My ever-increasing list of things to do in the garden can just wait. Besides, I have made lots of progress in the garden. I’ve been a very busy boy.

March in my patch

As the garden wakes from its soggy slumber, many gardeners are (timidly) dipping a muddy toe back into gardening. Others, myself included, are launching a full-on assault, revelling in the opportunity to do some proper, gutsy gardening at long last. Hoorah!

Admittedly, it helps that I garden on a hill and have lots of hard paths to work from. Not to mention the no-dig beds and borders that you can walk on, no matter what Old Man Winter throws at us.

However, that “not quite winter, not quite spring thing” is a tough time of year. We’re eager (desperate!) to get going, but the garden ponders, unsure whether it’s time to lurch into growth, or if it’s that dreaded false spring, with a sharp biting winter blast waiting just round the corner… like the one rattling my potting shed windows right now.

That’s the beauty and beast of March here in Blighty. Just like the old adage, in like a lion, out like a lamb. March can hit you with serenity or storms and sizzling afternoons after frost-bitten mornings. Complete chaos.

You may have to hunt high and low for the beauty, but it is most definitely there. Blossom above. Cherries, blackthorn (sloeberry), viburnums, and the early crab apples. For the rest, nature will compel you to kneel, demanding muddy knees for a bee’s-eye view of cyclamen, dainty violas, nodding hellebores, narcissus, muscari, hyacinths, and tulips.

Unless you thought ahead and placed your pots on a table. If you did, clever you!

And there are more delights to broaden that smile. My acers’ leaf buds are bursting like firecrackers in vivid pinks, fiery reds, and luminous, zesty greens. Pulmonarias with their cool blend of opalescent whites, pinks, and blues. Brunnera ‘Jack Frost’ lighting up the dappled shade with its sparkling silvery variegation. I just love those forget-me-not flowers.

Enchanting the nostrils and lifting the spirits are the skimmias. A compact evergreen woodlander… and it loves shade. The heady perfume is quite exquisite too, luring in both gardener and bee alike.

Gardening options…

With the ground either frozen or flooded (or just downright soggy), what can we gardeners do? You could go back inside and relax. Another week or two makes little difference. But if you’re eager and sick of rain-induced cabin fever, then maybe my activities over the past couple of weeks will tempt you outside… So go grab your tools and don the gloves. Winter clothing hot water bottle optional.

Just do one thing…

I’ve often found that if you’re struggling to step over the threshold and into the garden, doing one quick and simple job can be the spark that ignites your entire gardening year. Make a list of things you’d like to do (including just sitting out there with a brew), and do the easiest and quickest ones first. Probably the sitting thing. With biscuits. Always with biscuits.

Pruning

Nothing too strenuous. The roses and wisteria are done. I’m simply tidying up straggly erigeron and scabious, both battled hard through winter and are still trying to flower. You have to love these hardy stalwarts for their sheer willingness to grow and bloom. But they were both looking very straggly and brown.

A short back and sides. Quick and easy. For erigeron, grab a handful and chop it off. I take mine back to about a hands width, for tidiness. I found erigeron doesn’t large being scalped to the ground. A trim is enough to promote new growth lower down. It’ll be fresh green and bushy, laden with daisies again in just a few weeks. The scabious is cut right down, being careful not to cut off any fresh new shoots in the process.

Potting on, repotting

Some of my hastily potted hydrangeas (retrieved from the smothering jungle of the Flower Garden) have outgrown their temporary homes and are now upsizing to a more stylish, galvanised residence. Very posh.

Over the years, reflecting the ever more indulgent bulb displays, I’ve amassed dozens of gorgeous old zinc galvanised buckets and boiler pots. But I’m scaling back the spring show, freeing up a more buckets for long term planting. Mainly new homes for hakonechloa grasses, ferns, hydrangeas, salvias, and seasonal summer cosmos, etc.

Faffing

If you have a container display, like my Courtyard Garden, it’s probably ready for a sprucing up. Weeding out winter’s unwanted arrivals, deadheading (already, yes), rearranging the display as and when plants wax and wane.

Even though I have a main cast of players, the structural trees and shrubs, I do like to shuffle them around now and again to see how they interplay with the seasonal planting.

Moving, dividing

If I have congested or overgrown herbaceous planting, I’ve taken to lifting and dividing plants, then growing them on in containers, rather than needlessly pacing up and down the garden path, trying to find a gap in the border.

(Elliott, we’ve talked about this… There aren’t any. It is full!)

The new divisions spend a season as smaller plants adorning the terrace display, regularly watered and fussed over, where they can bulk up happily before being planted out in the wider garden. It gives them time to strengthen and stand their ground in a very competitive space.

(Honestly, it’s like dead man’s boots!)

Preparing raised beds

I have six raised beds in the Kitchen Garden, and over the past month they’ve been weeded, mulched, then raked repeatedly. The surface is now a wonderfully fine tilth. Treated with nematodes to combat slugs, planted with the first frost-hardy vegetables, and covered with horticultural fleece. All I need to do now is install the pea supports. More on that later.

Raised beds are great for an early start, draining well and warming quicker than ground soil. Especially useful if your soil is heavy and prone to waterlogging. Mine were originally filled with peat-free compost and are topped up each year with homemade garden compost. It’s easy gardening. The added bonus… no other feed or amendments required. Simples.

Turning compost

This will definitely warm you up and get that heart pumping. I have four 1.5m³ (2yd³) bays in total, and summer’s garden waste will fill two easily. Once they’ve both rotted down, I turn two into one and let it mature. Then, in winter, it’s spread out on the six veggie beds. Free goodness for wholesome organic veg.

Sowing seeds

Almost all of my first wave of veggie seedlings are now either planted out or potted on. The decks are clear for the next batch, which will include some flowers, tomatoes (for growing outdoors), chard, more salads, then the warmth-loving corn and cucurbits later in April.

For the flowers, I’ve sown: cosmos for containers and the Flower Garden borders; nasturtiums for the Kitchen Garden; Snapdragons for cutting and borders. I also have a carpet of nigella in the cutting garden which I’ll be lifting and transplanting around the entire garden. I LOVE nigella!

Cleaning water features (and bird baths)

Not a fun job, but essential. My water bowls and fountains have had a year of fallen leaves and bird poo, topped up by what feels like one billion birch seeds.

(The algae are having a party)

There’s no real shortcut. The water is bailed out, decorative cobbles plunged into a trug of diluted bleach, then a good scraping, scrub, rinse, and refill. It helps to do it on a sunny day so the task isn’t entirely miserable. A good podcast or playlist definitely helps.

Just out of interest, I’ve been sent a few copper plates (by Mellbree) to submerge in the water. Apparently they control the algae. I’ll report back.

Topping and redressing

Checking over pots for weeds and other unwanted visitors. Especially hostas. Slugs and snails love to overwinter under pots and up inside drainage holes. Clever blighters.

I’m halfway through redressing all my containers. After scraping away the old surface layer, I give them a dusting of fertiliser and a fresh layer of compost on top.

This year, I’ve also mulched the containerised trees and shrubs with Sylvagrow’s Mini Pine Chips. A very pleasant and easy product to work with, locking in moisture and slowly breaking down to add goodness along the way. They smarten up the pots a treat and it smells good!

(Horticultural grit has officially been retired. Sorry, old friend. You’ve been a true and faithful servant)

Watering pots

Even after months of incessant rain, potted plants can still be bone dry. While I was redressing, I went around and lifted the (smaller) pots and many were incredibly light (in weight) and in desperate need of a drink. Remarkable really.

Also, don’t forget your spring bulbs! They’ll need regular water once in leaf. Any containerised evergreens will have been drinking all winter. They’ll definitely be thirsty now that temperatures and daylight hours are ramping up.

Planting SOS

In a very quiet courtyard, one that I rarely show, stands a vast galvanised water tank. It’s home to a splendid Viburnum tinus ‘Eve Price’, clipped into a large shaggy lollipop. Underplanted with erigeron on the sunny side and skimmias on the shady side.

At first, all was well. Until the erigeron decided it was exceptionally happy there. In the end, it was all erigeron, cascading over the planter like a wave, and the skimmias were completely overrun. I thought they had died off, but after a bit of a rummage I found them, buried.

One had rotted away, but the other three (yes, it is a very large container) were still alive, just quietly struggling. So, I whipped them out, repotted them individually, watered them thoroughly, and placed them on the ground around the planter, keeping the Ilex crenata balls company.

The erigeron was hacked back, but is now free to roam and cascade wherever it wishes. Frankly, it was going to anyway.

Fruitful expansion

This year, I’m growing fruit for the very first time. I know. I know. I should have been anyway. It’s been on the cards for years. I did grow strawberries once, seemingly all for the local rodent population, but I’m hoping these might actually make it to the kitchen.

I’ve invested in some autumn raspberry canes, bare-root, which are wonderfully straightforward. Cut them down each spring and enjoy fat, juicy raspberries later in the summer. That’s the theory, anyway.

I hadn’t really given much thought to their eventual size (hard to imagine when you’re planting a twig), but after watching Monty Don build his raspberry supports recently, it dawned on me that these could become rather large, top-heavy beasts.

So, I copied The Don. Hammered in some sturdy stakes, ran galvanised wire between them, added tensioners to keep everything taut. A very satisfying little job, and a nice way to welcome the first proper fruit crops into the Kitchen Garden.

Speaking of fruity things, my rhubarb is looking the best ever and I’m itching to twist off the first stems. But how best to enjoy them? Stewed for Greek yoghurt… or hot, in a crumble with custard? Mmmmmmmm…

It has to be crumble, doesn’t it. Then any leftovers can be quietly repurposed for breakfast the next day. Marvellous!

A brief rant about pea netting

Staying in the Kitchen Garden, I’ve decided to buy plastic pea netting this year. I know this may trigger some. And I get it. I hate adding plastic. I recycle where I can, buy sustainably where I can. But (and it’s a big but), I have tried the jute twine netting repeatedly and, quite frankly, it’s rubbish.

There. I said it.

It stretches, it gapes, it sags, and it snaps. I’ve tried it for three seasons now, and every time I’ve ended up with collapsing peas or sideways dahlias. Sorry. I don’t enjoy being a naysayer, but the jute just isn’t up to the job. I probably had more reliable support when I was weaving my own cat’s cradle through metal supports.

Can you recommend a brand or supplier of good strong jute netting?

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Lessons learned (the hard way, obviously)

Speaking of supports, my cheap metal arches have finally rusted through and collapsed in spectacular fashion. The screws have rusted as well, so I couldn’t dismantle them properly. In the end, I just snapped the bars apart, which tells you everything you need to know about their structural integrity.

A lesson learned. Buy cheap, buy twice.

Oddly though, removing the three arches has made the Kitchen Garden feel so much bigger. More open, more expansive. One of those accidental improvements you didn’t know you needed.

We’re almost there…

So, yes, occasionally it may still feel like winter is clinging on, rattling windows and testing our patience, but the garden is stirring. Quietly, cautiously… but undeniably. The fresh green growth is emerging. Insects are on the wing. The blossom is in the trees…

And whether you’re tiptoeing out with a trowel or charging in like a muddy whirlwind, the season has begun. Even if it starts with just one little job… and a well-earned cup of tea afterwards.

And biscuits. Remember the biscuits.

Your fellow flower fancier,

Elliott 🌸

I’ll be hobbling horribly tomorrow. I don’t know about you, but I always feel it in my bum. I’ve been bent over for hours, cutting down last year’s growth, weeding, and generally faffing. The lower back and hamstrings are shouting too. There’s no quick fix for the aches. You simply keep doing it until the body remembers what to do. One of the great bugbears of gardening, I suppose. Nobody likes a sore back (or bum).

Over the years, mine has mostly grown used to it, but always in late winter or early spring, when I’m back at it, I always go through those familiar pains. If you’re just starting down your own gardening journey, trust me, it does get easier, just as long as you keep at it. That’s the trick. Do little and often rather than a massive weekender.

The problem is that we amateur gardeners generally do very little from November to March. Then, with the arrival of the first warmish sunny day, we go and get all over-excited, with wall-to-wall gardening for hours on end, only to spend the rest of the week in regret as our collective backs, bums, and legs scream at us.

(I’m wondering if you can buy Voltarol in gallon drums for bathing?)

The gym has definitely helped me and I strongly recommend it to anyone. Honestly. When I first hit the gym in ’22, my goal was very simple: to reach every spring stronger than the spring before. Jacq says my back is now “muscly”. Ah. smug mode. Of course, being a classically uptight Englishman, I feigned an air of nonchalance.

A consistent programme of deadlifts, Romanian deadlifts, rows, and shrugs has shored up the creaking middle-aged fuselage. My back is far stronger than it used to be (not hard, as it was once like a brittle twig). It’s really just the specificity of gardening that catches you out. Holding a bent-over position for hours. It’s not natural really, is it?

OK, aches and pains (and sore bums) aside…

I am very glad to be back in the garden and firing on all cylinders. Yes, the gardening machine is back in gear! The Flower Garden has been razed to the ground and weeded, with a thousand ladybirds gently rehoused. Plants that needed (re)moving have been. The only thing left is to mulch, mulch, mulch.

So my attention will now turn briefly to the Kitchen Garden, where I have one bay of glorious homemade compost to spread over the beds… Left to mature for over a year, it’s transformed garden waste into gorgeously dark and crumbly compost, for free. If you’d like to learn more about making your own compost, have a read of this post, or bookmark it for later.

Mulching the beds is a job and a half. Not one of my favourites, usually induces a back spasm or two, but so worth the effort. After spreading I’ll treat it with a dose of nematodes, just to be on the safe side, before planting out my precious veggies.

Then it’s the dreaded Cottage Garden. Yes, dreaded. I’ll be perfectly frank… Although the Cottage Garden was my first garden, it’s my least favourite. It’s frustrated me repeatedly. I’ve never quite nailed it with the planting.

It’s a tricky site: sloping, shady, very dry, fierce competition from mature trees, and shallow soil. Some parts bake, some parts only see a glimmer of sunlight during spring. It’s been a process of trial and error and I’ve lost many plants, no matter how well researched they are.

Thinking aloud now (and looking back the photos), it’s at its peak during late spring and early summer, before the canopy closes in and the soil is sucked dry. In spring there are hellebores, astrantias, hardy geraniums, roses, pulmonaria, brunnera, tulips and narcissi, aquilegia, peonies, alchemilla, and foxgloves. All the cottage garden favourites.

Yes! That’s the answer, isn’t it. A Spring Garden.

Then, rather cunningly, I don’t have to worry about making it look good all summer, trying to resuscitate beleaguered hydrangeas. After all, part of gardening is about picking your battles and, on this occasion, the mature trees and iffy soil win. I could spend thousands terracing, deepening the soil, cutting down trees, buying new plants… but life is too short and I’ve already thrown my best efforts and resources at it.

The Spring Garden it is.

Now I can justify buying lots of lovely bulbs instead and go full throttle on spring! In summer it can simply mellow and wane. Love it! What do you think? I’m writing and deciding this in real time as I type. It’s wonderful to have your ear. Talking through my horticultural dilemmas. Thank you for being here.

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Around the garden…

The snowdrops and crocus have faded, brown and papery. Hellebores and cyclamen are still shining, accompanied by pops of cheery yellow Tête-à-tête. Edgeworthia’s decadent perfume hangs in the air. Prunus cerasifera ‘Nigra’, the purple cherry plum tree, is in full blossom. Always the first here and it’s a stunner. Finely branched with a delicate dusting of small pink blooms. Understated. The exact opposite of ‘Kanzan’, which I also adore for its completely frilly fanfare of exuberance.

The ghostly grey weeping pears are also smothered in buds. It won’t be long before they’re blanketed with white blossom, gently nodding to the arrival of spring with a sweet, gentle scent.

The Flower Garden borders are clear. Last to go were the stands of majestic miscanthus and scruffy echinops. It’s hard to believe this motley collection of stumps and twigs will be a towering, billowing border of blooms and busy bees in just a few weeks. All around, the emerging crowns and rosettes of fresh spring growth are punctuating the bare soil.

My garden friends

I’m marvelling at the sheer number of ladybirds. They’re everywhere. As soon as the sun shines, out they come, basking and recharging, even bumping uglies! I’ve seen my first butterflies zooming about in the sunshine. Mostly comma and brimstone. Bumblebees are back, bobbing around the winter honeysuckle. Birds are busily refreshing their feathers in the various bird baths. Finches, tits, wrens, robins, blackbirds, thrushes… and a new visitor (never seen them before), the lesser redpoll.

A little gardening

Fussing over my buxus

Checking for blight and caterpillar damage. Treating with TopBuxus HealthMix for blight and Xentari to combat the dastardly box caterpillar. It’s been a very mild winter here and those little leaf munchers will be off to a flier, so I’m being extra vigilant.

It’s a very simple method. Two tabs of HealthMix and one sachet of Xentari, mixed into a large sprayer with 3 litres of water and left for 10 minutes for the tabs to dissolve. Then spray away. We have around twenty balls and lopsided cones, so it’s not a demanding (or expensive) job.

Weeding paths and borders

I always prefer to be up close and personal with a hand fork and daisy grubber, so I can identify friend or sneaky foe. It also affords me a bee’s-eye view of those delicate cyclamen, scilla, snowdrops, and aconites. Little beauties that make me smile. Self-seeders that I want (verbena, valerian, foxglove, althaea, fennel, forget-me-not, etc.) are thinned or moved. The rest are left on the surface to decompose or added to the compost.

Mulching

It’s clear that the borders are overdue a good mulching. It’s been years since the last application. Despite the benefits of no-dig (no cultivating the soil so you’re not always bringing seeds to the surface) I’ve never had such a rash of seedlings. Mostly self-seeders from my own garden growing very happily, but in the wrong place. The few unwanted weeds are the usual suspects: dandelions, creeping buttercup, thistles, ivy, bittercress, rosebay willowherb, chickweed, nettle, petty spurge.

This year I’m going all out on quality with SylvaGrow. I have alkaline clay here and I think their Composted Fine Bark soil improver will be great for suppressing weeds, adding organic matter, and reinvigorating the soil, making all those billions of tiny creatures very happy in the process.

