Full of the joys of spring — Katy in the garden

One of the greatest (and most therapeutic) aspects of gardening is that it connects us to the flow of time, whilst simultaneously anchoring us in the present. We feel invested in the changing seasons and are always looking forward with excitement and expectation, whilst the manual aspect of gardening keeps us ‘in the moment’ or ‘mindful’, a concept now hugely fashionable but which gardeners have been instinctively drawn to since man first put seeds in the ground.

This interplay between the future and the present is at its richest in spring. The passing days are marked visibly in an eruption of fresh growth and blossom with the tangible promise of garden plans coming to fruition. At the same time, there is so much to do in the garden I can’t help but fill every spare moment with activity, and whilst in March it was sometimes easier to stay warm indoors and put things off, by April we have no choice but to get outside, trying to match the immense energy and exuberance of nature. It’s a joyous race to compete in, but the chances of even the most diligent gardener winning are slim. Inevitably by mid-summer plants will have overtaken me and reached the finish line, luxuriating in their victory while I frantically try to catch up, staking, feeding and weeding as I go.

No matter. As ever, it is the taking part that counts, and in April I already begin to fall behind as I pause (with a coffee and a piece of Easter egg) to marvel at nature’s athleticism as she races ahead. Yesterday my tulips were closed and showed only the faintest blush of colour, today they are rich, open goblets of fire that catch the morning sun and glow with it. Yesterday the pear tree was just showing its buds, today it is clothed in white blossom. Plants that I assumed had died (often of neglect in our garden) suddenly appear over-night and will be a foot high within weeks.

April’s gardening jobs also offer a chance to nurture and encourage, making them much more satisfying than the palliative care required in late summer and autumn. Pricking out seedlings is my favourite task of the whole year, requiring a delicacy which is often lacking in gardening. Once seedlings sown in March show their first true leaves they are lovingly and painstakingly disentangled from each other (keeping the roots as undamaged as possible) and potted on carefully using a pencil to ‘dib’ a hole for them. I like to do this at the kitchen table accompanied by a glass of wine, but it is also a brief moment of connection with the plants which will then grow on without us. My garden definitely holds extra significance to me because of my connection with the plants in it, and these early moments of nurture (relative to buying plants ready to go) give a huge sense of pride and satisfaction later in the year.

It’s a very last chance for moving and dividing plants which, in a small garden like mine, helps to mix things up and break the monotony of tending the same planting scheme every year. It’s also a great time to begin sowing seed in earnest, and sowing the more exciting seeds of half-hardy annuals, tomatoes, squash and so on. There is always a difficult balance to be made between getting plants started as early as possible and running out of space to grow them on. Since we have no green house, any tender plants have to spend their early weeks or months on our windowsill and can end up looking a bit claustrophobic, so sowing things like cosmos is a pleasure I try to leave till early April.

These are the easy jobs in the garden, but even the heavy lifting feels more doable in a t-shirt with the sun shining. Weeding in particular feels easier at this time of year, before either the weeds themselves or the guilt at my own negligence have had enough time to really take hold. Weeding also feels particularly good at the moment because, down on my knees among the new growth, I have the chance to really see what is emerging. There is an alien beauty to the first shoots of a Dicentra or the fat, succulent heads of a Sedum, all details that would be missed at first glance.

In the third week of social distancing for Covid-19, the passage of time has never weighed more heavily on us as we sit at home, marking the days by the global death toll and longing to escape back into society. For many gardeners and nature lovers, the span of social isolation will be marked by the landscape we left and that we return to, and by the changing picture in our own gardens. Daffodils were in bloom on our patio when we closed our doors, and as I sow and pot on seedlings I wonder how fully grown they will be when life begins to return to normality. For those without gardens and access to green spaces, this catastrophe is transforming what should be the season of beginnings, of growth and promise, into a sort of extended winter. But at least there is great consolation in the fact that nature is running her race regardless and, victorious as ever, will be waiting in full bloom at the finish line for us to finally emerge from our front doors in freedom and safety.