Finding joy in the darker months

My garden is a place of solitude. When we first moved in three and a half years ago, it was overshadowed by two unwell sycamores and an almost-dead apple tree. These trees took over the lower half of the space like a canopy, and as a result the grass was boggy, unkempt and groaning with weeds. 

The patio, which took up the other half of the garden, was uninspiring, and a wishing-well style circular brick bed sat in the middle of it all, full of hebes that had also seen better days. A brick bed housed a camellia, and a plum tree, with more hebes in between. The previous owner clearly had a serious thing for hebes.

Over the next two years, we had the trees removed (we're still flanked by lovely, healthy trees either side, including a majestic eucalyptus that hushes and shushes the most beautiful sound). We also had the patio dup up, the grass removed, and opted for beach pebbles. (The look is very much inspired by Derek Jarman's Dungeness garden). We also put in a square of decking at the back of the house, which would get the sun from around 10am until the sun disappears behind the eucalyptus in the late afternoon. It is very much a container garden, so we can move the plants around regularly. We built L-shaped raised beds from railway sleepers where the trees used to sit, and chucked away a decaying picnic table from the lower patio and made that a space for more pots. 

When lockdown started, the garden became even more symbolic to me of an extra space to feel at peace, where you could escape the horrors that were unfolding in the world around us. There were times, when it was unseasonably warm very early, that I could sit in the garden with a cup of tea among all my plants, and listen to the radio, and still hear the church bells on the hour, and pretend that everything was normal. 

I was furloughed from work in May, and didn't go back (and even then it was one day a week from home) until August. This meant that I truly threw myself into growing. I grew plants, fruits and vegetables from seed for the first time, and it was thrilling.

When summer started coming to a close, I felt a deep sense of loss about not spending time in the garden. I know, of course, I can still get a lot of enjoyment from the garden in the autumn and winter months, but I spent so much extended time in the garden during the summer. I worried that I'd really miss it. And I do!

I do not have direct access to this garden; the whole of the back of the flat is my bathroom, with hammered glass, and no back door, so I don't look out on the plants and see what they're up to. So I decided to bring out some of the autumn showstoppers to the front garden, which I also have full run of (depsite being a flat! I'm very lucky). 

Cornus Winter Flame is dazzling on our front step with its rich, russetty stems. And I have two Salvia Phyllis which are unbelievably cheering during these dark months. One of them in particular is enormous, and sits in the imddle of my front garden, bowing and nodding in the wind, and its purple and white blooms give me a daily joy. 

I do miss that moment in May, June time, where things are erupting in life and absurd colour. Where everything has graduated from the greens of spring to a riot of colour. But I'm learning to enjoy these little moments, these bursts of life, because it's all still going on out there. Bulbs are going in. Winter flowering shrubs are working hard. The buds on my camellia tell me good things are coming in the future. We can do this.