Assessing the borders

Looking at last year’s photos and making a list of what needs to be (re)moved when the mild weather returns and the soil is moist and workable. I’m feeling bold and ruthless, so a few plants may end up on the compost heap or potted up and left outside the gate (where they miraculously disappear within minutes).

Westling with roses

I finally summoned the courage to grapple with my climbing and rambling roses. I have to be in a very calm state of mind, exceptionally patient, for the bending, looping, and tying-in of those thorny canes. Some, like ‘Lord Byron’, have such lethal thorny armour they can put a stegosaurus to shame.

Protecting your hands is always a very fine line between dexterity and puncture-proofing. I’m yet to find just the right glove. Any recommendations? Leather gauntlets are useless for this sort of fiddly thing.

While I had the blades handy, I went over the wisterias, reducing the whips that were cut back in August and giving them a general once-over. I do love their velvety seedpods and I don’t mind admitting that I like stroking them!

Slug watch

I’ve applied the first batch of nematodes in the Kitchen Garden, drenching the raised beds. Nematodes are microscopic predatory worms that seek out and kill or deter slugs. Sadly, they are indiscriminate, so there is collateral damage with the ‘good slugs’ (yes, there are some good guys) falling victim too. I also poured them over my potted hostas, just as a precaution.

It has been the perfect winter for those malicious molluscs, mild and very wet. Just like The Great Slug Plague of ‘24! I expect the first plantings will be subject to wholesale slaughter. My post below shares my most excellent tips for (naturally) controlling those slimy soil dwellers. Note: nematodes don’t work on snails.

The Big March Sowathon

The first veggies have been sown. Always an auspicious occasion that heralds the arrival of spring. So far I’ve sown onions, shallots, salad onions, peas, beetroots, lettuce, rocket, leafy herbs, and bulb fennel. The salads germinated within two days. Peas and onions a couple of days later. I wait until late March for tomatoes. April for the warmth-loving cucurbits and sweetcorn.

I don’t have the luxury of a greenhouse, so all early sowing and propagation takes place in the conservatory. It’s north facing, so I’ve built a propagation station - a metal rack with LED lights strapped to the shelves. It works remarkably well and keeps everything… nice and tidy. (Yes, thank you Norbert.) You can read more about it here…

Gearing up

Well, it’s not long now until the spring equinox, when the days finally edge ahead of the nights. After that, the garden wastes no time. Shoots soar, buds swell, and what looked like a sleepy collection of stumps and bare soil quickly becomes something altogether more energetic… Give it a fortnight and this quiet, tidy garden will barely recognise itself. And so it begins!

For a change of scene, I’m starting inside. In my bedroom. (Settle down.) Why here? Well, the bedroom windows look out onto the Cottage Garden, as good a place to start as any.

Despite the rough old lawn (with a heinous mat of creeping buttercups), I’m enjoying the mini carpets of cyclamen, that have woven their way amongst the bare legs of those rose divas. Whites, baby pinks, and even punchy Barbie pink, nodding and trembling in the breeze, their reflexed petals like tiny butterflies mid-flight.

It all began with a tray of cheap and tiny pots. Cyclamen coum seeds around very freely and I welcome it gladly. A charming and rather underrated little plant. Snowdrops are popping up too, entirely of their own accord, and together with the deep, plummy hellebores they capture the essence of late winter as we step over the threshold into early spring.

The Viburnum tinus (standing either side of the bench) are fresh and vibrant again, cushions of new growth replacing last summer’s sorry display. They looked pitiful then. Brown, defoliated, as though incinerated. The result of a major viburnum beetle infestation. A deep breath, a whirl of steel, a hard prune, and then a long and nervous wait. Thankfully, rewarded.

After pruning, both shrubs and soil were drenched in nematodes and the ‘tode and prune’ combination appears to have worked. I’ll top-up with more nematodes shortly, and again later in spring.

Let’s take this little tour outside to the Courtyard.

The sun is shining (a rare gift) and there is even a touch of warmth. The sky is a pale, milky blue. The birds are in full melodic voice. Robins attempting to out-sing one another from their territorial song posts. Blackbirds fluting from the hedgerow. Wrens out-singing them all. I appear to be the sole audience. A wonderful thing.

It feels enlivening to draw in a deep, lung-expanding breath of fresh air.

While attempting to bring some order to the Kitchen Garden, I discovered a few forgotten planters filled with last year’s bulbs, all flowering very happily indeed, thank you very much. Dwarf narcissus and the palest pink muscari, quietly proving that I need not be quite so fussy about lifting and drying bulbs… only to plant them all over again in the autumn.

I heaved the planters into my arms and carried them round to the Courtyard. A ready-made display, cheerful and entirely free. The Courtyard, as ever, has worn winter well. There is still plenty of interest and greens aplenty from erigeron, scabious, pittosporum, olive, bay, wallflowers and buxus.

The timber raised beds in the Kitchen Garden were built six years ago this March. How time flies! Untreated scaffold boards, simply painted with a water-based Cuprinol. In hindsight, a hardier wood preserver might have been wiser. This monsoon-like winter has sadly hastened their decline. Bracket fungi are sprouting like barnacles on rocks. Never a good sign.

Inside, the boards have great hollows. Opened up by battalions of woodlice, busily carving out impressive caverns, which in turn are the perfect hideaway for those malevolent molluscs, sitting there, waiting… biding their time… ready to pounce on tender my seedlings. Nematodes at the ready.

Around the other side of the cottage, on the Terrace, the crisp papery hydrangea flowerheads are rolling about like charming little tumbleweeds with ladybirds hunkering inside. It cannot be a comfortable ride when the wind catches and sends them bouncing around, but it does make me chuckle.

Everywhere I look, ladybirds are clustered together. Clinging to the tough stems of yew and buxus. Hiding beneath crumpled leaves. Bundled around woody stems. Sandwiched in door sills and between logs of firewood. Mostly good old 7-spots, but also the minute yellow 22-spots and the now rarer 2-spots.

The Japanese maples need their annual once-over. I’ll snip out dead stems and branches, a small but necessary ritual. These acers are one of spring’s highlights, glowing feathery leaves in shades of amber, ruby and garnet. I often find myself simply standing and staring, looking through backlit foliage as sunlight dances. It is quietly mesmerising.

Rose shoots are already flushing pink and red, a tantalising promise of what is to come. From insignificant buds to great arching stems heavy with scented blooms. The transformation from thorny canes to romantic magnificence never fails to impress.

From the Terrace steps you can see down into the Flower Garden. The tall, fluffy miscanthus are still standing strong. In contrast, the molinia collapsed weeks ago and now resembles a blast pattern in straw.

I’ve been steadily thinning the borders and only a few clumps of last year’s growth remain. Some plant jostling awaits, much of it planned for autumn. Ho hum.

For now it remains mostly a jumble of twigs, rotting leaves and dead stems. But here and there, little flashes of green. The first flush of herbaceous growth. Immaculate lupin leaves encrusted with diamonds droplets. Fuzzy little echinops. Soaring pillars of delphiniums. Alliums and daffs nosing through. Flecks of white from snowdrops, and pinks and purples from the crocus.

There is a delicate scent in the air, a mingling of winter honeysuckle, sarcococca and snowdrops. A reminder to me that queen bumblebees are emerging, famished after weeks of hibernation. I do hope they are all right. Many burrow into the soil to create winter chambers. Goodness knows what this relentless rain and waterlogged ground has done. I have seen only one fuzzybutt so far and she was enormous. I enjoyed watching her wriggle her way deep into a yew cone.

I often find myself staring up at our white Himalayan birch. Last year’s prolonged drought caused severe stress, leaves withering and falling crisp and brown. Over winter several twiggy branches have dropped. Last summer’s extremes may have proved fatal. I dearly hope she survives. She was the very first tree I planted here.

Sadly, the dwarf cherries (moved last year) most definitely did not survive the scorching summer. A shame. It was a risk to move them, but I had no choice. Yet every loss creates new space. Gardeners, if we are wise, see opportunity in the wake of loss. A chance to experiment.

I’m planning to move three gigantic, bright yellow Rudbeckia laciniata into one gap and an acer into another. I caused quite a stir on Instagram when I admitted I disliked bold, vivid yellow and considered permanently removing them.

I have learned that some gardeners are very loyal to yellow.

I’m now thinking that if they sit further back in the border, they may feel less overpowering. The flowers are wonderful… just so very yellow. A stay of execution, perhaps.

I’m rambling… but that’s probably the point of a garden tour. Those are the horticultural highs and lows for now. I hope you manage to get out into your own gardens and find those little sparks of joy.

Now for a some seasonal gardening tidbits…

A Little Gardening

The general post-winter tidy-up continues. Clearing detritus from container-grown roses and acers. Plucking weeds and scraping away old compost mulch. Then a top-up of fresh invigorating compost and a dusting of fertiliser.

Emptying old pots, their former occupants long-since vanished, and recycling the spent compost into the garden compost bays. Gathering stray labels, plastic pots blown everywhere, tools, and old canes. I plan to chop the canes and stack them into bijou bug hotels. I also found a bucket of wood ash and sprinkled it over the kitchen beds.

This week I’ll tackle the hydrangeas, paniculata and arborescens, pruning and mulching them. The potted hydrangeas will receive a modest sprinkling of fertiliser. They are not especially hungry, but those in containers have very limited access to nutrition and they’ll appreciate a little encouragement.

Jobs I am currently avoiding include pruning and tying in the climbing roses and ramblers, which requires both enthusiasm for battle and a willingness to bleed. Weeding the gravel paths, fiddly and unforgiving on the back. And emptying a plastic trug overflowing with putrid water and decomposing vegetable matter. Enough said.

Mulching the vegetable beds is also in question. My compost bays went largely unfilled last summer and autumn (while I was otherwise occupied) so supplies may be thin. I may resort to a light dressing of fish, blood and bone or buy in a few bags. We shall see what can be coaxed from the bays.

On the plus side, the potting shed is miraculously tidy. Eerily so. I may even begin sowing vegetables without the usual procrastination ritual first. Now that we’re past mid-February, daylight is increasing fast (it is, honestly, despite the seemingly eternal cloud cover).

Valentine’s is usually my cue to start sowing seeds, but I’m in no rush this year. The seeds have arrived, which is a good start. I had to begin from scratch after leaving my seed cache in the potting shed all last summer where temperatures inside boiled over 100°C. I think it’s fair to say their viability would be questionable.

So it’s all fresh. SylvaGrow Seed Compost is ready and waiting. The propagation station has been rebuilt. Labels have been cleaned and erased. Now it’s just finding a bright sunny day, so I can actually see what I’m doing.

That’s the current state of play here. A few triumphs, a few fungal misdemeanours, and at least one trug of horror still waiting patiently for its moment. The garden, poised between winter and spring, is quietly gathering itself. I hope you’ve enjoyed the wander. It’s been lovely to have your company again.

How is your own patch of earth stirring? Have you been industrious all winter, or mostly supervising with a mug in hand? Have you noticed the first tremble of green, the first scent carried on the air, the first brave bloom pushing through? These small awakenings can feel fragile, but they are steady. Soon we’ll feel that energising and inexorable pull of Spring!

From your fellow plant-wrangler,

Elliott 🌿

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Before I say anything else, thank you for all the kind messages and comments on my last post (Hello darkness, my old friend), way back when.

I was genuinely touched. Truly. Thank you for waiting patiently here for me.

How was your winter? I hope you’re doing okay. Personally, I feel like a remarkably grumpy post-hibernation bear, blinking into weak sunlight and wondering whether I should simply roll over and sleep for another month or two.

The truth is, the past few months have been rough. A prolonged depressive episode that settled in like a bad smell and refused to leave. And when it finally lifted, influenza A and double pneumonia arrived right on cue, just in time for Santa. Oh what fun.

Thankfully, a juicy dose intravenous antibiotics and the most complete rest (I have ever been ordered to endure) did their job. I am not quite back to my full strength gardening machine yet, but perhaps ninety-five percent, which feels miraculous enough. A little lingering fatigue, but getting there.

A soggy start

I had so many plans for autumn. Moving this. Dividing that. Pruning those. Repairing everything else. All quietly abandoned somewhere in the brain fog. So now I find myself playing catch-up, fidgety with cabin fever while the winter deluge refuses to relent.

Maybe I should go back to my slumber?

Here in England it has been relentlessly wet, the wettest start to a year in a century. Gardening has happened only in brief windows between downpours. Thankfully we sit on a hill, well away from flooding. The surrounding fields look more like marshland, and my heart breaks for those wading through flooded homes and waterlogged gardens.

One unexpected but reassuring comfort has been the no-dig beds and borders. The soil remains firm enough to walk on yet beautifully absorbent, alive with billions of organisms quietly doing the aeration work beneath my feet. In weather like this, it feels like a small triumph.

So what gardening have I actually managed?

Slowly. Slowly. Very slowly.

I hadn’t touched the garden (properly) since October. I know. The horror. The shame. But as my psychologist reminds me, with bipolar there will always be downtimes, even when you are popping the pills, living healthy, and doing everything else right.

But enough of that. Let us talk about the garden, because saying those words again feels like opening a window to feel the sunshine warming my cheeks. (Oi. I mean the ones on my face. Filthy.)

Recovery did not arrive with a fanfare. It crept in gently. One afternoon I simply noticed the winter light. Low and soft, gilding papery hydrangea heads, catching the luminous green bark of a Japanese maple, turning miscanthus radiant silver and dogwoods into flames.

It had been a long time since I thought: that is beautiful. Followed quickly by another thought: I miss my garden.

And that was the turning point.

Catharsis

Cleaning and clearing always comes first. It’s cathartic. Small moves, achievable steps. Gentle momentum.

The first task was small. Removing scruffy pots from the terrace, clearing away dahlias and withered annuals. The dahlia tubers have spent winter in soggy compost, so perhaps they will return, perhaps not. Dahlias have surprised me before. One year I threw supposedly dead tubers onto the compost heap only to see them rise again like botanical phoenixes.

Next came the stiff broom (once I’d unearthed it) and the power washer. The terrace had disappeared beneath a slippery blanket of soggy leaves and a blizzard of silver birch seeds. Knackered but satisfied, I stood back and felt that familiar flicker of accomplishment. Dopamine returning, quietly but unmistakably.

(Ibuprofen on standby.)

By late winter the Hakon grasses begin to shed their brown blades. Normally I am careful and methodical, secateurs in hand. This time, after checking for overwintering wildlife, I embraced speed and gleeful abandon with sharp shears. Swift, effective, and deeply satisfying.

Then the Flower Garden path demanded attention. Thorny rose canes, collapsed grasses, and sprawling perennials had turned it into an obstacle course requiring both bravery and protective headgear. Rose thorns hooking into your scalp are really no fun at all.

Usually I wait until March for the Big Garden Cutback, but I needed to garden more than I needed perfection and patience. Working gently, I relocated hundreds of ladybirds into sheltering yew topiary before clearing away the worst of the decay. Mushy material went into open bags so hidden residents could escape when warmth returned. Twiggy stems were stacked in a quiet corner - again to allow those little critters to vacate.

Standing on the steps afterwards, looking at a clear path again, I felt oddly emotional. Progress. Achievement. Reconnection. A garden revealed.

Although I maintain a gym routine (essential for my mental health), gardening uses muscles in a very particular way - the Principal of Specificity. Bent over for hours at a time. Twisting and contorting. Thankfully, the body remembers this quickly, although each hamstring fibre and every lower back muscle politely reminded me of their existence the following day.

(Where is that ibuprofen?)

The next dry spell brought rose pruning. English shrub roses first, met with Japanese steel and cautious optimism. Seeing those leaf buds swelling is so heartening. Dead wood removed, height reduced, shape balanced. Nicely done.

(Roses, of course, will do exactly as they please, regardless of how you want them to grow.)

Over the following days, ducking between showers, I worked through the rest of the garden and all the shrub roses. With each session I felt more present. More connected. More like myself.

Now, when the sun appears, I can see hellebores, snowdrops and crocus from the kitchen window. Bright red peony shoots nosing through. Daffodils beginning their quiet fanfare. Life returning in small, steady increments of joy.

The Kitchen Garden still looks rather sorry for itself. Rotting boards need replacing. The overwintered leeks collapsed thanks to allium leaf miner. But even there, a few hours with a daisy grubber and hand fork transformed a blanket of weeds into order. A top up of enriching homemade compost and they’ll be good to go for another season. Perhaps with some hasty repairs.

So here we are. Caught up.

And what now for us? For this quiet little space on Substack (and perhaps Instagram)? Well, this last episode forced a considered rethink. A psychologist-approved course correction, if you like.

I will continue writing here, but without the strict self-imposed schedules. I want to write when there is something genuinely worth sharing, something simply lovely, or something I have learned - tales from the garden with a literary flourish. Like the garden, I want to take pleasure in my writing efforts.

I think it’s fair to say that my experiment as a gardening content creator has reached a natural conclusion. I do not enjoy being in front of the camera. In fact, I hate it. I spent half my adult life safely invisible behind the lens, and that is where I feel most at home. There is no advantage (I can think of) that outweighs the heavy cost on my mental health.

When gardening begins to feel like performance rather than refuge, something has gone terribly wrong. Commoditising my gardening robbed me of a simple yet powerful sense of enjoyment.

I need gardening in every sense. It is my sanctuary, my pressure valve, my quiet place to simply potter and exist.

All I want now is to keep learning and creating something beautiful and I would love to have your company here. Here’s hoping you’ll join me for another meandering stroll along this quiet leafy lane.

Your gardening chum,

Elliott 🌿

Pop the kettle on for this one. It’s been a while since we last chatted, and I owe you an update and an apology. I’ve tried to write this post more times than I can count. So, where have I been? Why the radio silence?

The shortest answer I can give is bipolar.

A depressive episode arrived unexpectedly, to say the least. Normally, there’s a gentle prod (but no more than that) in late summer. Then the dastardly shadow bides its time, patiently waiting in the back of my mind, before crashing the party and wreaking havoc around New Year.

Historically, those episodes are usually pretty bad. I’m grateful that this isn’t a full-blown crash into darkness. This one feels more like vacationing around the event horizon. My partner, my folks, medication, physical exercise (I am now a gym rat), and sessions with my psychologist all help to keep me from spiralling.

