Quiet. Still. Colours subdued yet sparkling in the slanting light. Silhouettes of bare trees against the pale winter sky. Wrapped in vibrant colours of autumn before going to sleep, branches dripping with brilliant berries – gradually devoured by birds themselves preparing for winter.
This winter was wet, very, very wet. And there were only a few days when it was very cold, cold enough for the frost to pick out the details of the garden.
Fallen leaves on the grass. Rosettes of small sedums and the first primroses of spring.
The wet months of February and March passed, and suddenly it was sunshine, warmth and the garden burst into life. The walls clothed with the purple of aubretia ready to welcome visitors which were prohibited to visit.
Reliable clumps of daffodils, which we had inherited, flowered yet again reliably, in the shelter against the old farmyard wall …
… and under the mature ash tree with grape hyacinths amongst the carpet of ubiquitous, gloriously sunny celandines.
And beneath the low branches of shrubs dances clusters of pale forget‑me‑nots. The garden has awoken.
But not everything has been asleep through the winter. The garden isn’t really ours; we are just temporary residents. The real residents – the moles, the voles and the rabbits – continue to thrive, their presence throughout the winter only too apparent. They were here long before us, and I am trying to accept that I only share my garden with them.
