In and around the garden: some fragments from January

The January man he goes around in woollen coat and boots of leather (1)

The year begins with weather warnings. Frost settles into the garden ground and doesn’t move. Motivation is low. Piles of hazel thinnings lay unsorted or trimmed. Tall herbaceous plants, long past the ‘interesting in winter’ stage need cutting back. Leaves are still to be raked up. But by the first weekend of the year, such tasks go unheeded. Piles of books and winter fires seem more inviting.

The morning and evening dog walks continue however. A steady routine that keeps me in close touch with the garden and arboretum, no matter what the season. On the sixth of January – the night of Epiphany – an unusual experience awaits.

Cow in the garden

Close to the pond are cloven hoof prints in the grass. A cow in the garden? I trace the tracks up the hill and into the trees and mown paths. They wander hither and thither but with no sign of the source. Then I hear low moo-ing which guides me to a perfectly relaxed bovine, quietly nibbling at a patch of grass.

I call the farm and within a few minutes the dairy manager has arrived. We set off to relocate the cow and then to nudge it towards a gate, and thence back to its companions. I’m impressed by the gentleness of the manager with his ‘come on now lady’ utterances delivered in the softest Irish burr. But just as she edges towards the gate ‘lady’ has a change of heart and makes a dash down the hill to the garden itself. He tells me ‘she’s a small cow with a big brain and lots of attitude’.

Extra hands are summoned up and soon two young Welshmen arrive, their strong head torches a welcome addition to the light of our mobile phones. As we take up position to push our visitor in the right direction, she has another idea. Maybe she can get out by the way she got in? This means crossing the burn that runs around two thirds of the garden.

Soon she is belly deep in the icy water. Then, apparently doubting her own judgement, she quickly turns, scrambles up the steepest part of the bank, and heads off. To our relief she’s now going in the right direction.

As we reach the gate and the cow’s safe passage back to the field, I can’t resist asking my companions if they know the one about the Englishman, the Irishman and the two Welshmen who guided a cow out of a Scottish garden at 10 o’ clock on a frosty winter night!

Border clearing

Despite the persistent frost and the frozen ground ringing hard as bell metal, we make a start on preparing the borders at the back of the house, readying them for spring. Anything brown and dead must go, and barrowloads of herbaceous matter are taken away for composting. The crop of raspberry canes that appears each year under a mature acer will need digging out when conditions allow. The blackbirds are the culprits, spreading raspberry seeds as they gorge on stolen fruits in early summer.

But now scraped clean and temporarily looking bare, these particular borders where clipped box and yew are well established, look business like – and ready for the push through of the early bulbs.

It’s cold weather indeed and gets colder as we progress to the 10th day of the month and beyond. The garden pond and the nearby loch are frozen, to the chagrin of the water birds. But the sun also appears and gives an illusory feeling of warmth, especially if you are well wrapped up and keeping active. I clip my way through a pile of hazel cuttings over a couple of sessions, creating poles for sweet peas and other uses around the garden.

Whilst thus engaged, I hear something.

The first time I am unsure. It seems too early. But on the second occasion, I’m pretty confident: the intermittent drumming of beak on tree, as the woodpecker beats out its presence in the world. It must have been a harbinger. Two days later the temperature soars, the frost dissipates and as dawn creeps in, whisps of mist drape the drumlins, watched over by the sinking Wolf moon.

In the warm sunshine and soft breezes that ensue by mid-morning, two more borders get cleared.

Further tasks

As the mild weather persists up to the middle of the month I feel that unwise sense that spring is just around the corner. The greenhouse gets its annual clean down from a team of experts. In three hours it’s pristine and good as new. I carefully move staging, seating and plants back inside, avoiding over-filling. For the next few months it will be more conservatory than production unit. But I’m already wondering if I can sow meconopsis and diarama seeds collected from the garden last year – as well as some early salads perhaps?

Looking around the terraced areas near the house, other jobs await. Flagstones to be brushed, scrubbed and hosed down. Pots to be given a clean up. The dead hedge needs attention too. Established five years ago, some of the birch branches I used as posts are now rotting away. I cut more thick hazel stems and try them for size. The effect is practical and pleasant to the eye. I resolve to use all the available stems for this purpose, save a few for the sweet peas.

In the vegetable garden all is well. It had its big clear up before Christmas and looks immaculate. It also continues to provide excellent winter leeks for the kitchen, and I’m delighted to see the bright stems of autumn-planted garlic now gaining strength with the lengthening days. On the 21st of the month I plant four rows of shallots and cover them over with a nice mulch of oak leaves. A small task, but surprisingly satisfying.

Storm Éowyn

Its name is Tolkein-inspired and comes out of Lord of the Rings. In the early hours of 24th January, we hear it gathering momentum. Set to be at its most intense here between 10am and 5pm, by 8.30 the power is already out. We rush around outside taking final precautions and doing our best to get things out of harm’s way – plants in pots, firepits, tables and chairs. With the wood burning stove on in the living room and a camp stove in the kitchen, we are comfortable indoors, but as Éowyn strengthens, there’s a feeling of edginess. Ancient beech trees across the burn lurch and sway. The silver birches bend improbably, tips almost to the ground. A pruned holly does some kind of shimmy – shakin’ all over. Thankfully none go over.

In the ensuing days we see the damage that has been caused in the woods and gardens around us. The clear-up will take some time. On closer inspection, I find just one tree that has come to grief on our domain. It’s a larch in a small copse on the edge of the arboretum field, pulled out at the roots and leaning in to some neighbouring hornbeams. I’ll ask Robert our firewood supplier to bring his chain saw when he brings our spring delivery. It’s a small problem – there are plenty of folk around here who still have no power, days after the storm has been and gone.

And with that comes a mix of rain and then brighter days and frosts. As we slip out of the month of January, clear night skies are packed with stars, the planets begin to align, and even the elusive Pleiades flicker into view. In the day time, the big border gets a huge clear out, revealing infant witch hazels producing their first, scented, blooms. There’s more besides. Daffodils in the sunniest spot are on the brink of flowering. Crocus peep out in the grass. Pink viburnums blossom in the sunshine. Hellebores are fast awakening. Snowdrops approach full tilt.

It seems to have been a long January, one way and another. But now the shortest month awaits, and with it, some new gardening ideas and projects start to beckon.

Acknowledgements

(1) The January Man, a song written by Dave Goulder.