What really took me by surprise was how quickly it took hold. All joy, passion, and motivation simply evaporated, literally overnight.

It’s hard to describe how frightening that can be.

One moment I was bursting with ideas, juggling several articles, posting daily on Instagram, filming content for clients, publishing here twice a week. Then suddenly… nothing. Silence. Like part of your mind simple dropped the shutters with an impromptu “Out to lunch” sign swinging from the handle.

No ideas. No interest in the garden whatsoever. Just brain fog. I’ve spent just two days in a garden since September. One was my own, clearing storm-thrashed tomatoes. The other was my parents’, where I helped replant two acers. More of a weight-lifting workout than gardening, really.

If you write a publication post, here on Substack, you see two simple words:

Start writing…

Well, right now, that seems a greater challenge than climbing Ben Nevis in a budgie smuggler and crocs. It might as well say: Explain string theory and quantum mechanics.

So, the longer answer to my silence is that depression has temporarily robbed me of my inspiration.

I have literally nothing to write about. Apart from this.

Even though I’ve lived with depressive cycles for most of my adult life, I still feel acute shame and guilt, coupled with intense frustration. Despite knowing it’s biological and there is nothing I can do to prevent it. These cycles will always come and go. It’s simply the nature of rapid-cycling bipolar.

I suppose full acceptance will take time.

What does this mean for you, my dear reader?

In the short term, it means waiting a little longer for normal service (and brain function) to resume. If you’re a paid subscriber, I stopped payments and dropped the paywall on 6 October. You should not have had any payments after that date. If you have, please message me.

If you paid a year in advance, I can offer you a refund, or if you’re happy to give me a little wiggle room and recovery time, I’ll repay that kindness with a complimentary subscription or free ebooks.

I can’t say yet when I’ll start writing regularly again. I do feel better, though. The clouds are lifting, as they say. Storms always pass, and that’s a comfort.

I know I’m not alone. Many of you will feel the gloom of autumn and winter more keenly than others. Just remember to be kind to yourself. Farewell for now.

Your gardening chum,

Elliott 💚

P.S. These little things do help / have helped me:

• Physical exercise. Intense weight training helps clear my mind and serves as two hours of mindfulness.

• Getting outside. Especially when you don’t feel like it. A morning walk, allowing your eyes to take in true daylight (even on overcast days) is a real boost.

• Reducing alcohol. Just a glass here and there.

• Eating well. Whole foods, home-cooked.

• Setting my alarm. Even on days off. I’ve found too much sleep feeds the monster lurking in the periphery.

• Mental wallpapering. Putting on a favourite film or TV show, something I can watch without really thinking or stressing. Usually Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings, or Red Dwarf.

• Reducing social media and news exposure. The socials can lead your brain down a dark alley of comparison and irritation. Best avoided.

Put simply, composting turns your garden and kitchen waste into a glorious, nutrient-rich fuel for your plants. Instead of sending green waste to the council, or worse, the landfill (you really shouldn’t), you can create a rich, dark material that feeds your soil, supports biodiversity, and improves soil structure and moisture retention.

Spread it over beds and borders as a mulch, or sieve it and mix with grit for your own potting compost. Homemade compost improves soil health in countless ways: adding organic matter, encouraging worms and microbes, and giving your plants that extra oomph. And it’s free! That’s always a bonus.

It’s not just about saving money or waste. Composting puts you at the heart of the natural cycle. You grow plants, they die back, you compost the remains, and the nutrients return to the soil. It’s a beautiful, regenerative loop that quietly supports every corner of the garden.

The best news? You can start composting any time. Truly, any time at all. However, late summer and autumn are particularly good with warmth and a steady supply of prunings and all that deadheading.

Whether you’ve got a country garden, allotment plot, or a cosy pocket-sized patch, there’s always room for a bin, a bay, or even just a heap.

Read on to learn how to make it work for you and why your garden will thank you for it. Spoiler: it involves less faff than assembling flat-pack furniture and is far more rewarding.

My Not-So-Glamorous, Gloriously Effective Compost Setup

With four compost bays on the go, I produce well over 3m³ (about 4yd³) of free, highly nutritious garden compost each year. That’s enough to mulch all the Kitchen Garden beds (27m²) with a generous 7cm (3in) layer, plus have enough left over for potting up spring bulbs, refreshing tired containers, and mixing up the occasional potting-on blend.

I also keep a separate bay, just for leafmould - the simplest compost going - and utterly magic for bulb mixes and woodland plants, hostas especially.

My own compost bays are made from salvaged pallets and offcuts. A few fence posts set with concrete, sides screwed or wired in place. They’re not pretty, but they’re free and they work. Each bay measures around 120cm x 120cm x 100cm and holds roughly 1.5m³ of material, a surprisingly generous volume once you start filling.

I line the inside with cardboard. It prevents materials falling out through gaps and helps hold in moisture and warmth - two important ingredients for good composting. And the cardboard slowly decomposes too, adding to the mix. Contrary to popular belief, you don’t need airflow from the outside; it just dries things out around the edges.

(If anything, you need airflow within and many compost aficionados set a tube or wide pipe in the middle that can be withdrawn, leaving a pocket of air right in the middle.)

You don’t need to copy my setup. Anything that holds a pile together will work. Wooden crates, corrugated metal, chicken wire, can all do the job. Don’t get stuck on perfection, the heap won’t judge you and neither will any respectable gardener. The important thing is to make a start. Progress is far better than perfect.

The Small-Space Solution: Composting Without a Bay

Plastic composters (like Darlecs, tumblers or hot bins) are handy if space is tight. They're widely available and start from around £30. They offer a neat, compact option, ideal for smaller gardens, patios, or balconies.

Personally, I find them a bit awkward, hard to turn (apart rom the tumbler of course, duh), it’s difficult to tell what’s going on inside, and they’re a faff to empty. If you do use a darlec type composter, I can highly recommend lifting off the whole bin periodically to turn the contents on a tarp, then refilling. You get a better mix and a good look at what’s happening.

If you’ve got the space, a pallet bay wins hands down. It’s easier to use, produces more compost, and lets you see and manage the heap properly.

Out of Sight, Not Out of Reach: Finding the Right Spot

Ideally, your compost area should be in a shady, out-of-the-way spot. Somewhere the temperature stays relatively stable and the pile doesn’t dry out too fast. But life (and gardens) aren’t always ideal. My compost bays are in full summer sun and it’s absolutely fine.

I simply cover the heaps with cardboard, chipboard, or a tarp. Covers help prevent excess rain turning the heap into a soggy stinking mess, while retaining the natural moisture and warmth from all that lush green material. They also help moderate temperature swings, especially during colder nights.

Tip: Do try and find a spot where the heap can be in direct contact with the soil, to draw-up all those lovely microbes and bugs.

Hot Heap 101: The Sweet Spot for Steamy Success

If your heap is around 1m³ and filled within about 8-10 weeks, it should heat up nicely, often exceeding 60°C at times. Temperatures of 55–65°C (131–149°F) sustained for several days are generally enough to kill fungal spores, most pathogens, and weed seeds. Much hotter, and you risk killing off beneficial microbes and fungi. The sweet spot seems to be around 40-60°C.

A compost thermometer is well worth having. It’s oddly satisfying watching the temperature spike after adding green materials like (untreated) grass clippings. Over time, the heat will tail off and stabilise, before eventually cooling completely as the compost matures. You’ll start to get a feel for how it behaves. It’s a little like sourdough, but with a stronger whiff of nature.

Even if your heap doesn’t get super-hot, don’t worry. Slow compost is still good compost. In the end, it’s not about speed. It’s about transformation. And let’s face it, any process that turns last week’s salad into beautifully dark, crumbly, nutrient dense compost deserves a bit of awe.

The Quiet Heap: Winter Composting Without the Drama

Slower, yes, but absolutely worthwhile. With more carbon-rich "brown" materials and far less ambient heat, winter composting is a gentler, more fungal-driven process than its steamy summer counterpart. It might take its time, but give it a year and even the dullest twig turns into black gold. Slow gardening at its finest.

Winter heaps can take 10–12 months to mature (sometimes longer if it’s especially cold and dry), but the end result is a thing of beauty… dark, earthy, woodland-scented compost that crumbles like chocolate cake. And because there’s less pressure to rush it, winter is the perfect time to experiment, observe, and let the heap work its quiet magic.

You can speed things up by shredding or chipping your browns, anything that breaks down size and adds surface area helps. Even just piling the material on a path and running over it with the mower will do the job. Some of the best compost I’ve ever made came from mowing up bark-chip garden paths, tipping the pulverised mix into a bay, and leaving it alone for a year.

The result? Absolutely incredible.

Leafmould: The Bonus Round

If you have trees nearby, leafmould is pure gold. I collect leaves from the garden, the lane, and even the neighbours’ gardens (with their blessing!). They all go into a dedicated bay with no turning and no faffing. Just pile them up and leave them. In a year or two, you’ll have a crumbly, sweet-smelling mulch beloved by bulbs and woodland plants.

I only collect from paths, lawns, and hardstanding areas, leaving the rest as a natural mulch in the borders. It saves time, looks natural, and keeps the local insect population happy. I no longer mow the leaves either. Many caterpillars and other wildlife overwinter in the leaf fall, so I now add them whole.

This is a purely fungal process, so there’s no warmth generated, even when the leaves are wet. So, it’s safe to load up the leaves, without having to pick through for caterpillars. It really is just like an extra thick layer of fallen leaves. Leafmould isn’t rich in nutrients like compost, but it’s brilliant for improving soil structure and locking in moisture.

Avoiding The Dreaded Slime

Slimy, smelly compost is simply too wet and lacking in air, i.e. it’s gone anaerobic. Usually, this means there’s too much green material (too much nitrogen), like grass clippings, not enough air, and not enough brown: dried stems, twiggy bits, roots, cardboard, and the like.

The answer? Balance. Aim for roughly 50/50 or 60/40 green to brown. No need to be scientific about it. This isn’t Bake Off.

Just remember: moisture levels and the availability of ingredients will fluctuate throughout the year. That’s normal. Keep a stash of browns collected over winter (cardboard, dried stems, wood chip) so you’re ready to balance out the lush green stuff when summer comes charging in.

The rule of thumb? Every time you add something green and juicy, toss in a layer of something dry and brown. It’s the compost equivalent of dabbing up a kitchen spill with a tea towel - quick, practical, definitely worth doing.

And if it starts to whiff like boiled cabbage and egg, then you’ve got too much nitrogen. Chuck in some cardboard, give it a good turn with a fork, and let it breathe. It’ll sort itself out… eventually. Heaps are resilient like that.

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No-Faff Composting: Layers, Lumps, and Letting Go

Layering in material works perfectly well: a trug of green, a sprinkle of brown, repeat. Shredding speeds things up, but whole plants and cardboard break down just fine over time. When I remove the front boards of my bays, the top layers are visible, but below that, it’s all rich, uniform compost.

There’s no need to stir it every week either. That just sounds like self-induced purgatory to me. No need for spreadsheets or ratios and complex reasoning. Just feed it a balanced diet and give it a turn... but how many times?

Turning and Moisture

Turning once is enough to mix the contents and boost airflow. Yes. Just once. We don’t have the time and manpower of Monty Don and his gardeners to turn heaps successionally, from one bay to the next. If using a plastic bin, empty it onto a tarp, mix with a fork, and reload.

When turning the material, take a quick check of the moisture levels: squeeze a handful, if it’s bone dry, add a spray of water as you go. If it's wet and slimy, add more browns and really shake out the claggy bit.

Moisture should be like a wrung-out sponge. Too dry, and the process slows to a crawl. Too wet, and it all gets sloppy and sour. Get the balance right, and everything clicks into place.

What Can Go In?

Greens:

• Fruit and veg scraps

• Tea bags and coffee grounds

• Weeds and roots (yes, even bindweed and ground elder)

• Grass clippings (untreated!)

• Stems, leafy prunings and deadheads

Browns:

• Cardboard (brown, unlaminated, tape removed)

• Toilet roll tubes

• Wood chips and twigs

• Spent compost

• Wood ash (from untreated wood)

Tips:

• Bury kitchen waste to deter pests.

• NO NOT add meat, dairy, any cooked food—it attracts vermin.

• If you’re adding compost to vegetable growing areas, do not add any material treated with pesticides, herbicides, actually anything that ends with *cide.

• Don't worry about weed roots or disease. A hot summer heap will kill them.

• Keep a bucket or trug by the back door to collect peelings and scraps and build the routine into your daily life.

Cooked to Perfection? Signs Your Compost Is Done

It’s done when it’s dark, crumbly, and smells like autumn woodland. If it’s cool, not slimy, but full of worms and insects, you’re there. It might still have woody bits and that’s fine. Use chunky compost as mulch. If you’re after a compost worthy of potting and seed sowing, then it can be sieved.

There is no single day when it turns from mess to magic. It’s a slow, beautiful shift, and one day you’ll lift the cover and simply smile.

If you only need compost once a year, as I do, you don’t need to rush it. Let the heap do its thing. But if you need a regular supply, or you’re naturally impatient, you can always Google “fast compost”, where an eager bunch of creative compost makers will regale you with anecdotes of super-ingredients, activators, and weekly turnings.

Final Thoughts

So, there you have it. A heap of garden waste, a bit of patience, and boom! Black gold. Honestly, if composting were any more rewarding, I’d have to write it a thank-you card. I might just do that anyway.

You don’t need fancy kit, thermometers, or a degree in soil science. Just a good mix of green and brown, a fork, and the willingness to poke a heap now and then. It’s gardening alchemy, just with fewer explosions.

And remember… every banana peel, every grass clipping, every cardboard box is just waiting for its moment to shine. Let it rot, and watch your garden bloom.

As always, thank you for reading. If you’ve a moment, please leave a heart or a note below. I do love hearing your thoughts so feel free to ask questions and comment. It all helps more gardeners find their way here.

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Flowering bulbs are more popular than ever, and with good reason. The range available to us humble home gardeners has increased dramatically. Alongside the species, there are now a staggering number of cultivated varieties in a bewildering array of forms and colours. Did you know there are over 3,000 tulip cultivars alone?

Anyone else feel like we’re drowning in choice?

Winter and spring bulbs light up borders and pots, bringing early cheer as we slowly emerge from the cold, dark depths of winter. Even though they’re tiny, those first snowdrops, cyclamen, aconites and crocuses are worth more than their weight in gold. They are loved by gardeners desperate for colour outside rain-streaked windows, and loved even more by emerging bees, drowsy and famished after hibernation.

The miracle of bulbs

So what are these incredible little things? Let’s take a closer look. Strictly speaking, a “bulb” is an umbrella term for a range of underground food storage organs. They are not seeds. A seed is an embryo wrapped in a seed coat, whereas a bulb is a dense layered structure containing an immature plant, complete with flower bud, leaves and stem. Everything the adult plant needs is already tucked inside. The unassuming bulb really is amazing.

Bulbs come in all shapes and sizes, from the hefty Crown Imperial fritillary (about the size of an orange) to alliums, tulips and daffodils, right down to the bean-sized muscari, crocuses, snowdrops and aconites.

There are “true bulbs” such as alliums, daffodils, tulips, hyacinths and snowdrops. Then there are corms (crocuses, gladioli), tubers (cyclamen, wood anemones), tuberous roots (dahlias, ranunculus) and rhizomes (bearded iris being the most recognisable).

On the whole, spring-flowering bulbs are easy to grow. You buy them in their dormant state from nurseries, garden centres or online. The process is simple. Dig a hole, pop them in soil or compost, and voilà, come spring you have flowers.

For a really striking display, consider the colour palette first, buy early and late flowering cultivars to extend the season, invest in good-quality bulbs and a free-draining compost mix. Spacing bulbs closely (finger-width apart) in pots makes a huge difference, producing a real oomph! as does planting at the right time. The nuances vary by species, but fundamentally this is simple, rewarding and almost stress-free gardening.

What to plant now?

These autumn-planted bulbs cover a long season, flowering as early as December through to late spring and on into June. These include all the classic spring bloomers: snowdrops, crocuses, daffodils, tulips and alliums.

You can plant them any time in autumn, even midwinter if the ground isn’t frozen. In the northern hemisphere, October to December is ideal. Over the winter, dormant bulbs rehydrate and begin building strong root systems from the basal plate, long before shoots emerge. Those shoots are surprisingly powerful, capable of pushing through snow, frost, gravel, even lifting a misplaced plant pot. Slowly, the leaves unfurl and the flower stem rises.

We gardeners may take it for granted, but it is truly astonishing.

Buying spring bulbs

Every September or October I order my favourites, plus a few newer cultivars to trial, and plant them in phases through the autumn. I have over 50 pots to plant up, so I need to break up those planting sessions, otherwise I get rather grumpy.

I’ve never been one for fashions or fads, so I’m never tempted by early-bird discounts floating around in July and August and I truly don’t care if stocks of La Belle Époque are running low. Personally, I prefer the boring-old (but supremely elegant) single and the lily-flower forms. The fringed ones are quite fun too.

By November, garden centres and online retailers often discount stock, and by December or January many offer clearance bulbs at half price or more. Admittedly, the longer you wait, the less choice you have.

But if you are on a budget and not fussed about the latest trends, those late bargains can be very handy. Or even if you’re just greedy for more! Just be aware that these will need to be planted straight away and they will probably flower smaller as they’ve had less time to establish roots.

The bulb suppliers that I can recommend include DutchGrown, Farmer Gracy, Peter Nyssen and J Parkers (Look at J Parkers Wholesale for bulk orders). We have had the odd hiccup with Farmer Gracy, wrong varieties sent, but refunds were issued (albeit too late when you have already planted and waited weeks for “apricot tulips” that turn out bright scarlet! Oof!!).

This season most of my bulbs are from DutchGrown and J Parkers Wholesale. I’ll be creating “How to…” video content for DutchGrown. They are a small family-run business with top-size bulbs, shipping across the UK from London. Their dahlia tubers this year have been phenomenal.

Some packets advise planting from September, but late-summer heatwaves are now so common that it rarely makes sense. Besides, borders are still full of late-flowering perennials and annuals. Planting among them would be farcical.

