February flowers

On a weekend where snowflakes swirled wildly in the air, and hail stones smashed to the ground under thick green-grey clouds, it really has felt like we're in the grip of a long, hostile winter.  From the outside, the garden too takes on this facade of the season, but in a rare half hour of sunshine, where the bitter winds seemed to briefly drop, the onset of spring - even in its most embryonic state - was almost tangible.  This winter has been endless, and the dark, cold months have had a much greater effect on me than usual.  Maybe it's the lack of sunlight, the soullessly damp evenings, or the unfulfilled need to care for, grow and nurture, but I'm impatient to once more spend warm mornings and sunny evenings planting, pruning, and communing with nature.

Last year, our patch of early daffodils were brutally shredded by winter storms, and never really showed their beautiful flowers.  Fast forward to now, and a lovely surprise on my ascent up the steps, which almost saw my heart skip a beat.  They're a particularly early variety, and a very welcome sight, basking in the glory of their own fineness.  I think I get Wordsworth now - perhaps his host of golden daffodils was the first sign of life he saw at the end of a long winter.  

Bulbs are the kings of the early gardening season.  As well as the daffs, croci and tulips are beginning to poke their heads up, with a promise of things to come.  Meanwhile, up in the shady corner of the winter border, another bulb, winter aconite, has began to bring its unabashedly yellow heads above the soil.  Winter aconite has become a favourite of mine, and suits this spot perfectly, where it will flower and die back before the towering trees come back to life and cast their thicker shade.  They share their border with the hellebores - which are also now showing their buds - and the cyclamen which, having flowered all through the darkest part of the year, are now on the wane.  

The other stalwarts of the season are, of course, primroses.  Trays of these have been popping up in garden centres across the country over the last few weeks, but there's something especially satisfying about seeing last year's plants coming back into growth, and dotted all around the garden like little paint specks on a canvas.  Primroses are a good choice for any early pollinators and we will, in the next few weeks, be moving into a critical time for all manner of insects, from bees to early butterflies.

Beyond the early flowers, my other source of delight is the somewhat mystical, old-worldly, mysterious witch hazel, whose bare winter branches make for a fascinating visual exploration, and whose catkin-like flowers are a sure sign of February.  To me, witch hazels seem come from another time, from deep forests filled with mythical beasts and wizards' huts, through which only the bravest of knights would dare to pass.  This may not be accurate, but its presence in our garden brings a sense of ancientness and history to the whole garden.

The birds are singing, there's flowers coming up everywhere, the days are getting longer, and the sun - when it does show its head - is a lifter of spirits and moods, and a sure sign that spring, the greatest and most affirming of seasons, has finally gathered its courage and is on the march towards our liberation.  I can't wait.