Autumn’s Last Hurrah
We’ve been very lucky this autumn, to have such mild weather. At last the rain came, and with it came a fresh flush of growth, which has sustained our gardens right through until now. A brief hiatus in which to enjoy the mists and mellow fruitfulness.
Observing the garden fall into decay, watching it evolve and decline, reminds us of the cycle of nature. Summer flowers and autumn seedheads; one season dovetails with another.
But with temperatures forecast to fall into single figures next week, with the possibility of sleet, there comes a sudden urgency to put the garden to bed for the winter. A couple of hours snatched here and there to tame the borders into submission, rushing around like a whirling Dervish, feels like I’m working to some imaginary deadline. Cut back collapsed perennials - anything still upright spared. Take out under-performers; I’m not sentimental, it’s survival of the fittest. Lift tender salvias for overwintering in the greenhouse. Sweep leaves off the paths. Fill up the compost bin.
Ah, take a breath! With the pressure slightly off, now comes the good bit. Over the summer I’ve become aware of several thugs that are crowding out their neighbours, and with all the recent rain, I’m hoping the soil has softened up enough for me to prise them out, so I can divide them, replanting a much smaller clump. (Disconcerting thought, by the time they need dividing again, I’ll be about seventy!)
As a consequence of all this lifting and dividing, I’m creating loads more plants. In addition to the rooted cuttings and tender perennials, the greenhouse is chock-a-block! But it’s this activity that lifts my mood from melancholy to eager expectation. Propagating new plants is preparing for the future; rebirth and renewal. There’s many a gardener who sees this transition into winter as the beginning of the horticultural year, not the ending.
I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s the anticipation of the coming year that stirs me. When I prune my climbing roses in December, I’m imagining them in glorious bloom. As I curate the borders, I’m picturing new colour combinations, better balance. I watch the contents of the compost bin sink and imagine the feel of the crumbly humus in my fingers.
This pared down version of my garden is just as valid as the fully dressed seasons. It gives me pause to dream.
Love, Caroline