I always wait until the frosts arrive and by then I can pull annuals and lift tender perennials like dahlias, salvias and cut down other late performers. With the borders then a little emptier, I have the space to plant without damaging the remaining plants. Some of those tender plants are lifted or potted up into plastic pots and placed undercover for winter protection. Dahlias are dried and stored in the garage.

Are bulbs perennial?

Most spring bulbs are reliably perennial, flowering year after year and slowly clumping and seeding about. Some, like snowdrops, bluebells and winter aconites, establish best “in the green” (bought in leaf just after flowering). They are pricier than dried bulbs, but more reliable. Local plant fairs in March are good hunting grounds. Once established, clumps can be lifted and divided to spread around your garden.

The exception to the perennial question is border tulips. Species tulips are perennial, but the large, showy hybrids (that we adore so much) often fade after one season. They can still be glorious, but far less dependable.

Tulips: perennial or not?

Let’s take a closer look at the tulip. Species tulips evolved in the steppes of Persia and the Himalayan foothills, where they enjoy baking summers, freezing winters, sandy stony soil and sharp drainage. That is a world away from our mild, soggy temperate gardens… and clay.

Dutch growers overcame those ecological and environmental necessities by mastering climate control (heat, cold, humidity), alongside sandy well-drained soils and irrigation. They recreated the tulip’s ideal growing conditions.

Contemporary border tulips are grown on an industrial scale, specially bred and hybridised, then carefully harvested at their peak. They are primed to survive the first winter in your garden as a fully fuelled bulb, flowering triumphantly in spring.

However, once spring has passed, the fat tulip bulb you planted in autumn has been literally emptied. All that remains are the dry scales and the emergence of a new and weaker bulb. Roots continue to power the leaves and, in turn, the leaves power the formation of the new bulb and tiny bulblets (offsets). Once the leaves yellow, all growth ceases and the bulb goes dormant.

Those poor tulip bulbs are then at the mercy of our less-than-ideal soils, not to mention the UK’s temperate, mild and soggy maritime climate, where summers are often damp (2025 being a real exception) and winters are ruled by rain and flood rather than ice and snow. The diminished parent bulb and tiny offsets throw up feeble leaves and underwhelming blooms, if any.

In a perfect world, those little offsets build and recharge over the years, eventually forming another garden-worthy bulb, and sometimes they do. If you have cold, dry winters and sandy, well-drained soil, you may well find tulips behave more like perennials because it is closer to their natural habitat.

Understandably, the lack of reliability means that many gardeners treat tulips as annuals. After that first fancy bloom, they are unceremoniously ripped out and tossed on the compost heap. Honestly, it feels like a waste, considering both the financial price and the environmental cost of buying and growing them on an industrial scale.

I fully appreciate that our gardens are all different, with varying soils, aspects, microclimates and weather patterns. I know gardeners who planted tulips decades ago that are still flowering today. There is no one rule, but for many of us tulips can be unreliable.

That said, some tulip types are more perennial than others. Darwin hybrids, Fosteriana varieties like ‘Purissima’ and Viridiflora tulips like ‘Spring Green’ tend to return better. These few simple tips can also help:

• Planting bulbs extra deep in well-drained soil

• Avoiding excess water, especially once the leaves yellow

• Deadheading promptly to conserve energy

• Feeding with liquid seaweed after flowering

• Letting bulbs have a warm, dry dormancy

My very unscientific tulip trial

In 2021, after my usual over-the-top terrace display, I replanted faded tulips “in the green” into my Flower Garden borders. The following spring, most re-flowered, some just as well, others diminished.

Over the next two seasons many faded away, but a handful stayed strong: Negrita, Greenstar, Daydream, White Triumphator and Ballerina. These last three remain vigorous and still pack a punch.

Coming up…

More bulbalicious tips, techniques, and general planty chat as we dive further in… planting those spring bulbs and how to protect them from mischievous and malevolent forces. Yes, I’m looking at you, Ratty & Nutkin.

I’m so glad you stopped by today. If you enjoyed this post, a quick heart, share, or comment goes a long way to help this little garden corner keep growing.

Best wishes and happy gardening,

Elliott 🌿

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Bonus: Spring bulbs worth considering...

• Galanthus (Snowdrop) 🌱 🐝

• Eranthis hyemali (Winter Aconite) 🌱 🐝

• Crocus 🐝

• Scilla

• Chionodoxa (Glory of the snow)

• Iris reticulata 🐝

• Iris × hollandica

• Narcissus (Daffodil)

• Muscari (Grape Hyacinth) 🐝

• Hyacinthoides (Bluebell) 🌱 🐝

• Hyacinth

• Tulipa spp (Tulip) ➕🐝

• Fritillaria ➕ 🐝

• Camassia 🐝

• Allium ➕ 🐝

• Convallaria majalis (Lily of the valley) 🌱

• Allium siculum (Sicilian honey garlic) 🐝

🌱 Establish best when planted in the green.
➕ Wide range of cultivars with different plant heights and overall sizes.
🐝 Flowering bulbs favoured by bumblebees.

Here in the UK, after weeks of heat and drought, the weather has changed abruptly. Lively Atlantic weather systems are sweeping in with their desperately needed rain. It is refreshing. A relief, even. I am utterly sick of watering.

But I have a chuckle to myself, wondering how long it will be before gardeners up and down the country start complaining they are sick of rain. We are a fickle bunch.

As I sip my tea, the cool breeze rustles through the drying leaves and raises goosebumps. The sun feels gentler now, its energy slipping away. The days are shortening. They have been since June, of course, so it should not really be a surprise. Yet while we humans put labels on months and seasons with our tidy calendars, festivals and holidays, nature carries on at its own pace.

Plants and garden friends feel the light and warmth fading as we do, but thankfully they do not say, “Oh, it is September, time to turn all my leaves brown and throw them on the ground!”

Here, as in every garden, the changes are small and barely noticeable, until suddenly they are not. Today, it feels as though the season has shifted overnight. So, I decided to sit here and note all the little things that are happening, and some that are not.

House & Home

Steam now billows very thickly from the kettle and must be blown aside to find the teapot. Conservatory windows mist up in the mornings and I am still refusing to put the central heating on.

Gutters drip as rolling moss and fallen leaves clog the downpipes (a job for the to do list). Then the downpours arrive, sending little waterfalls over the windows and splattering off the sills. The sound is strangely comforting.

Wandering into a room and remarking on how dark it is, swiftly followed by several seconds of dimmer-switch fiddling, balancing light and candles for ideal late afternoon and early evening ambience to accompany Agatha Christie’s Marple.

Satisfyingly rich and sticky tea loaf is back on the menu and the cake tin is once again reassuringly heavy. Best served warm with a scraping of butter and an extra strong brew.

The first of the apple-and-something crumbles has been demolished. Beefy pastas, hearty roasts with a smothering of onion gravy, and molten cheese-topped bakes fill the cottage with a warm, comforting, yet strangely nostalgic air.

Drinks follow suit, shifting from ice-filled cocktails and crisp whites to deep, plummy reds, gently warming by the side of the (frankly terrifyingly hot) AGA.

Clothes & Tools

The habitual grab for shorts is now rather hesitant. There’s a pause before they are pulled on or regretfully put back. The thought of wet vegetation clinging to bare legs suddenly feels less refreshing and more shiver-inducing.

Long sleeves creep back into rotation. “I’ll just take the light fleece, just in case,” becomes the regular refrain, swiftly followed by, “Have you seen my hoodie?” The tweed cap and wool beanie are dug out from their hiding places, given a perfunctory pat against the hip to shake off any dust.

Gardening boots are inspected for lurking spiders and their ghostly exuviae. Thicker gloves are retrieved from the bottom of the basket. The firewood store gets a thoughtful glance, usually accompanied by, “I should probably order now…” but I will definitely forget.

There’s more time for sharpening blades, putting tools back exactly where they belong (rather than swiftly thrown in the corner), and giving spades and forks a proper wipe-down.

The leaf rake and bulb planter catch my attention for the first time in months, while I mutter about cleaning the mower - as it settles in for its own forced hibernation until late spring.

Water-feature pumps frequently clog with leaves and millions of tiny, winged birch seeds. Fishing them out with a net becomes the new morning ritual. I can’t help but cast a disapproving eye-up over the balling rose blooms, while I ponder the relevance of deadheading faded flowers. (Yes, it is still worth it.)

Out There

The light shifts almost imperceptibly, day by day. Daylight feels sharper, clearer. Evenings glow with a low, honeyed light, and shadows stretch just that bit further, starting just that little bit earlier.

Sunsets are richer now and seem to linger on the horizon. These are the kinds of evenings that makes me sit outside with a jumper on, just to watch the sky change… as I ponder the great annual question: Should I order a fire pit

More than any other month, September sunsets nudge something inside… a quiet prompt to savour the moment, a gentle reminder of the impending scarcity of daylight.

There’s an earthiness in the air, hard to define. Whiffs of mushrooms, ripening elderberries, overripe plums crushed underfoot, and the faint cider tang of fallen crab apples drift past on the breeze.

And there, people walking past, leaving collective booted thuds on the lane where, only a week ago, they passed silently in (sneakers) trainers and crocs.

The wind begins to play rougher games. It pushes and pulls at the trees, loosening the first leaves and sending them spinning gracefully to the ground. Branches scratch, scrape, and clatter. Leaves shuffle and shiver. Plants tremble and bow as gusts pass through.

Soon there will be a rustle, crunch, and crackle underfoot, something my inner child still adores. It won’t be long before I’ll pile up those fallen leaves, jump in them (because what the hell), and swap barrowloads of crumbly leafmould for a fresh harvest of leaves.

Plants Fade

Hydrangea paniculata quietly shift from white and cream to pinks and plummy reds, or maybe green, often all three at once in a surprisingly eye-catching combination. Cherry leaves blush red. Hosta foliage suddenly loses its lush vigour as yellow edges creep inward. The silken plumes of miscanthus take on bronze and ruby tones, brushing against the now completely biscuity calamagrostis.

In the Kitchen Garden, the air is heavy with the scent of overripe tomatoes and the gentle decay of squash and courgette leaves. Leeks stand to attention, swelling in their rows. Self-sown nasturtiums pop up in paths and beds. Kuri squash deepen to a glowing orange-red and their stalks brown and look more woody… they’re ready for harvest.

The bracket fungus, bulging out from the timber raised beds, is noted with a sigh. It is never a good sign for longevity.

Garden Friends

The garden is noticeably quiet now. The busy buzz of high summer has melted away. The dawn chorus is muted, as though half the ensemble have packed up and moved on to better things.

Daytime calls are subdued. Only the robins, song thrush, and blackbirds chatter, ticking off neighbours for crossing boundaries or announcing that a suspicious-looking feline is tiptoeing up the bridleway - not quite as deftly as it thinks.

The wheeling swifts, swallows and martins have gone, leaving the skies mournfully empty. Red kites still drift overhead, though they seem to drift more over the fields than our village gardens. Soon the starlings will return, followed by the shadowy flocks of rooks, jackdaws and crows.

(Is there a more wintry sound than the cawing of crows?)

The hedgerows, already dripping with glossy red berries, will soon host chattering fieldfares and softly chirruping redwings. Small flocks of goldfinches drift overhead, with their tinkling trills.

Honeybees and cabbage whites have seemingly vanished overnight. On warm days, ladybirds bask on sunny walls and enormous golf-ball-sized queen bumblebees bounce and bump their way around the flowers, feeding greedily before winter.

Red admiral, peacock, small tortoiseshell, comma and painted lady butterflies appear as if by magic, basking on fence panels, sun-warmed gravel, paving stones… anything that holds the sun’s warmth. I am glad to see so many.

Less glad to see all the spiders, busy webbing their way across paths and doorways, meticulously measuring their position so they’re always at head height… ready to ensnare my face, swiftly followed by“Ew, yuck, blech… plah, plah!!!”

Mind & Mood

Everything feels quieter, slower, softer. The garden is still full of colour, but it is gently fading to green and brown at the same time as petals fall and leaves slowly wither.

Autumn is beginning, like a long, slow exhale after the tumult of summer. Months of baking heat and parched earth giving way to cool nights and damp, forgiving soil.

The seasonal shift is underway, yes. But rather than just accepting this as the inevitable ending to the growing season, you could simply change the narrative and see autumn as the immediate beginning of the next.

For example, there’s no putting the garden to bed here. No winter pause. Admittedly, our climate is (mostly) kind enough to allow gardening all year round. But, to me, October really feels like the start.

The Gardening New Year, if you like.

It is the time for planting hope with those adorably cheerful spring-flowering bulbs, revitalising tired and congested perennials by lifting and dividing, a cathartic cutting back and clearing of deadwood, mulching to reinvigorate tired soil, and quietly planning what comes next.

So please don’t be sad. There’s really no need (or time) to mourn summer. Grab a notepad and wander your garden. Note your observations. Look at your photos from the previous year. List all the things you loved. List all the things that you didn't. Underline and double asterisk ** the things that irritated.

Autumn and winter are times for taking stock, for honest reflection, for planning, and making changes. It’s the time for gardeners to make next year even better! 🌿

I hope you enjoyed this little read. I really appreciate your company here. If you’d like to support these ramblings, tap the heart, share with a friend, or drop a comment… every little bit helps spread the word.

Best wishes and happy gardening,

Elliott 💚

Coming up…

The first of my spring bulb series. A great one for beginners! This first instalment look at the actual flower bulb. What are they? Why are they little miracles? Where to buy them? Are tulips perennial? Which are the reliably perennial bulbs? All that good stuff.

For my lovely paid subscribers, you’ll also have the Late Summer Tour. OK, admittedly it’s a little late, but there’s lot’s to discuss. I’ll be looking at how the gardens performed this year, some reflections, and my plans for next season. You’ll want a full pot of tea and scrumptious slab of cake for this one.

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‘There is definitely room for improvement, young man!’

The Cutting Garden Fails

This is a rough and ready makeshift area. The main thing to know is that it is a total sun trap: baking hot, dry, and dusty.

It is bordered on one side by sorry-looking (partially incinerated) hydrangea mopheads. Why hydrangeas? My partner Jacq likes drying the flowers for wreaths, but they never reach full bloom because it is a furnace.

On the flip side, the lavender hedge has been fantastic. Smothered in blooms and bees for weeks on end, and now clipped into a low undulating silvery boundary. Lovely. The bees were happy, I was happy.

That hydrangea hedge is going. Even if I mulched and irrigated, it is simply too hot and dry for such lush shrubs to bloom happily. More lavender and that stalwart erigeron will thrive here.

The rest of the space is rather hopeless. To fill the gap, I put in a row of spare tomatoes that should have been fat and juicy salad fruits. Instead, they have been bonsai’d in the shallow, dry soil. The leaves are small, the fruits tiny. The surprising upside is that those little toms are exquisitely sweet, ultra-concentrated tomato joy.

This area was supposed to be overflowing with blooms: dense rows of deep purple larkspur, frothy nigella, spires of pink limonium and white mignonette, sweet peas and sweet rocket. On camera it looks charming enough, but the reality was four mignonette, three limonium, and not a single sweet pea that managed to flower. They simply withered on their frames.

The only summer colour comes from self-sown larkspur, which did a much better job of propagation than I did. A couple of volunteer dahlias also popped up from forgotten tubers.

Germination was poor for the first time in years. My mind was on the vegetables. Then came the heat and glaring sunshine. Normally I welcome sunshine, but there was so much of it I could barely keep up with watering.

Those little seedlings faced flood, then famine. They grew weakly and stressed. By the time it came to planting, they were already bolting as dwarfed plants. Hopeless.

Moving swiftly on to the vegetable beds!

Bed One – Bolting and lettuce fatigue

Lettuce, spinach, rocket, beetroot, carrots, and broad beans. The traditional spring crops. They all started off so well and it was a good early spring crop. I obviously sowed too many lettuces and by May I was already sick of the sight of them.

The heat made the rocket bolt quickly, but I do not mind that. The leaves grow more peppery and the flowers are tasty as well. My mistake was not sowing enough, so the crop finished prematurely, leaving me with just the lettuce. Meh.

Under row covers, the plants had some shade from the sun and enjoyed a little more humidity while young. The covers also kept most pests at bay, apart from the inevitable slugs and snails, which were relatively few and far between.

Then the broad beans shot up and I could not keep the covers on. In my frustration I pulled them off completely. Within days, leaf miner moved into the beetroot and flea beetles peppered the rocket and spinach with holes.

I picked two harvests of broad beans, remembered the faff of blanching and de-sheathing, then promptly ignored the rest. They succumbed to black bean aphids and drought, toppled over, and were ripped out. That is the last year for broad beans in this garden.

Despite seemingly endless watering, the root veg refused to develop. Beetroot was passable, but the carrots gave tiny harvests. I cleared the miniature carrots thinking they would make dainty little salads, then promptly forgot them in the garage, where they shrivelled to nothing.

And let’s not forget the reappearance of slugs. Somehow plenty remained despite the desiccated soil. They found their happy place tucked between lettuce leaves. To be honest, I was at peak lettuce fatigue, so I let the slugs have their fun.

Lesson learned: never underestimate how fast spring salads can bolt, how quickly broad beans can turn into a pest hotel, and how resourceful slugs can be when they find a salad bar.

Bed Two – The great purple pea fiasco

At some point I must have had a colossal brain fart. Instead of planting peas in neat rows across the width of the bed, I decided to grow them in a single row down one side.

My apparent misreading of the variety ‘Blauwschokker’ led to possibly the most farcical scene in the garden’s entire existence. In my head, these purple-podding peas would reach a manageable height of around 1.2 metres (four feet).

What I did not expect was the need to hammer in several full-size tree stakes and hang a second net as they rampaged skyward to well over 2.5 metres (eight feet). Eventually, they broke out of their makeshift support altogether and collapsed across the tomatoes.

And for all that chaos, the peas were not even worth it. They were not particularly sweet, they were not memorable, they were just… meh.

Fast forward a few weeks. The last of the bland peas were harvested, the strangler vines ripped out, and the tomatoes left in a state of shock, blasted by June sunshine and 30°C heat.

Lesson learned: peas always grow taller than you think, and jute netting may look rustic but it is complete garbage. It stretches and sags so quickly it could not contain a pensionable hedgehog that had taken to drinking beer traps and really let itself go.

