Monty Don wrote that February “feels like the preparation for a party”. In my small London courtyard garden, where spring always comes early, the guests are already starting to arrive, the music’s cranking up, and the neighbours are starting to wonder what’s going on.
There’s a fabulous light show in the form of purple crocuses, yellow daffodils and deep red berries from a heavenly bamboo. The blues of grape hyacinths are starting to push up through the foliage, too, and the pink and white cyclamen – despite peaking too soon (well, someone has to) are determined to hold out for as long as they can. High above, showing off in front of everyone, is the flowering quince.
There’s a relentlessness to the soundtrack, but that’s OK because it’s starlings, great tits, sparrows and robins at the controls. The great spotted woodpecker, despite being a regular party guest in 2020, is probably being fashionably late this year. Or maybe another guest complained about his repetitive, pounding set, which – in true Leftfield at Earl’s Court style – literally made the wall at the bottom of the garden crumble. Then again, that’s what it was pecking.
The tiny pond, before the ceremonial dunking of the fountain
A level of ambience is provided by the solar-powered fountain in the pond. My garden is north facing, but in the third week of February the sun finally hits the ground, and the tiny body of water – an autumn edition to the rear border – is the first place it hits. It’s already doubling up as a drinks station for the robins.
There are a few gatecrashers. They’re vaguely familiar, but I definitely don’t know who they are. Their strong green shoots, which are almost intimidatingly straight – please, please don’t be Japanese knotweed – are residing in the tin bath where I’m growing onions and garlic.
I’m sorry to say that we’ve had one death. The little mouse who took refuge behind the Persian ivy – above which hangs a bird feeder packed full of mealworms, many of which tumble to the ground – is no more. My wife and children weren’t too keen on ‘Squeaky’ (despite my eldest giving it this nickname), so I built a bait station and, sadly for Squeaky, that was that.
The netting keeps out the foxes, but it can’t keep in the daffodils
In other slightly negative party news, I’ve had to cordon off one whole border – effectively a third of the garden – due to bad behaviour. Nets are the worst, but they keep out the foxes, cats and squirrels – all of whom have wreaked havoc in border. Why this one? Because, by virtue of it being shadier than the others, it’s barer. “Come and dig me up,” it says, despite it now being home to a prickly Helmond pillar. I suppose there aren’t any toilet facilities at this party, though. Unless you count the compost heap. Which I certainly don’t.
The more I think about, the more that this particular party feels like a festival. And my goodness, we could all do with one of those right now. Let’s see what the coming days and weeks bring, but in the meantime – some more festival photos:
Now that… is a crocus
Nandina domestica berries, which are really rather poisonous
Now that… is another crocus