It has been a long, hesitant, process.
I look back at my diary and photographs over the two months since mid-February, bemused by the intermittent unfurling of Spring 2024, here in south west Scotland. Delayed by days and days of rain. Held up by low temperatures and with winds ‘like a whetted knife’. Hindered by the persistent chill of the wet earth.
Yet curiously it’s made for a good experience. I’ve realized that Spring is not just about the excitement of new growth. There’s also the matter of balancing expectations. For like it or not, Spring in the garden is about both disappointments and pleasures.
On the negative side of the balance sheet come the frustrated hopes. I think of the 60 allium bulbs of the variety, Purple Rain. They produced an astonishing display in their first season. This year all that’s to be seen is a clump of indifferent leaves. No flower buds in sight.
Likewise the clutch of Erythronium bought last year at Hidcote Manor, my all-time favourite garden. Carefully planted in a new border that we see from the kitchen window, all that’s on view at the moment are a few tattered leaves and a single white flower, albeit rather elegant.
Over the years, I can think of various splendid plants that were nowhere to be seen come the Spring. Here are a few from memory: Fritillaria, Colocasia, Arisaema, and Penstemon. Also shrubs and trees that never again came into leaf, like Japanese Maple, various Rhododendrons, and the dead stems of Eucalpytus and Cordyline. Winter victims all, that never made it to Summer.
Fortunately, the ledger has a somewhat larger credit column. Most things do survive and year by year we have more to see in the Spring, as new plants accumulate and existing ones bulk up, mature and spread.
Let’s focus on those that have done particularly well this Spring. There’s a good list. Early entries are the humble elephant’s ears of Bergenia and the ubiquitous St Agnes snowbells. They bring drifts of purple-pink and white, and I make a mental note to lift, divide and replant both in other places, spreading the love around the garden.
Those who follow these Dumfriesshire musings, will know that I am a big fan of epimediums and hellebores. Neither have disappointed this year. They represent under-stated elegance and stamina, respectively. The former suddenly bursting into a sprint of new leaf growth and a profusion of delicate, horn-like flowers. The latter powering on from before Christmas and even now in the case of the Asiatic varieties, showing flowers that are turning papery, yet look as elegant when the seed heads form as when in their first flush of velvety softness.
Magnolias too have had a good year in 2024. My neighbour has several of them in his garden across the Pennyland Burn and favours the white varieties for their hardiness. My Stellata, bought for 90p on impulse at a supermarket checkout over 25 years ago, has been on great form. The mass of flowers on the Camelias also did superbly well, until heavy rain and wind left them lying on the ground, in a wistful carpet of deep pink.
Not to be overlooked are a couple of new arrivals this Spring. Blown or wandered in from who knows where. Popping up in an experimental semi-wild border, are the blue-mauve of Spring Vetchling, and the rich yellow of Coltsfoot. Contrasting gems both, and equally welcome.
Beyond these puzzles of things lost and found, thriving or struggling, there is something else to consider. For a garden is more than the sum of its plants. These form the elements, structures, scents and textures, but they also combine, when we get things right, into something far more complex. They create atmosphere, emotion, empathy, calm. They make for surprise or comforting familiarity.
Spring is the season when we wake up to this. The sharp greens and shimmering bronzes are heightened by the slanting rays of a strengthening sun. The rustle of unwelcome wind and rain sets us in a panic that blooms will be flattened. The constant interest that stirs as new growth emerges and old friends return. All these factors shape our overall sensory experience of every garden we encounter.
So this Spring, amidst the late frosts, the biting winds, and the occasional hail shower, I tell myself that the ledger is perfectly balanced. Never mind the periodic losses, or indeed the unexpected gains. If the garden as a whole is in harmony with itself, then the gardener is content, whatever the season.
Quotidian 