Bed Three – Slightly less embarrassing

Another long row of peas, but this time they behaved themselves, stayed within the pre-agreed height, and produced plump little pods of tasty peas. These were ‘Oskar’ and ‘Pisello Nano’.

The rest of the space was crammed with ten DutchGrown dahlia tubers, sweet peas, calendula, a few rogue borage plants, plus spare courgettes and cucumbers.

It was a little… full.

Once the peas finished, the dahlias surged into action, pumping out beautiful blooms all summer. The sweet peas clambered up the arch and produced more flowers than I could ever cut.

The courgettes tripped me up with their monstrous sprawling spiny leaves, so they were evicted. The cucumber simply vanished without trace. Gone.

The calendula and borage grew enormous, but by July they were spent. I cut them down, only for them to reshoot. The borage bounced back, but the calendula returned small, weak, and riddled with powdery mildew. Worst of all, the flowers had changed from deep rusty oranges to shocking lemon yellows. Ooof!

Lesson learned: overstuff a bed and it turns into a botanical version of a house share… one or two flourish, the rest sulk, and someone always disappears without explanation.

Bed Four – The fiery spring onions

This was the herb, onion, odds and sods bed. The coriander bolted almost immediately thanks to the weather, the chervil never germinated, but the spring onions were a triumph. ‘Lilia’ produced deep red-skinned bulbs that were sweet, mild, and the best I have grown.

That is until I forgot about them. Left too long in the ferocious sun and dry soil, they swelled into super-concentrated, mouth-burning bulbs that could double as tear gas.

Lesson learned: harvest spring onions when they are still spring onions.

Bed Five – Potato, tomato

Bed Five was supposed to have dahlias and potatoes. But a last-minute change meant the dahlias went into buckets for the terrace, while the new DutchGrown tubers went into Bed Three. That left big gaps, which I filled with tomatoes.

Of course, I had also read that you should never, ever, ever, ever plant tomatoes near potatoes for fear of blight leaping across and reducing the entire lot to a soggy, stinking mush. Well, blight never arrived. The summer has been too hot and dry, and I suppose I have been lucky.

I cut the first and second early potatoes down in early July when the leaves yellowed. I simply left the tubers in the soil and returned a month later to find them… well… amazing. Most were double the size I normally get. The yield was staggering: nearly three kilos per plant, two sacks full in the garage. ‘Wilja’ were very white, floury, and made excellent roasties and chips. For me, Charlottes rule!

The runaway success, though, has been the tomatoes. Six plants with proper space and airflow have cropped better than last year’s jungle of ten. ‘Sungold’, as always, produced huge trusses heaving with sweet orange cherries.

The new trials were mixed. ‘Gardener’s Ecstasy’ gave small red fruits in long trusses. The flavour was fine, but nothing to celebrate. ‘Honeycomb’ lived up to its reputation as the sweetest tomato: exquisite flavour with proper tomato punch. Unfortunately, this was the crop flattened under seven tonnes of collapsing peas, so it struggled but still produced a fair harvest. Lastly, ‘Crimson Crush’ were the spares I shoved into the cutting garden, and you already know how that ended.

Lesson learned: Give outdoor tomatoes space and airflow. Sungold remains king, Honeycomb deserves a second chance, and peas should come with a health warning.

Bed Six – The great shame

Okay, we are nearly there. Ready for the abysmal onions? Bed Six, here we come.

A third of this bed was given to potatoes. It seemed like a good idea, but in the end rather pointless. The remaining two-thirds went to my favourite onion, ‘Rose de Roscoff’. Pink, sweet, and Raymond Blanc’s favourite onion.

I had multi-sown them, four or five seedlings per module cell, as usual. Forty clumps were planted out, and I sat back imagining a harvest of 160 to 200 juicy bulbs.

Two things then happened. Actually, one did not happen. I did not check my notes. If I had, I would have read: “Bed Six has onion white rot! Do not plant onions in there!!!”

The second thing was my daft assumption that onions would cope just fine growing within a bed of towering sweetcorn. “The onions will be harvested long before the corn gets that tall,” I told myself.

Inevitably, the onions failed almost entirely, thanks to the one-two punch of white rot and corn competition. Shaded out, soil sucked dry, they never stood a chance.

I now have a small basket of satsuma-sized onions, drying and curing in the wood store, quietly mocking me every time I walk past.

One sliver of joy came from the ‘Special Swiss’ sweetcorn. Although a few plants failed to produce anything, those that did were mouth-wateringly sweet and delicious. Even so, I think I will return to ‘Swift F1’, by far the best I have tried.

Lesson learned: never ignore your own notes, and never expect onions to thrive in the shadow of giants.

So what else went right?

Courgettes, as ever, produced enough fruit to sink a battleship. They carried on pumping out more and more.

Romanesco is the variety I grow. It is a traditional Italian type with firm, ridged fruits and great flavour. In this garden they are almost too productive. I have eaten my bodyweight in courgette pastas, fritters, tarts, and risottos, yet still they grow so large I could scoop out their middles and row down the Thames.

In a similar green vein, cucumber ‘Mini Munch’ was epic. Non-stop production from July and still going strong. The perfect cuc for two!

The squash have been just as phenomenal. I only sowed Red Kuri, as each plant produces two or three small fruits, perfect for two to four people. Firm, sweet, nutty flesh, and always reliable.

What I did not expect was a self-sown Crown Prince to appear. From a stray seed it surged away, smothering two beds, climbing three metres (ten feet) up the bank, and producing three whopping great fruits. Proof, if proof were needed, of how mild the winter was, for a squash seed to survive outdoors without protection.

Lesson learned: even when you think you are in charge, the courgettes and squash will always have the last laugh.

Lessons from this season

• Plant crops and cover them immediately. Group plants with similar needs and heights so the covers can stay on.

• Grow all pest-prone crops in the same bed so covers can be used efficiently.

• Sow far more rocket and far fewer lettuces.

• Do not be a moron and assume you know the height of a plant you have never grown before.

• Jute netting may look suitably rustic, but it is garbage. Invest in metal or (dare I say) long-lasting plastic mesh.

• Grow peas across the bed in blocks. If they collapse, they fall on each other rather than crushing neighbours.

• Sweet peas always produce a bumper crop. Ten (not twenty) plants across the end of a 150 cm bed are plenty.

• Two courgette plants are enough to feed half the village. Stop shoe-horning extras into every gap.

• Stick with ‘Douce Provence’ and ‘Kelvedon Wonder’ peas: reliable, prolific, and sweet.

• Potatoes: just grow Charlottes. Add Wilja if you want variety.

• For reliability, whatever the weather, ‘Sungold’ reigns supreme. Give Honeycomb another go, but do not bury it under peas!

• If you are underplanting sweetcorn, choose shade-tolerant crops like leafy salads or herbs. Broadcast sow green manure if you hate bare soil - phacelia is very pretty.

• Onions need open, sunny ground, ideally without a single spore of onion white rot. You have been warned! Again!

• Flowers in the raised beds may look pretty, but many are in the wrong place or simply grow too large. Consider returning them to artfully arranged terracotta pots.

• Go and work on your veg-growing plan while these lessons are still fresh in your mind.

Final thoughts…

Success and failure, wins and losses. These are all part of the joy and trepidation of growing your own food. It is never a complete write-off. There is always something to eat, and it always tastes better than anything from a supermarket. You know it is fresh, you know what has gone into the soil, and that, my green-fingered friends, is priceless.

At the end of the day, even when the peas have flattened the tomatoes, the onions are sulking in the shadows, and the slugs are running a rave in the lettuce, you still get to eat something you grew yourself. And that always tastes like victory.

I really appreciate your company here. If you’d like to support these ramblings, tap the heart, share with a friend, or drop a comment, every little bit helps spread the word.

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Curious about how to begin a veg patch? My Kitchen Garden series takes you through the whole process, from bare ground to (mostly) overflowing beds.

Today, I’m delighted to introduce something new: The Gardening Kind Editions. These are my beautifully designed mini magazines, part handbook and part photo inspiration, and the first three are now ready for you to download.

Paid subscribers get every Edition free as part of your subscription, collected together on a brand new page called Off The Shelf. If you’re a free subscriber, you can still enjoy the Editions by purchasing them individually from my new shop.

Read on for more details…

More About The Editions

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been working on a new project: taking some of my recent newsletters and reimagining them as photo-rich Editions that you can download and keep.

Each Edition is styled like a glossy magazine, with room to linger over the photography as if you were leafing through a favourite coffee-table read. Fonts are comfortably large, the spacing generous, and the whole design light and easy to browse.

The first three Editions include:

• The Courtyard Garden (Very popular!)

• Slug-Proof Plants

• The Summer Container Garden

They are delivered as PDF files, so you can download and read offline. Perfect in the Apple Books app, or on any computer, iPad, or tablet (Kindle tips further down).

So, how much are they?

PAID subscribers get the Editions FREE as part of your subscription. Consider it a handsome perk and a thank-you for supporting my writing in these early days. You’ll now see a new tab on my homepage called Off The Shelf. All the Editions will live there, ready to download.

Grab Your Editions Here

Simply tap the download button beneath the Edition that you want and hey presto, it will open in your browser to read straight away, or you can save it to your device for later.

FREE subscribers can purchase Editions individually, for roughly the same price as a single monthly subscription. They are hosted on my new Payhip shop.

So, if you would love to read all about my Courtyard Garden design but do not fancy a monthly subscription (and I completely understand, as there are so many wonderful writers out there), you can now simply purchase this Edition as a one-off.

Browse The Shop

Subscribe now

What’s next?

The next big Edition is all about spring bulbs: what they are, how to plant them, dealing with pests, and everything I have learned about creating stunning displays, from the pure white Courtyard Garden to the vibrant Terrace - although for this coming season, I am opting for calm this season with pinks, purples, and apricots.

And in this weekend’s newsletter, I’ll be reviewing my year in the Kitchen Garden. What worked. What failed. What I learned. And what I will be changing for next season.

Happy reading (and happy planting),
Elliott 🌱

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For Kindle Readers

If you prefer reading on a Kindle, here’s how to do it:

1. Find your Kindle email address (via your Amazon account: Account and Lists → Your Devices and Content → Manage Devices).

2. Approve your personal email address.

3. Email the PDF to your Kindle.

4. Sync your Kindle.

Please note: PDFs don’t always display perfectly on Kindle, so for the best reading experience I’d recommend a tablet or computer.

Think of this as a little wander through the garden gate, a sneaky peek over the fence, at the jobs that usually happen when no one’s looking. It’s not all mud and sweat (though there’s plenty of that too), but the quiet, everyday graft that makes the show sparkle. And since you’re here, cup of tea in hand, let me show you how it all works…

(Note: Annoyingly, the end of this may be cut short by certain email apps)

A Typical Summer’s Morning

Deadheading is usually the first order of the day. Strolling along the borders, trug and snips in hand, pruning off faded blooms. Easy yet satisfying. Minimal effort but a good one to tick off the to-do list (for a brief but welcome hit of accomplishment - essential when my mood is less than buoyant).

It’s a good opportunity to take in the garden too, spotting weeds or struggling plants, ones that need supporting, or a little extra water. All mental notes for later, or quickly tapped into my Reminders app.

When I’m done, I’ll pop on the irrigation system to give the specimen Japanese maples a morning drink, then it’s round to the Kitchen Garden to harvest courgettes, tomatoes, sweetcorn, cucumbers, cut flowers and herbs for the day.

There’s always a ball of twine round there for tying in tomatoes and cucumbers, and canes for the sweetcorn that might be a little wayward. I’ll prune any mouldy cucurbit leaves, spent tomato trusses and side-shoots while I’m there.

All the deadheading and prunings are taken to the compost bays, along with the previous night’s prunings or kitchen scraps. It’s great to keep the heap well fuelled and humming along. Then it’s back round to turn off the irrigation and get down to some writing or photography.

Along with a spot of weeding and popping in the odd cane, it’s a little and often approach. The majority of the supports are in by May. Summer is a time of watering, feeding, deadheading, composting, and keeping the show going. Now, let’s dive into those juicy details.

Holding It Together: Supports Big and Small

Border plants are wonderful, but let’s be honest, half of them can’t stand up without a bit of help, especially when you have monsters like: Delphinium ‘Faust’, Cephalaria gigantea, Rudbeckia laciniata, Persicaria amplexicaulis, Helianthus ‘Sheila’s Sunshine’, not to mention the climbing and rambling roses.

Some giants are self-supporting, like Althaea cannabina, or are happy to lean on each other when the planting is just right. But without props, many tall plants can flop, sulk, or faint at the slightest breeze. That’s where the supports come in.

Some supports are rather elegant, even glamorous: the Gothic Arch that carries roses skyward in the Cottage Garden, the towering rustic obelisks that punctuate the Flower Garden, crowned with great rusty balls, or the sage green inverted obelisk carrying a pure white clematis.

Others are purely functional or temporary fixes… The peony frames that vanish beneath glossy foliage. A bamboo cane (or three placed in a triangle) with a loop of twine for when a delphinium keels over. Like good underwear… you don’t see it, but it keeps everything in place.

Tip: I always cut the canes down so they’re not visible and distracting.

I’m a big fan of quality 3-ply twine. There’s always a roll nearby. On a shelf in the potting shed. Tucked into the side of the wood store. One on the rack in the garage. And one in the porch that never seems to find a permanent home.

Twine is the gardener’s duct tape, gently holding the whole world together one fluffy knot at a time. It has a certain amount of natural give, allowing stems to expand without cutting-in. It’s biodegradable too, so you can drop old bits on the ground (I’ve seen birds use it as nesting material) or throw it on the compost heap at the end of the season. I do not use plastic ties or rubber coated wire.

The roses clambering over walls and fences are tied into place (yes, with more twine), supported with lines of galvanised wire rope spaced roughly 30cm apart, with hooks, eyes, and turnbuckles to keep the tension nice and taut. After the summer flush of blooms, I’ll tie in the new growth while it’s green and bendy.

I like the balance of all these supports: structures handsome enough to be features in their own right, alongside the scrappy fixes that just do the job but stay out of sight. Without them, the garden would be a tangle of flopped stems and face-planted flowers. With them, it’s all rather well behaved… or at least gives that impression.

Compost Corner

Compost is not glamorous or sexy. I don’t care what those gadget and additive manufacturers say. It’s rotting matter. It’s decomposition. It is the barely visible backstage crew in black t-shirts, running around in the dark making sure the show goes on.

The flowers get their big moment in the spotlight, while the humble compost sits quietly in the wings, smelling of mushrooms and a woodland floor after the rain. It’s every gardener’s true alchemy: turning “eww!” into “ooooooooh.”

Everything from the garden, eventually ends up on the heap. Faded blooms, stems, leaves, roots with soil, weeds, diseased leaves, twigs chopped up, old compost from pots, plus all the prunings and all the vegetative waste from the kitchen. I treat it like a kind of happy harvest for the compost heap. Every trug full adding another layer of substance and fuel, all potential black gold.

Bagged compost has definitely has its place too and I always have a supply (of Melcourt’s SylvaGrow) stacked up and waiting. Proprietary compost is more friable and lighter in texture, ideal for mixing with grit or perlite for potting plants. Tested and clean because gardeners are generally paranoid about pathogens and naughty fungal spores.

But the plants won’t care whether it arrived in a bijou pouch from Sarah Raven (at an extortionate price) or was served straight from the heap. If it is rich, well balanced, and drains properly, they will tuck in happily.

I’ll just say there is something very satisfying about making compost. Lifting the lid and finding steam rising, like the compost is quietly brewing a neighbourly cuppa for the whole garden and all the garden friends.

So yes, compost may not be pretty, but it is the quiet miracle worker of the garden, the garden’s unsung hero. You can think of it as plant rocket fuel, just with more worms and less marketing.

Feeding Time: Plant Nutrition Without Fuss

Feeding plants can be a bit like running a canteen. Some are perfectly content with the set menu, others behave like fussy teenagers. Then there are the greedy guts, always wanting extras, guzzling anything you put in front of them.

I keep things simple and balanced. A good compost mix gets most plants off to a strong start. Permanent container plants receive an invigorating mulch of garden compost and a dusting of slow-release fertiliser in spring, then I top up with liquid feed when it’s needed.

Seaweed concentrate is my go-to tonic. It smells like low tide, but the plants lap it up. Think of it as a multivitamin for the garden - smellier, but effective. Seaweed extracts can stimulate root growth and help plants cope with stress (drought, salinity, frost). But it’s not a long-term fertiliser. The hormones and compounds feed the plant directly and are quickly broken down by microbes or leached away if you over-water.

So I use it little and often as it’s not exactly cheap! Averaged out over the season, all my container-grown plants get a dilute dose every two or three weeks. A short-lived pick-me-up that keeps them ticking over nicely.

I always try to avoid overfeeding. It’s tempting to keep ladling it on, but too much and you end up with soft, sappy growth that pests find irresistible, or growth so lush it can’t support its own oversized blooms. It’s the horticultural version of giving a child too many sweets: all bounce, no stamina, and a crash waiting to happen. I don’t feed plants in the ground at all, which saves both time and fuss.

The Thirsty Work of Watering

If gardening is meant to be relaxing, no one told the 200+ pots waiting for me in my garden. Thanks to the hosepipe ban, my 2-gallon watering cans feel more like medieval torture devices.

By pot number 87, you really do start to question all your life choices.

Summer evenings feel like an unwelcome gym session, cunningly disguised as a gentle hobby. Lugging fully laden watering cans back and forth. Balancing on one foot while trying to reach the pot at the back - without smashing the blooms off three others.

And nothing builds stoicism quite like carrying 9 litres of water in each hand and immediately sloshing half down your shorts… then carrying on with soggy undercrackers. I thought gardening was supposed to be fun?!

My resolve not to water the borders is holding firm, albeit tested daily. Yes, some plants are looking a little beleaguered, if not entirely knackered. But on the whole, despite the drought and successive heatwaves, the Flower Garden looks healthy and full of colour - which is as much as any gardener can hope for in August. Especially when it hasn’t seen a drop from neither hose, can, or cloud.

The pots are watered once per week. That’s a non-negotiable minimum. Twice weekly in a heatwave. They get a real deep drink, so water starts to flow out of the bottom. Thankfully, the Japanese maples are on a drip-line irrigation system, so with the turn of a tap they get a gentle trickle most days, just to maintain the moisture levels. They still get the weekly deep drench treatment too.

