Counting Down to Freedom
Like pretty much everyone I know, I’m finding 2021 pretty dismal so far. The sense of rebirth, renewal and a leap into action in the New Year is so ingrained in me that the Covid hangover has thrown me for a loop. It’s hard to feel invigorated or excited about the year ahead when my social life for much of the last 11 months has consisted of Playdoh tea parties and teaching Arty the moves to Gangnam Style.
Today I was sitting staring into the bleak garden contemplating my tax return when I realised that, whilst we may be well into the new calendar year, the new growing year is still a little way away. In fact, all being well, it seems the gardening year will start just as restrictions begin to ease and life becomes a little easier, with current plans for lockdown to begin to lift at the end of March. And so I’ve decided that for me, 2021 will begin with my tulips and, dare I whisper it, when I can meet a friend for a pint outdoors or even take Arthur for a swim.
I’ve packed my tulip pots with a jamboree of fiery colours this year which will celebrate the New Year just as well as any fireworks. The pristine innocence of apple and pear blossom will be the embodiment of a fresh start. It is after all, the perfect time to turn over a new leaf.
But whereas January 1st sits in a no-man’s land after the excesses of Christmas, my ‘Spring is Here!’ tulip fest of freedom will be the jubilant climax to 2 months in which the beginnings of growth appear from nothing and gradually crescendo into spring. This process is already underway. From a distance, my garden pots look uninspiring, but on closer inspection, the shoots of crocus and Iris reticulata are already well-formed and the countdown to spring has begun.
I’ve kept a sort of botanical advent calendar in my mind for as long as I can remember, as the antidote to January’s dark days. Over the years I have added to it as I stumble upon local treasures, and these blossomings are events which I revisit year after year, making a pilgrimage to the same precious spots.
It starts in the earliest days of January with a walk in Richmond park to enjoy the enormous witch hazel that dominates the entrance to the Isabella Plantation, and the deliciously scented, paper flowers of Chimonanthus praecox or wintersweet. Closer to home I make a point of passing a neighbour’s garden, with early snowdrops shining in a dark corner no matter how modestly they hang their heads. By February the grass in our local park is studded with crocuses while tiny pots of iris on our garden table erupt in shades of amethyst and deep blue. I have a map in my mind of the local mimosa trees (there’s the most wonderful row of them near my parents on Kingston Hill and several tucked around Brixton and Camberwell) whose frothy yellow blossom transports me instantly to the south of France.
Nothing is more optimistic than Narcissus ‘Tete-a-Tete’
This year these markers have never been more precious, counting down the days until we can all have some freedom from the anxiety and tragedy of the last year. Narcissus ‘Tete a Tete’ will appear here in mid-March their bright, sunny disposition forcing me to feel cheerful while the simplicity of the summer snowflake, Leucojum aestivum, will be a soothing balm to any news of delays with vaccinations or continuing restrictions. By the time the stunning winter cherry breaks into flower on the street outside we will be almost there and I have every expectation that when my tulips are finally in bloom I will be having a G&T in the garden with friends to celebrate them.
For everyone this list of precious awakenings will be unique, partly because of our geography but largely because they are so entwined with our own associations and what catches our eye or speaks to us. They’re also free to all of us, regardless of whether we have a garden or not. In fact, signs of spring outside my own garden speak far more to me as they demonstrate the universality of this awakening. Like a wave breaking over all the surrounding streets, flooding the warmer, sunnier corners first and washing away the cold and the gloom before it.
Back in my own garden it’s easy to miss the first signs of growth when I take a quick glance out of the window or peg it to the compost heap in slippers and a nightie, but when I stop, get onto my knees and examine the ground, the signs of hope are everywhere. Tiny leaves of aquilegia covered in dew; fat shoots of daffodils and tulips; far too many alliums. Our gardens are no doubt gearing up for a wild and exuberant summer. I certainly am….
Don’t give up hope. Just a little longer!
