dazzling. I must make a decision. Could this be the moment my dreams turn into nightmares?
The plant catalogue I have found the most inspirational comes without a single photograph
Yes, photography is the primary cause of dissatisfaction with my own gardening exploits. Glossy images of other people’s gardens often make me feel like a failure. The perfect tufts of crinkle-edged dianthus; the pyramid of clematis without a single missing flower. Even the Verbena bonariensis stands to attention rather than keel over as does mine, like a drunken guest at a wedding. I need to remind myself that there is often a degree of what I call window dressing in every book and catalogue. No garden is ever perfect, nor should it be.
Strangely, the plant catalogue I have found the most inspirational comes without a single photograph, though later editions include some good colour plates. The Plantsman’s Handbook is the work of the late Michael Loftus, founder of Woottens of Wenhaston, and is rather like the good pair of boots that seem to go on forever. The author’s descriptions are so vividly accurate, not to mention delightfully opinionated (he seems almost permanently at war with the late and equally opinionated Christopher Lloyd) that no photography is needed. The easily digestible history and occasionally grumpy anecdotes make me want to buy plants, not dreams.
This over stimulation, this cacophony of colour and texture, fantasy and practicality, is something I wouldn’t want to live without. The arrival of the catalogue that stops me in my tracks. The website I am drawn to like a moth to a candle. The book I turn to each winter for inspiration. These are not just pictures and ideas to dream over. They are integral to the development of this space, and are as much
a part of my gardening life as my secateurs, rake and spade.