If the potting compost has gone hydrophobic (dusty and water-repelling) and water just gushes down the sides, I’ll slowly drench it a few times over a couple of days, or sit the pot in a deep tray of water overnight. Nine times out of ten, that sorts it out.

Rainwater is my first choice, when the butts are reliably refilled. Although it should be mandatory, it still feels virtuous to use it, like the garden is feeding itself in a neat little cycle. But it’s been such a dry year and the barrels ran dry months ago. I am using the mains, while muttering apologies to the water bill and feeling rather ashamed at using drinking water to sustain my plants.

There is no escaping it: right now, watering is the love–hate relationship at the heart of my garden. Exhausting, laborious, sometimes irrationally irritating, but absolutely essential. And when you stand back afterwards and the plants are perky, the foliage glossy, and the air smells of damp earth… it almost feels worth it. Almost.

Favourites from the Shed

Every gardener has their desert island kit. The things you reach for without thinking, the ones you’d replace tomorrow if they broke or vanished. Here’s my line-up of trusty companions.

First up, Niwaki Pro Secateurs. I have a pair that live in my pocket most days, and I’d be lost without them. They’re sharp, comfortable, and have survived more drops into compost heaps than I care to admit. Add a stainless steel scoop (for potting), a copper trowel for planting young plants, and my old daisy grubber, and I can potter quite happily for hours.

There’s a fair number of topiary specimens around the garden, so my razor-sharp Okatsune No.217 shears have regular outings through summer. Simple tools, but absolute workhorses. (For treating buxus, I use TopBuxus HealthMix to combat blight and Xentari for box caterpillar. Both have been highly effective. But I only have twenty or so modest topiary, so the expense is tolerable.)

When it comes to supports, the standouts are the handsome ones that double as features. The Agriframes Gothic Arch that carries roses up and over the Cottage Garden steps, the Agriframes Elegance and Queen obelisks dotted among the borders, the Muntons peony frames that are as strong as they are stylish, the rusty grow-through supports… they all earn their keep.

Compost is another big one and I am rather fussy. A high-quality peat-free mix makes all the difference and I use Melcourt’s bark-based SylvaGrow exclusively. It’s a brand I trust. It’s not cheap, but the assurance of quality and watching the plants thrive makes it worthwhile. I’ve used it for years.

For feeding, I keep it simple: either Empathy or Envii seaweed concentrate for a general pick-me-up tonic. I rarely opt for specialist feeds, apart from Uncle Tom’s Rose Tonic, for when I feel I need to spoil my roses. The annual pot redress is nothing flashy, just a steady spring impetus and reliable nourishment from bog-standard fish, blood and bonemeal.

And of course, there’s the watering gear. I have a trusty Gardena wall-mounted self-wind retractable hose and Gardena’s Comfort Spray Lance (the hanging basket one) is my go-to accessory. Trust me, it’s fantastic. Watering cans are a necessary evil and range from simple plastic to the long-spout Haws Warley Fall. Good for reach and accuracy, dreadful for forearms and lower back, but needs must.

Last but not least, the surprise heroes… a stack of battered heavy-duty trugs that seem indestructible. A pile of terracotta chocks to lift pots off the ground. Niwaki close-fitting gardening gloves. A bundle of bamboo canes. Lat but by no means least, the ever present Nutscene chunky green twine (on a handy oak spindle). Not glamorous, but indispensable.

The shed isn’t glamorous, but this lot quietly keeps the whole show on the road.

Closing Thoughts

So there you have it. The string and stakes, the muck and mulch, the feeds, the water, and the odd battered trug that keep this whole garden ticking over. It is not glamorous work, but without it the borders would flop, the pots would sulk, and the veg patch would throw a full tantrum.

These are the quiet, everyday jobs that rarely make it onto glossy garden tours, but they matter just as much as the blooms. They are the graft that makes the glory possible.

Thank you for wandering through the potting shed door with me today. It feels good to share the messy, practical side of gardening with people who understand it. After all, gardens are not conjured out of thin air, they’re coaxed along with muddy hands, aching arms, and a lot of care.

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🌿 Thanks for reading. I’m always very grateful for your company here. If you enjoyed this ramble through the garden and if this post made you smile, do tap that little heart, leave a comment, restack it, or share it with a fellow gardener. It really does make such a difference 💚

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Tales from the Kitchen Garden: the hits, the misses, and the downright disasters. What thrived, what sulked, and what’s been banished forever from my veg beds. Plus a few handy tips and hacks I’ve picked up along the way.

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Come and see how it happened…

It’s actually quite hard to remember what this plot looked like when we first moved here 11 years ago. Probably impossible for you to imagine, but let me prise open this little time capsule so you can take a peek into the past.

The terrace was our very first proper outdoor project. Well, if you don’t count the new cottage roof. Or the new windows. They’re sort of outdoors. I won’t bore you with the all-new plumbing, rewiring, the endless sawdust, and the sound of hammer drills. Dust, dust, dust. Moving on.

In fact, the terrace was the first real landscaping project we’d ever undertaken, anywhere. But it’s that first tamed slice of the outdoors that convinced us we could survive the chaos of living in a ramshackle (hideously decorated - think TOWIE but even more naff) and poorly maintained 17th-century cottage. All while simultaneously trying to renovate the building entirely and work out the beginnings of a garden.

How exactly it helped, I’m not sure. I think it just provided a breathing space, a buffer between the overgrown dereliction outside and the dust-laden, cable-bound, musty building site within.

If I had to describe the “back garden” in one word, it would be dark. Those monstrous leylandii didn’t just block the light, they seemed to swallow every last photon. Somewhere out there, astronomers study black holes for this very reason. They could save themselves the trouble and just plant a leylandii hedge.

The first steps outside the back doors were treacherous: slimy railway sleepers with ankle-twisting chunks of slate. The garden sloped immediately down and away, with the only level area right at the bottom.

If you didn’t check your footing, you’d slide (arms flailing, legs akimbo) all the way down, ending in a messy heap on the moss-covered concrete pavers. At least the dogs would be there to lick your face as you recovered your composure.

So, the requirements were very, very simple: a flat, level area that didn’t result in a dislocated hip, with enough space for comfy garden furniture and a few potted plants.

Phase One: The Runway Years (2016)

I won’t distract you with the technicalities of the hardscaping. Only to say it involved a retaining wall, a vast amount of aggregate, and enough sandstone to cover Trafalgar Square.

Freshly laid and pristine, the new terrace looked less like a relaxing garden space and more like a private landing strip. Broad, bare, and unnervingly linear — you could almost have taxied a small plane down it (we even had a few circling above us for a while).

The hard landscaping was all there: clean paving, neat white walls, the promise of something lovely. But without a single plant in sight, it felt exposed and sterile.

And then came the first arrivals…

Phase Two: First Landings

We started with the big players: specimen Japanese maples (Acer palmatum var. dissectum), evergreen buxus topiary, and a couple of ‘Emily Brontë’ roses potted neatly in green ceramics. There were also a few pots of alliums and agapanthus kicking about, for a splash of colour.

Soon, white and blue mophead hydrangeas joined the party - well before I knew blue mopheads would turn pink in the ground, or before I even knew there was such a thing as alkaline soil to turn hydrangeas pink!

Comfortable Bramblecrest seating arrived (because what’s the point in making a garden if you can’t actually sit and enjoy it?). That first summer, the terrace was still mostly stone, but it was beginning to earn its keep. To have a comfortable outdoor space, away from the endless building work, was priceless.

I remember that summer as a mixed bag. Heatwaves where we enjoyed long, balmy evenings sipping chilled wine and cuddling the dogs, and cooler, wetter spells where we’d be darting inside carrying armfuls of cushions in a desperate attempt to keep them dry.

Phase Three: The Great Pot Migration

The ten pots soon became twenty. Twenty became fifty. Before long, we were hauling in containers of every size and material: terracotta, zinc-galvanised steel, cast iron, ceramics, and stoneware. Each filled with something new to try.

An expanding list of Japanese maples; buxus in balls, cones, and cubes; corkscrew hazels alongside festuca grasses and alliums; the first Japanese forest grass; dwarf pines; and a random wisteria standard. (Even now, I’m asking myself: what on earth was I thinking?!)

Flash forward to today and there are over 130 planters. Edge-to-edge planting, with acers and roses rubbing shoulders with seasonal bulbs, buxus topiary, Hydrangea paniculata, agapanthus, dahlias and cosmos, heucheras and geums, salvias, veronicastrums, ferns, and Japanese forest grass. We are forever plotting how to squeeze in just one more.

Then, one summer, a cool, shady spot stole the show…

Phase Four: The Shady Table Arrives

Tucked under the north-facing gable, the Shady Table became its own little stage. Hostas, ferns, heucheras, and delicate foliage plants glow in the ambient light. A cool counterpoint to the summer sun elsewhere. It’s a still, calm space in the warm months, and in winter, when the terrace slips into shade, it hibernates with only the bronze grasses left to sway in the wind.

By now, the terrace was filled to bursting point, but it had also found its style and aesthetic. It knew exactly who it was.

Phase Five: Finding Its Rhythm

The north-facing aspect gives the terrace a split personality: full, glorious sun from late spring to early autumn, then complete shade through the colder months. Over time, I’ve learned which plants thrive, which tolerate, and which deserve a dignified transfer elsewhere.

The pots and planters are endlessly interchangeable. A backbone of permanent planting holds the space together: the acers, topiary, roses, Hydrangea paniculata, ferns, and grasses. Around them, the seasons ebb and flow. Spring bulbs from February to June give way to summer’s cosmos, dahlias, and salvias.

Leisure time (morning coffee, afternoon cake, evening G&T) shifts in winter to the cosy timber potting shed (the only part of the garden to get winter sunlight, hence the two chairs) and the Courtyard Garden, which basks in a bright twilight cast by the sun bouncing off the cottage walls.

The space continues to evolve. A new water feature was added earlier this year, with pots shuffled to make room. There is more emphasis on Hydrangea paniculata for late-summer froth and a touch of vavoom, a shift from decorative dahlias to single daisy bee-magnets, and more Japanese forest grass and ferns filling the shady void beneath the acers.

Shady Table seems to grow in length and depth each year (more hostas, more ferns, more foliage plants) all wrapping around that cool, babbling water bowl.

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Looking Back

I can hardly believe how stark it once was, yet at the time I was surprisingly self-satisfied, feeling the terrace was “finished” and “well planted.”

Now, eight years on, it is multi-layered, with a rich tapestry of foliage shapes and forms, and brimming with gentle floral abundance. It is a space that invites you to exhale the moment you step outside, as family and friends often remark.

Gardens rarely spring to life fully formed. They settle in, shift, and reveal themselves over time. I have said it often: I am no garden designer. I am a gardener who evolves a space based on needs, experience, and the undying requirement to be surrounded by plants… even buried under them.

The terrace has taught me to embrace that slow unfurling: the developmental stage, the tinkering and shuffling of pots, listening to the plants that sulked, the ones that thrived, and the ones that surprised me.

There is a quiet joy in watching a space gently evolve into somewhere that feels inevitable, as though it has always been that way. Like those master sculptors who say, “The art was already in the stone… I just had to remove the excess.”

It is a reminder that good gardens, like good friendships, grow richer the longer you live with them. They benefit from time, exchanges of ideas, the ability to listen, and the embrace of a perpetual conversation… oh, and they are always worth squeezing in just one more plant. 🌿

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Paid subscribers get to sneak behind the curtain for all the gritty (and occasionally muddy) details — the supports I swear by, how I keep the watering can from becoming my sworn enemy, and what really goes into keeping the plants fed and happy. Then we’ll wander over to the Kitchen Garden, where everyone can share in my tales from the veg plot: the harvest heroes, the veg that flopped spectacularly, and the hard-earned lessons from a year that kept me firmly on my gardening toes.

You know the scene. A gorgeous young shoot emerges, dewy and full of promise. You turn your back for five minutes, and it’s gone. Reduced to a sad, frilly nub. No sign of the culprit. Just a glistening trail of audacity, like a garden smash and grab.

It could be new shoots. It could be a prized plant you’ve just this moment bought from the garden centre. You leave it on the patio overnight, ready for planting the next day, and then… horror. The leaves look like they’ve been flayed with a cat o’ nine tails.

Slugs and snails are the bane of so many gardens, especially in spring and early summer (and any time there’s a healthy dollop of rain). They arrive like sneaky little salad thieves and strip your prized plants overnight, leaving heartbreak and shredded foliage in their wake. Some years are worse than others, but let’s be honest… they’re never entirely absent.

Now, I’m not here to promise miracles. Even the most defiant plant might fall victim to a particularly bold mollusc, especially if you’ve just served up a buffet of soft new growth or your plants are stressed. But in my experience, some plants are genuinely unappetising. Unchewable. Barely glanced at by those malevolent molluscs.

So instead of relying on regurgitated lists from the internet, I’ve spent the summer observing plants in my own garden. These are the ones that stand their ground. The unsung heroes of the border.

Ferns, woody shrubs, trees (particularly conifers), and grasses are generally left well alone. Too tough, too tall, or just not tasty enough. Slugs also tend to steer clear of anything with hard, leathery leaves, strong herbal flavours packed with volatile oils, or fluffy, fuzzy or scratchy textures.

Then there are those plants that, for whatever unfathomable reason, slugs and snails simply ignore. So let’s give these stunningly defiant plants a moment in the spotlight!

Slug-Resistant Plants Worth Their Weight in (Uneaten) Leaves

(From my own garden - tested in the field, not just theory.)

Perennials

1. Geranium (the hardy kind, not the bedding pelargoniums)
   Absolute tanks. They spread like gossip and slugs seem wholly uninterested. The foliage is tough, the flowers are charming, and you’ll barely find a nibble.

2. Epimedium
   Delicate-looking, but it’s all a ruse. These plants are practically invisible to slugs and bring great foliage interest in shade.

3. Alchemilla mollis
   Those ruffled velvety leaves collect morning dew like tiny chalices. Beautiful to us, but about as appealing to a slug as a cactus duvet.

4. Astrantia
   Elegant blooms, finely cut leaves, and barely a mark on them. Practically ornamental steel.

5. Aquilegia
   Soft, floaty, and magical. Mostly left alone. They seed around like happy little anarchists and rarely show damage.

6. Brunnera macrophylla
   Textured, slightly hairy leaves (which slugs hate) and delicate forget-me-not flowers in spring. Occasionally a little nibble on old leaves, but not serious.

7. Pulmonaria
   Spotty leaves, early flowers for pollinators, and a real backbone plant. Slugs don’t seem to like the scratchy texture. A win for us.

8. Agapanthus
   Tough, strappy foliage that slugs simply ignore. The flowers are a summer showstopper and, frankly, a well-earned reward for not being eaten.

9. Gaura (now Oenothera lindheimeri)
   Whippy, wiry stems and fine foliage. Slugs don’t seem interested. A bit wild and wonderful, and flowers for ages.

10. Geum
    Lovely clump-forming perennials with slightly hairy leaves and cheerful blooms. Not a slug favourite at all, and new cultivars like ‘Totally Tangerine’ are long-flowering and fuss-free.

11. Salvia nemorosa
    Rough, aromatic foliage puts slugs right off. The bees love the flowers, and the molluscs give them a wide berth.

12. Euphorbia
    I love the zingy chartreuse blooms, but they’re not to everyone’s taste, but definitely not to a slug’s. Milky sap, leathery leaves, and tough stems keep them safe from most nibbles.

13. Japanese Anemones (Anemone x hybrida)
    Elegant and late to rise, these perennials sail through summer without a single nibble. Possibly too wiry, too upright, or just too confident to bother with.

14. Erigeron karvinskianus
    Low, frothy daisy flowers, and no sign of slime. It self-seeds like a dream in cracks and crevices, and slugs don't seem to notice.

15. Thalictrum aquilegiifolium
    Delicate, airy flowers and finely cut leaves. Despite looking like the kind of thing slugs would love, they are almost always left untouched.

16. Lavandula (Lavender)
    Technically a subshrub but we’ll lump in it here with the perennials. Soft and scented for us, but full of essential oils that put slugs right off their supper.

Tried, Tested, and (Mostly) Untouched

These are the ones that might not always make those top ten lists, but they’ve earned their stripes. Many of them I grow here (in bold) with great success, while others are widely recommended from fellow gardeners and sources across the web. If you're looking to plant with pests in mind, this is a solid place to start.

Acanthus mollis, Ajuga reptans, Astilbe, Campanula, Crocosmia, Cyclamen, Foeniculum vulgare (fennel), Fuchsias, Heuchera, Hellebore, Paeonia lactiflora (peony), Penstemon, Perovskia, Phlox paniculata, Scabiosa, Sedum, Sisyrinchium, Solidago (golden rod), Stachys, Verbascum species (mullein).

Ferns

Dryopteris filix-mas (male fern)
If a slug has ever eaten one of these in my garden, I’ll eat my filthiest hat. Ferns are some of the most reliably slug-resistant plants you can grow, which is remarkable considering they often live in the same shady, moist corners that slugs adore.

It comes down to texture. Fern foliage looks fine and lacy, but it tends to be thick, sometimes hairy, and generally unappetising. Dryopteris, in particular, has a leathery quality that slugs seem to avoid entirely.

They’re also low-maintenance, resilient in shade, and tolerant of dry spells once established. In other words, they ask for very little and offer a lot, including the peace of mind that no mollusc is going to ruin the look.

Other Notable Ferns

1. Polystichum setiferum (soft shield fern)
   Delicately divided fronds with a soft, almost feathery look. Despite its lushness, I’ve never seen it nibbled. It’s evergreen too, which is a nice bonus for winter structure.

2. Athyrium niponicum (Japanese painted fern)
   A real showstopper, with silver, purple, and green tones. You’d think something that pretty would be gobbled instantly, but no, it seems to glide under the slug radar.

3. Asplenium scolopendrium (hart's tongue fern)
   Broad, glossy, tongue-like leaves that look like they’d be on the slug’s buffet, but oddly, they’re not. Brilliant for damp shade and one of the easiest to grow.

