The weeks between Beltane and the summer solstice possess a quietly magical glow, don’t they? As the bright, long nights roll in, my inner night owl truly feels at home. I can potter about late in the evening with utter glee because the sun suddenly becomes my greatest enabler. For these glorious few weeks, it’s officially never ‘too late’ to do anything. Certainly not too late to be outside, rummaging around in the garden – an activity that at 8pm would be unheard of in the depths of December. Yet, while the sun is still up, my sun-drenched nocturnal gardening antics feel entirely validated.
And rummage about, I certainly have. With the days stretching out towards summer, I finally feel able to wrestle the garden into some semblance of order. And I’ll be deeply honest now about the state of things: there have been plants in my garden waving tiny green flags for help since last August. My only excuse? I was knee-deep in a to-do list longer than a giraffe’s scarf. To alleviate my guilt, I reassured myself that the ensuing wildness was creating a five-star habitat for local critters and left it to its own devices, hoping all would be forgiven by Spring.
And to be fair, I do think my laissez-faire approach provided some benefits. The birds have certainly felt more secure, bouncing in and out of the untidy bits, getting quite used to us. The Robin (Erithacus rubecula) and Blackbirds (Turdus merula), previously rather jittery (thanks to the prior cottage owners’ feline overlord), have clocked that the cat has moved out and we’ve moved in with a dog. They’ve now come to realise that W, our dear old lapdog, is far too ancient to muster the energy to patrol and investigate most garden matters. Unless it’s a serious incursion by the neighbour’s cat (which usually results in a low grumble and a tactical ear twitch), she’s just going to watch peacefully from her throne – I mean, bed – by the back door.
Anyway, letting the garden cycle through a full year of us living here really has given us all time to get used to the way of things. I feel like I finally understand the conditions of the space now – the direction of the light and the wind (which, let’s be honest, could often be described as “enthusiastic”). I’ve started to venture into the garden to ‘sort it’ with a healthy dollop of realism, knowing it’s a long-term job. Years, most likely, to get it to the horticultural paradise I envision in my head (which currently looks suspiciously like Kew Gardens, but with more gnomes).
In the meantime, a huge portion of it needs digging back into shape. In my absence, the Granny’s Bonnets (Aquilegia vulgaris) have staged a coup and become an unruly, albeit rather charming, mob. They are springing up in glorious arrays of purples, lilacs, and even some rather daring pinks. The vibrant yellows of the Welsh Poppy (Papaver cambricum) and oranges of its counterpart, the orange Welsh Poppy (also Papaver cambricum var. Aurantiaca, just showing off its fiery side!), are hot on their heels. Though, let’s be clear, Granny’s Bonnets don’t really need a backup crew; they’re perfectly capable of surviving, and indeed thriving, without any aid.
It really is a garden of ‘survivors’, where many a delicate plant has succumbed to our coastal and marshy extremes, complete with windy, wet weather that will test the resolve of even the hardiest perennial. I’ve unearthed a few horticultural tombstones: those little plastic plant pot labels now serving as RIP markers for those that were once planted but never quite made it. One jasmine, one rose, one unreadable label whose details are now lost to time, a silent testament to dashed green-fingered hopes.
The plants that are thriving are masters of self-seeding and more than comfortable with a bit of territorial hogging. So, I’m hoping to tidy the beds and introduce some diversity back for the pollinators – got to keep the bees happy. I’m also keen to create sensory areas for Little X, with my scented pelargoniums on standby. Thankfully, pelargoniums are forgiving little souls, who will not hold it against me if I’m occasionally late with the watering can.
And just as my own garden survivors are making their presence known, I’ve spotted the first swooping squadrons of swallows and house martins returning. No doubt they’ve taken one look at the insect buffet my ‘wild’ gardening has provided and thought, “Yep, this B&B looks promising for the season!” Let the aerial acrobatics and the relentless pursuit of unsuspecting flies, commence!