4. Dryopteris erythrosora (autumn fern)
   Young fronds emerge coppery-pink and mature to deep green. Tough and striking, and apparently quite unpalatable.

5. Blechnum spicant (hard fern)
   Evergreen and architectural, with upright fertile fronds and low, spreading sterile ones. Very tough, very reliable, and again, untouched.

Annuals and Biennials

Calendula
Cheerful, low-effort, and surprisingly untroubled once they get going. Young seedlings need watching, but established plants are rarely touched. I sow mine under cover, raise them in modules, and plant out when they’re growing strongly. If your garden is infested with slugs, grow them on in 9 cm pots and plant out when they’re really motoring.

Digitalis (foxglove)
A shady garden superstar. Slugs take one sniff and back away slowly. Possibly poisonous, definitely unfashionable with gastropods. Scruffy old leaves at the base may be nibbled, but nothing serious.

Nicotiana
Those velvety, musky leaves? Seemingly a total turn-off. Bees and moths love them, slugs don’t. That’s a solid win. However, like with foxgloves, you may find decaying leaves are nibbled, so just prune these out once they begin to yellow.

Herbs (Slug-Free and Useful!)

Thyme, rosemary, oregano, sage. Strong-smelling, rough-leaved, and not on the menu. I’ve never seen a slug having a munch on any of these.

Plants Slugs & Snails Love (aka: The Mollusc Menu)

You know the ones. You plant them with joy, full of hope and glossy-leafed promise… and within hours, they’re riddled like a colander. If you don’t protect these beauties, they’ll be reduced to stumps faster than you can say “beer trap.”

1. Hostas
   No surprises here. But oh, the heartbreak. Especially the large-leaved, soft-textured types. Unless grown in pots, raised off the ground, with regular inspections and full military-grade slug patrols, they are potentially doomed. The blue-leaved varieties are usually tougher (like ‘Halcyon’ and ‘Blue Mouse Ears’) but still need watching.

2. Delphiniums
   It’s almost comical. The second those juicy shoots emerge, slugs seemingly parachute in from neighbouring postcodes. Despite being packed with toxins that could floor a hippo, delphiniums are apparently delicious. If you want delphs, be prepared to go on high alert from Day One. Cloche young plants, or feed and water them straight away to get them growing strongly. Either plant them out when they’re well established or just keep them in pots and guard them like precious jewels.

3. Lupins

   Another banquet item. Not only are the leaves irresistible, the flower stems seem to be slug catnip too. They rarely make it to maturity without a few war wounds. In my Cottage Garden, they were frequently decimated. However, in the dry and sunny Flower Garden (which has far less cover in spring), they grow strongly and are quickly out of reach.

4. Dahlias (especially new growth)

   The tubers may survive anything, but that tender new growth? Basically slug caviar. Keep an eye on young plants and tuck them in safely at night. Snails will go after mature foliage too.

5. Cosmos

   Young cosmos are extremely nibble-able. Once they bulk up, they’re usually fine, but early on they’re easy pickings.

6. Marigolds (Tagetes)

   Supposedly pungent and unappealing, and yet I’ve seen them absolutely obliterated in my veg beds, gnawed to the ground. Despite their renown as the perfect companion plant (meant to repel pests, no less), slugs seem to view them as a soft, citrus-scented canapé. Clearly our local slugs haven’t read the same books.

Slugs may also eat the young emerging foliage of Sanguisorba, Persicaria, Sunflowers, Zinnias, and Eryngium, though in many cases, once the plants are established, the threat lessens considerably.

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Final Thoughts

Slugs and snails are inevitable. They’re part of the garden, just like blackfly, bindweed, and a neighbour mowing at 7 a.m. on a Saturday. But that doesn’t mean they get free rein. Choose the right plants, and you’re already halfway there. A little nibble here and there is fine, just plant wisely and don’t give them the run of the place. 🌿

P.S. Want to know how I actually keep them in check? Here’s my no-pellets, no-panic slug control guide 👇

The roses have had their bountiful first flush, the towering foxgloves have gone to seed, gaps from early-flowering perennials (brutally cut to the ground for their own good), and the midsummer pomp has eased into something altogether more languid, if not entirely knackered.

But don’t be fooled into thinking the show is over… Oh no. Not yet.

August brings its own cast of characters. Plants that thrive on warmth, that revel in those long golden balmy evenings, and repay you with colour, scent, and (most importantly) stamina.

These are the plants I rely on to carry the garden through the tail end of summer and into the early days of autumn (and in many cases, right through winter with their crispy seedheads and toughened stems). A mix of mood-lifters and pollinator-pleasers. Some are exuberant and flouncy, others light and airy. But all of them earn their keep.

So here it is: a list of late-summer stars I couldn’t garden without. Most of these are thriving right now in my own borders.

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1. Dahlia

The scene-stealers. The classic summer bloomers. The only garden divas who get away with needing constant support, yet still managing to upstage everyone else. Every year I promise myself I won’t go overboard, and every year I fail spectacularly. I’m always buying more (an entire bed for cutting) and playing with new varieties.

From the smoky Café au Lait and papery, twisted pinks of Labyrinth to the fiery oranges of Totally Tangerine and deep velvets of Chat Noir, dahlias come in every colour except true blue. If you want to keep the bees happy, choose single varieties with open centres. Magenta Star, Bishop of Llandaff and Bishop’s Children are all good examples.

They bloom from July (sometimes earlier) until the first hard frost, given regular deadheading. Feed them well, stake them early, and keep them watered. In return, you get the kind of indulgent, velvety petals that stop you in your tracks.

• Colour: Every shade imaginable including rich burgundy, coral, peach, white, near-black. Personally I er on the subtler side of the colour wheel.

• Scent: None

• Height/Spread: 60cm–1.5m tall

• Bloom Time: July to first hard frost

• Pollinators: Yes, particularly open-centred varieties

• Growth Habit: Grows from tubers, upright and bushy

• Self-seeding: No

• Notes: Feed and deadhead regularly. Squishy cone shapes are spent flowers. Firm buttons are the new flower buds. Stake early for best results.

2. Helenium

Heleniums are the late summer firework display, with shades of russet, copper, saffron, and deep mahogany - the garden’s equivalent of a warm hug and a very good sunset. My personal favourites all have that marmaladey toffee feel: Moerheim Beauty, Sahin’s Early Flowerer, and Carmen. Sumptuous!

They’re upright, tidy, and utterly charming. In my garden, they benefit from a good Chelsea Chop in June to keep them compact, as they do have a tendency to flop if left unchecked. I love them woven through grasses, or planted around the rich purples of Salvia ‘Amistad’ and the steely blues of Echinops.

Bees go wild for them, looping around the pollen-rich button centres. You’ll often find entire stems gently vibrating with fuzzy, golden bottoms.

• Colour: Amber, copper, mahogany, red-gold, yellow

• Scent: Lightly earthy

• Height/Spread: 90–120cm tall, 50cm wide

• Bloom Time: July–September

• Pollinators: Excellent — bees adore them

• Growth Habit: Clump forming

• Self-seeding: Rare

• Notes: Pinch back in June for shorter, bushier plants with more flowers.

3. Echinacea purpurea (Coneflower)

There’s a regal strength to echinaceas. Tall, commanding stems with bold daisy-like flowers and those lovely spiky cones. Purpurea is the classic deep pink, but I’m also partial to coral or soft white cultivars like ‘White Swan’. In my garden, ‘Magnus’ takes centre stage with large bubblegum-pink blooms.

Bees adore them, as do butterflies. Even as the petals fade, the cones remain sculptural, especially when dusted with frost. Clump forming, long blooming, and particularly striking en masse with grasses, salvias, and Geranium ‘Rozanne’ weaving her way through.

Reliable, photogenic, and full of nectar… if only more things in life were this low maintenance. Just give them good drainage and a bit of sun. They sulk in heavy clay and they’ll let you know about it.

• Colour: Deep pink, coral, white, orange

• Scent: Slightly honeyed

• Height/Spread: 80–120cm tall

• Bloom Time: July–September and beyond with deadheading

• Pollinators: Excellent for bees and butterflies

• Growth Habit: Clump forming

• Self-seeding: Occasionally, in lighter soils

• Notes: Needs moisture but with good drainage and plenty of sun. Avoid waterlogged soils.

4. Rudbeckia

If summer had a mascot, it would be this daisy-faced optimist, beaming through August and on into autumn, with an almost defiant cheerfulness. Every year I sow more Cherry Brandy, with its deep, velvety, chocolate-red petals. Rudbeckia laciniata is a different beast entirely: a towering plant, well over two metres, smothered in bright yellow blooms. It makes a brilliant back-of-the-border accent that I bounce down the garden.

They’re tough, drought tolerant, and look fantastic with purples, blues, and dusky pinks. Or plant them in great swathes, if you’ve the space, for maximum impact.

• Colour: Bright golden yellow, orange, and reds, with black-brown centres

• Scent: None

• Height/Spread: Mostly 60–90cm tall. R. laciniata is over 1.5m

• Bloom Time: August–October

• Pollinators: Excellent for bees

• Growth Habit: Clump forming

• Self-seeding: Occasionally, easily manageable

• Notes: Tough, low-maintenance, drought tolerant. Taller varieties may need staking on rich soils.

5. Anemone x hybrida (Japanese Anemone)

Soft, floaty, and wonderfully reliable. Japanese anemones bring a different sort of energy: gentle, romantic, and somehow rather charming.

They begin in August and just keep going. The pure white ‘Honorine Jobert’ is a classic, though she does have a bit of a thuggish streak. ‘Bressingham Glow’ offers bright pink, while ‘Königin Charlotte’ brings a softer pastel hue. They’re not fragrant, but their presence is subtle and striking all the same.

They spread by rhizomes (consider yourself warned), but in the right spot (especially dappled shade), they’re magic. They cope well in part sun or part shade, and they need moisture to flower at their best.

• Colour: Soft pinks and pure whites

• Scent: Fresh but faint

• Height/Spread: 80–120cm tall

• Bloom Time: August–October

• Pollinators: Loved by hoverflies and small bees

• Growth Habit: Rhizomatous (spreading)

• Self-seeding: Rarely

• Notes: Once established, they’re unstoppable. Use where you want something with movement and grace and have the space for these substantial plants.

6. Persicaria amplexicaulis

You know those plants that just keep flowering, no matter the weather? This is one of them.

I use Persicaria as a structural filler toward the middle to back of the border. With tall, slender spikes in ruby, deep pink, or rose (‘Pink Elephant’, ‘Firetail’, ‘Blackfield’, ‘Rosea’), it lifts and softens any planting scheme.

Pollinators love it. The mounding habit is lush but not unruly, and it pairs beautifully with upright grasses (I like Miscanthus and Molinia) or looser perennials like Veronicastrum and Sanguisorba. They can look a bit weary in dry soil, with a tendency to flop, so a little moisture goes a long way.

• Colour: Red, rose, or dusky pink spikes

• Scent: Mild and fresh

• Height/Spread: 1–1.2m tall

• Bloom Time: July–October

• Pollinators: Excellent

• Growth Habit: Clump forming

• Self-seeding: Rare

• Notes: Moisture helps, but they’re fairly tolerant. Pair beautifully with naturalistic planting.

7. Sanguisorba

This one’s pure poetry. Bobbing, bottlebrush blooms in deep crimson (‘Tanna’), soft raspberry (‘Red Thunder’), or gentle pink (‘Pink Brushes’). Tall and light, they sway on the breeze like wands.

My personal favourite is Sanguisorba hakusanensis ‘Lilac Squirrel’, with soft, silky, tassel-like blooms that are so tactile I insist on planting it near the path, just so I can stroke it on the way past.

Most cultivars aren’t showy plants, more of a background whisper. They’re especially effective when planted with grasses, Veronicastrum, and Verbena bonariensis. Utterly essential in naturalistic schemes. Bees love the clustered flowers, and they keep blooming through August and September if they don’t dry out. They hold their tall, floaty bearing well into winter.

They do best in moisture-retentive soil, but they’re adaptable if you choose your variety carefully.

• Colour: Deep red, raspberry, or soft pink bottlebrushes or tassels

• Scent: Grassy, lightly herbal

• Height/Spread: 60–150cm depending on variety

• Bloom Time: July–September

• Pollinators: Bees and hoverflies

• Growth Habit: Clump forming

• Self-seeding: Occasionally

• Notes: Don’t let them dry out. Beautiful with verbena, echinacea, or grasses.

8. Verbena bonariensis

One of the great see-through beauties. Verbena bonariensis adds floaty, airy height without bulk… tall, willowy stems topped with lilac-mauve clusters that hover like little satellites above the border.

It flowers for months on end and is adored by bees and butterflies, especially red admirals. It self-seeds politely into gravel paths and gaps between paving slabs. I let mine wander. It’s never thuggish, always graceful. They pop up like uninvited guests, but the kind you’re always happy to see. The seedlings are easy to remove and rehome, so I’m forever spreading the joy.

Deadhead if you want to limit spread, or just lean into the generous chaos.

• Colour: Lilac-mauve

• Scent: Faintly herbal

• Height/Spread: 100–150cm tall

• Bloom Time: June–October

• Pollinators: Bee and butterfly magnet

• Growth Habit: Tall, slender, self-supporting

• Self-seeding: Yes, freely, but easily managed

• Notes: Don’t plant just one, it shines when repeated. Excellent with grasses and late perennials like veronicastrum and sanguisorba.

9. Crocosmia (‘Lucifer’, ‘Emily McKenzie’)

No plant says late summer drama quite like Crocosmia. Fiery and upright, the sword-shaped leaves and arching flower stems bring movement and heat to the border, with a noticeable change in form compared to almost everything else around them.

‘Lucifer’ is vivid scarlet (the classic), but I’m also fond of the softer tangerine tones of ‘Emily McKenzie’. Both are loved by bees, especially on warmer days.

They grow from corms, clump up over time, and can be thinned and divided easily in spring. Be warned, though… ‘Lucifer’ can be a bit of a monster.

• Colour: Scarlet, tangerine, golden orange

• Scent: None

• Height/Spread: 60–100cm

• Bloom Time: July–September

• Pollinators: Very good

• Growth Habit: Grows from corms, clumps over time

• Self-seeding: No

• Notes: Divide when congested. Likes a warm, sunny spot, moist soil with good drainage.

Bonus Picks for Late Summer Colour

I just couldn’t resist adding a few more favourites. These didn’t make the official list, but they’ve certainly made themselves at home.

Salvia ‘Amistad’ has thrived in my garden for years and rewards complete neglect by flowering for months, from July to November. Deep purple, tubular flowers appear endlessly, and they’re adored by bees and butterflies.

Althaea cannabina is tall, airy, and utterly whimsical. It’s a self-supporting tower of a plant, often reaching well over two metres, with pops of soft pink, mallow-like flowers. It will seed around freely, so keep an eye out for those pioneering little plants popping up everywhere.

Bronze fennel (Foeniculum vulgare ‘Giant Bronze’) brings mustard-yellow umbels and gorgeous feathery foliage. It makes a beautiful foil for those caramel and marmalade heleniums, or the ultra-blue tones of Echinops.

🌿 Final Thoughts

Late summer doesn’t have to mean fading glory with dull greens and dusty browns. In fact, this is one of the most rewarding times in the garden. The heat has eased, the evenings have a comforting warmth, the light is golden, and the plants that shine now are doing it with quiet confidence.

They’re not in a hurry. They’re taking their time.

Which is a good reminder for us too. Slow down. Smell the roses (quite literally). Watch the bees bobbing on the echinacea, the sunlight through a floaty flowers, the flicker of wings around a rudbeckia bloom.

The garden is still full of life. It’s just a little softer now 🌿

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📝 Coming Up…

Next time: how to keep the colour going through late summer. I’ll share my best tips on deadheading, cutting back, feeding, and even a few favourite container refreshes.

Summer is still in full swing, but can you sense the subtle shift? A whisper of what’s to come. August can be a slightly bewildering time in the garden. One minute it’s all lushness and languor, the next it’s dry as dust, flopping at the edges and looking suspiciously like it might have peaked early.

The days can still be scorchers, but the light is softer now, and the evenings arrive just a little sooner. I always feel a bit nostalgic in August. It’ll always be the school summer holidays in my bones. Carefree, wandering through baking fields amongst a cacophony of grasshoppers and crickets, exploring cool woodlands under vast green canopies.

Even in the face of a prolonged drought here in the UK, there’s still plenty to enjoy: plenty to eat, pick, prune, and potter with. It’s also a good month to start laying the quiet groundwork for autumn.

(not that I really want to think about that just yet).

Just promise me you won’t forget to pause and soak it all in. Sit and stare. Enjoy the moment. Even in the wilt and wane, there’s so much loveliness.

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Take a deep breath before we dive in. You might catch a faint trace of roses on the breeze, while the leaves of the ash, birch and hornbeam shift and sigh above us. There’s a breeze trying its best to get going, albeit lazy and half-hearted.

I’ll click open the latch and let the gates swing wide. Inside, the soft trickle of water from the lotus bowl drifts through the stillness. A refreshing babble by day, a cooling lullaby by night… Let’s stroll on, nice and slow. I’ve got lots to show you.

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After three episodes in the shade, it’s a very warm welcome to the sunny side of gardening. Around my gardens, I have two main container displays that catch the lion’s share of summer rays: the Courtyard Garden (a white-walled suntrap facing south and west), and the full-sun Terrace Garden, which positively bakes in the afternoon heat.

The pots are substantial. Bucket-sized, at the very least. Anything smaller just dries out far too fast. My container gardening philosophy? Big pots, deep watering, and one glorious weekly session with a Hugo Spritz in hand. Far better than faffing about daily with parched little pots.

Note: My garden is in Southern England, roughly USDA Zone 8b with a maritime climate.

The Pots

Most of mine are galvanised metal, and yes, I get a lot of questions about heat. “Don’t they get too hot?” or “Won’t the roots suffer?” Fair enough. Let’s just remember, many sun-loving plants evolved in far hotter places, growing in rocky, shallow, well-drained soils where “cool roots” simply weren’t on offer.

Yes, galvanised pots do heat up. But so does Tuscany, and nobody’s asking the lavender to move house. For Mediterranean-style planting, warmth is part of the deal.

If not galvanised, I’ll go for ceramic, glazed, or thick terracotta. And the compost? Always moisture-retentive yet well-drained. I rely on SylvaGrow Multi-Purpose with added John Innes, or their Tub & Basket mix (specially developed for containers). I adjust drainage with grit as needed.

Tip: If a plant’s label says “well-drained”, mix in grit. Lots of grit. “Moist but well-drained” still means decent drainage is essential. Always ensure your pots have drainage holes. For metal pots you can always drill more.

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Keep It Simple

Here’s another part of my container philosophy: simple is better. Most of my pots host a single plant. Why? Because mixed container displays, while beautiful, can be fiddly. They need a designer’s eye, careful planning for bloom times, and a willingness to accept the inevitable gap when something fades too soon. It’s like speed dating at the wrong table… someone’s bound to clash.

Planting one showstopper per pot lets each diva have their solo. No chorus line (or chat-up line) needed.

Single-plant pots let you:

1. Rearrange displays with the seasons (or your whims).

2. Swap out anything that’s gone over without disturbing the rest.

3. Show off each plant at its peak, no competition, no visual clutter.

I often plant into recycled plastic pots and then “drop” them into vintage galvanised planters or ceramics. When a plant is past its best, I just lift it out and replace it with something else. Hot-swapping pots is my version of a garden wardrobe change. One day it’s agapanthus, the next it’s all about the dahlias.

The Sun-Lovers I Grow in Pots

There are so many plants I could suggest, but these are the standout stalwarts in my garden. Those that have been turning up, year after year, with minimal faff.

Agapanthus africanus

Glamorous and statuesque, with tall stems and flowers in white, blue, or inky purple. They’re not cheap, but the moment they flower, all is forgiven. Even the eye-watering price tag. Feed regularly during summer to promote flowering for the following season, deadhead entire stems, and overwinter under cover if you’re unsure of your frost levels.

Scabiosa (Pincushion Flower)

Not glamorous, but this one turns up every day, gets the job done, and never asks for thanks. A floral workhorse. It blooms for months (June through to November) and the bees and butterflies go mad for it. Deadhead regularly and it just keeps going. Likes full sun, copes with a little shade, and thrives in a well-drained mix.

Lavender (English & French)

Sun-loving and fragrant. I grow it by the front door and steps so everyone who walks past gets an aromatic “Hello!” Needs gritty compost and hates soggy feet. Trim after flowering to keep it neat. French lavender is frost-tender, so many grow it as an annual.

Erigeron karvinskianus

My underplanting hero. Spills beautifully from under roses, bay trees, or olive pots. Has a timeless, cottagy charm. Tumbles and spills like it owns the place and frankly, I let it. I give it a short back and sides in spring, and again mid-summer to keep the flowers coming and tidy-up any straggly foliage. Neither hungry, nor thirsty, just quietly brilliant.

Achillea millefolium (Yarrow)

Feathery foliage with flat (umble), pollinator-magnet blooms in white, yellow, pink, orange and more. Easy, hardy, sun-loving. Cut back stems once they start browning to encourage repeat flowering. Best in leaner, well-drained composts, otherwise they get too tall and floppy.

Salvia

The gift that keeps on giving. Salvias bloom for months and come in every colour imaginable. I grow Salvia nemorosa, the Wish Collection, and my favourite Salvia ‘Amistad’ with its sultry purple flowers. Deadhead by cutting back to where new growth emerges. Needs gritty compost and benefits from a little extra feed throughout the season.

Veronicastrum

Tall, elegant spires in soft pinks and whites. Adds height, sway, and a touch of architectural drama. Thrives in full sun with a moist, well-drained mix. Even the fading flowerheads look beautiful through autumn and into winter.

Heuchera

A newer love of mine. Great foliage contrast with deep plum, near-black, crimson tones. Wonderful for breaking up a sea of green. Fine wiry stems hold up sprays of tiny flowers. Tolerates some shade, but the darker-leaved varieties love full sun if kept watered.

Geum ‘Totally Tangerine’

Orange sherbet in plant form. Fizzy, fabulous, and hard not to smile at. Along with Geranium ‘Rozanne’, this is one of my longest blooming perennials. Needs full sun and regular water. Cut the flower stems down to the base for continuous blooms.

Dahlia

A whole world of shapes and sizes, but in pots I now favour the smaller pom-poms, collarettes, and bee-friendly singles. With regular feeding and watering, they’ll flower right through summer and into autumn.

Dianthus (Pinks)

Softly scented, tough as boots. Your nan would approve. Pinks have a tidy habit, and brilliant at coping with drought. A perfect front-of-pot filler in whites and pinks.

And Don’t Forget the Shrubs

Hydrangea paniculata

A shrub that genuinely surprised me. If you can maintain moisture, these big, blousy bloomers are remarkably unfussy. Let them dry out and they’ll show it with drooping leaves, shrinking flowerheads, and a general air of disappointment. Regular watering is essential. Beyond that, a light feed and a spring prune is all they really ask for.

Shrub Roses

Big pots only, please. I use vintage dolly tubs, which are nice and deep, perfect for those woody roots. My favourites include Lady Emma Hamilton, Boscobel, Desdemona, Olivia Rose Austin, and Eustacia Vye. They flower for months.

Just steer clear of the lax, sprawly types like Young Lycidas and Mill-on-the-Floss. They’re far too floppy for pots and much better suited to the border.

A spring feed and another in June will keep these divas blooming all summer. Alternatively, a fortnightly seaweed root drench or foliar feed will keep them happy and healthy.

Peony

A short-season star for early summer, but what a stunner. Peonies grow surprisingly well in large containers, just make sure you size up as they grow. I often plant two together in a large container, then split and re-pot them once they mature. Feed in June/July to promote flowering these following season.

Top Tips for Growing Sun-Lovers in Pots

Water regularly

It’s far easier to maintain moisture than to rescue dried-out compost. Once it dries out, it behaves more like dust than soil, and water just runs straight off the top, as if it’s forgotten what it’s for. Reviving dry compost is a bit like trying to butter cold toast. Possible, but not pretty, and no one enjoys the process.

Tip: If you lead a busy life, or have limited mobility, it’s well worth considering a drip irrigation system. These can be connected to water butts and automated with a submersible pump for slow, steady watering without the daily faff.

Feed fortnightly

A fortnightly seaweed feed is like handing out sugar-rich smoothies to marathon runners. Regular feeding will keep most plants flowering their socks off. Remember, even the best composts only have enough nutrients for 4-8 weeks.

Group pots

Plants, like people, cope better in heat when they’ve got friends nearby for moral support. Crowding containers helps create humidity, reduces evaporation, and gives your plants shady neighbours.

Deadhead often

Snip snip… It’s the garden equivalent of a haircut and pep talk. Keeps things tidy and encourages more blooms. (I’ll cover this in more detail in an upcoming post.)

Play with height

Keep the materials consistent and let the plants do the talking. Personally, I love a run of galvanised metal, if you hadn’t noticed. But do vary the pot sizes and use bricks or stands to add height. It draws the eye up and stops everything feeling flat.

Think big

Don’t be shy with scale. Use tall grasses, statuesque perennials, or even small trees in pots. It lifts the whole scene and makes the space feel grander.

So there you have it. My summer sun-worshippers strutting their stuff in pots. Easygoing, glorious, and just thirsty enough to keep you outside with the watering can (or the Hugo Spritz).

Got a favourite sun-lover for pots? Or a plant that surprised you with its heat tolerance? Let me know in the comments. I’m always looking for new pot stars. 🌿

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🌿 Coming up…

Paid subscribers can enjoy an immersive high-summer tour around my gardens - a real peek behind the petals. I’ll be sharing the highs and lows, the wins and wobbles, the triumphs and inevitable “what was I thinking?” moments. I won’t shy away from the ugly bits, but you’ll have to forgive me in advance for revelling (just a little) in the glory of the summer garden.

If you’re not yet a paid subscriber, now’s a lovely time to upgrade and join me for the full tour. Bring your sunhat… it’s going to be a good one.

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In Part Two, we explored those quiet doers and foliage stars, the ones that perform brilliantly in tricky spots. But let’s be honest: even the best plant list won’t magically fix a gloomy corner.

A border in constant shadow, a courtyard stuck in permanent twilight… these places need more than just clever planting. That’s what this final post is all about.

Not what to plant, but how to make it all work: structure, contrast, clever planting tricks, and a few tips to brighten even the gloomiest corners.

I’ll be using my own garden as a case study. There are successes, stumbles, and ongoing experiments… but plenty, I hope, to inspire.

🌿 Case Study: The Shady Table

• Type: Small container garden, terrace/patio

• Aspect: North-facing wall

• Light: Early morning and late evening sun in summer, light shade between.

• Planting: Foliage stars - hostas, ferns, Japanese forest grass

Tucked under the north-facing gable on the Terrace, the Shady Table began as a bit of a cover-up. A makeshift table to hide the less photogenic bits of the house: drains, utility meters, and the like. Over time, it’s become one of my favourite areas of the garden. A place of peace and tranquillity, where I can pause and breathe deep.

The latest incarnation is another simple treated timber construction. This time built to allow drainage from above, reinforced and strong enough to support a (frankly) indecent number of pots. It’s painted in Cuprinol Muted Clay (a soft aged grey), backed by an off-white wall, and surrounded by galvanised metal and black ceramic containers.

This is a container garden in light shade, and it just sings.

More planters have arrived over time: more hostas, more ferns, and a swelling tide of foliage. The large galvanised baths at the front were separated, to make space for a large Lotus Bowl water feature. The sound of water, the gentle movement and reflections, the coolness it adds on hot days… all of it elevates the space and turns that shady spot into something properly alive.

To the west, a mature silver birch keeps the mood cool with filtered light, casting a far-reaching afternoon shade. The colour palette is almost monochromatic green, but still feels lively and layered, thanks to the varying hues of hostas and the contrasting forms of ferns, Epimedium, Polygonatum, and the wonderful floating Japanese forest grass, Hakonechloa macra.

Above the hostas, on a literal blank canvas of white wall, I installed a triptych of mirrors. The effect was immediate and absolutely astonishing. The once-boring expanse of wall now glowed, lit with reflections of sunlight gilding trees in the Flower Garden and snatches of blue sky beyond. The whole scene was transformed. Sunlight and sky, seemingly drawn down into the shade, now shimmered gently amongst the leaves.

What the Shady Table has taught me is that container gardening in shade is not just possible. It’s surprisingly rewarding, rich with opportunity. The key is scale, rhythm, and form: large pots, varied textures, and the willingness to nurture the space and experiment.

Shady Table brings life, brightness, and structure to a part of the house and garden that might otherwise be ignored. A glorious feature to be enjoyed, rather than an awkward spot you’d prefer to pretend wasn’t really there.

Fix the Soil, Not with a Fork

Soil in dry shade can be tired, compacted, or simply starved of life. But you don’t need to dig trenches to turn it around.

My garden is no dig. No matter how bad the soil is, I don’t disturb it. If it needs improving, I simply layer on organic matter and let the soil life do the heavy lifting. You have to be patient though. They’re not JCBs, these microbes.

Over time, trillions of lifeforms will digest the organic mulch, move it around, pull it down, create pathways and air holes, and improve nutrient levels, structure, and drainage.

That’s my recommendation. I know there’ll be some ‘hardcore’ gardeners who can’t wait and feel idle if they’re not out with a garden fork or double digging everything. Feel free to enjoy the back pain, my friends. That’s not in my playbook.

Tip: Do yourself and the soil a favour and leave those fallen leaves where they are. If you’re always clearing them away, you’re removing natures own marvellous mulch.

How to Garden With (Not Against) Tree Roots

Tree roots aren’t the enemy. But they do make gardening… interesting.

If you’ve got mature trees with colossal, partially exposed roots, you can still garden around them. It takes time and patience, yes. For the diggers among us, the approach is slow and careful: draw back the desiccated soil between roots, and refill with fresh, compost-enriched loam.

Prefer the no-dig route? Simply layer on the compost mulch and plant into that. Easy! Homemade compost is excellent (I’ll be posting a full guide on making homemade compost in a few weeks). Proper compost is full of microbial life, generated from the rest of your garden. You can quite literally fill the gaps between exposed roots with nutrient-rich material, then plant straight into it.

Leafmould is another great option. It’s not rich in nutrients (many woodlanders aren’t hungry plants anyway) but it’s brilliant for improving structure and supporting soil life. And really, can you think of a more perfect use for it?

Case Study: The Cottage Garden

• Type: Conventional mixed borders, small lawn, mature trees, rose border

• Aspect: North-facing, dry, sheltered, sloping

• Light: Early morning sun, dappled light, pockets of full shade

• Planting: Spring bulbs, herbaceous perennials, topiary, flowering shrubs

In my dry and shady Cottage Garden, the trickiest spots aren’t always directly under trees, but often just on the edge of their reach.

Reaching out from the trunk, roots are well-established. They may look formidable, like great stone tentacles, but the drinking and feeding roots are mostly out at the margins of the overhanging canopy, often surfacing in lawns or borders, drinking up the water and nutrients we gardeners are only too happy to (inadvertently) provide.

When I dig planting holes in the Cottage Garden, it’s often the feathery tips of ash, birch, or hornbeam that turn up a few inches beneath the surface.

It’s not an easy site. There’s always competition for light, moisture, and nutrients. It’s also sloping, and water prefers to run off rather than soak down (although mulching really helps). New planting just needs time to establish before it has to compete with its big, bad neighbours. And I’ve found that really is the key.

When I find tree roots in the hole, I carefully trace them back around 30 cm (about a foot) and make a clean cut. This gives the new plant a little breathing room. A window of peace before the roots regrow into the nutrient-rich patch I’ve just created.

Before I plant, I fill the hole right to the brim with water and let it drain through. Sometimes it disappears in just a few minutes, so I fill it again. While that’s happening, I soak the rootball in a bucket of water for at least 20 minutes so it’s fully saturated. In goes a generous scoop or two of compost into the hole. It acts like a temporary sponge or sump.

Once the plant is in, I backfill and water thoroughly again, then mulch thickly. After planting, I water regularly for the first few weeks.

But the best time? The right time for success? Plant in autumn. Trees are winding down. They’re not drawing moisture to sustain leaves, competition is lower, and the rainfall is usually on your side. So, if you’re planning a shady border revamp, buy your plants during the season, but wait until autumn (if you can) to plant them.

It’s the best chance new planting has to settle in and hold its ground. Once planted, mulch the area repeatedly. Every year, add another layer. The soil will improve. But for as long as trees are drawing out moisture and nutrients from below, you’ll need to keep adding them from above.

Simple Watering

For truly desiccated soil, I highly recommend an irrigation system. It could be a drip line or a soaker hose. Placed on a timer, you can set it up and forget all about it. You can even connect these to submersible pumps in water butts.

Something I’m currently exploring is redirecting my guttering into IBC storage tanks, with a soaker hose taking the overflow and redistributing it into the borders.

(Watch this space)

🌳 10-Step Tree Root Survival Guide

How to plant near mature trees (without starting a turf war)

1. Dig gently between roots
Use a border fork, perennial spade, or small trowel to remove tired, dry soil. Go carefully. You’re gardening with the tree, not against it.

2. Refresh the soil
Backfill with improved soil mixed with fresh compost, or mulch the surface with a generous layer of compost or leafmould.

3. Watch the margins
Feeding roots often sit at the edge of the canopy, not directly under the trunk. That’s where competition is fiercest.

4. Cut smaller roots cleanly
If fine roots appear in the hole, trace them back around 30 cm (1 ft) and make a clean cut. This gives your new plant a head start.

5. Prep the watering
Fill the hole to the brim and let it drain. Meanwhile, soak the rootball in a bucket for at least 20 minutes. Get it good and soggy.

6. Plant, mulch, water again
Add compost to the base of the hole (like a sponge), plant, water thoroughly, then mulch thickly.

7. Keep watering
For the first few weeks, regular water is essential, especially in dry shade.

8. Plant in autumn (if you can)
Trees are winding down, rainfall is more reliable, and your new plant gets a calm head start, establishing its roots over winter, before spring growth begins.

9. Keep mulching
Improve the soil year by year. Garden compost, bought compost, and well-rotted manure all help lock in moisture and feed the soil. Leafmould is great too: low in nutrients but great for woodland plants.

10. Plan for long-term watering
Consider a drip line or soaker hose system to keep new plantings going through dry spells.

Interrupting the Sea of Green

Green is a beautiful colour. It glows, it radiates, it promotes calmness and tranquillity. It soothes a troubled mind. Let’s face it, it’s the colour of life in the garden, and I couldn’t imagine a garden without it.

But there can be too much of a good thing. A monochromatic scene can feel a bit dull to the gardener. You probably know my feelings on lawns by now… but yes. Yawn.

So let’s mix up the shady border. We don’t have the benefit of sunlight creating contrast or boosting punchy colours. Stick to green if you like, but vary leaf shape, form, height, and yes, shades of green. Punctuate it with foliage stars glowing in silver, gold, chartreuse, burgundy, and plum.

Tip: Add a white bench, garden art or decor. Something to break-up the scene.

In my shadiest border (the Hornbeam Border), I mix buxus balls and yew columns for solid structure. Both bring different greens, different forms. On the ground floor, Pulmonaria comes next with spotted leaves and flowers in whites, pinks, and blues. Tiarella adds frothy white flowers and maroon-variegated leaves.

There are deep glossy hellebore leaves, with pastel or burgundy blooms in winter. Hardy geraniums sprawl around them in spring, with soft pink or white flowers, while Astrantia (with similar leaves) offers very different flowers: silvered, shimmering, and delicately upright. Self-sown aquilegias bring a change of leaf form and those remarkable blooms.

Brunnera ‘Jack Frost’ adds light with its silvered foliage and forget-me-not blue flowers. Libertia grandiflora spikes up, offering grassy contrast and airy white blooms. Behind them, arching ferns and the nodding stems of Solomon’s Seal. Then comes a bold break — Persicaria ‘Red Dragon’, with deep red and purple foliage.

Rising through it all: foxgloves, with densely packed flower spikes in white, purple, and pink, followed by thalictrums with floaty flowers that lift the eye.

Most of the flowers are soft shades: whites, pale yellows, pastel pinks, and blues. These glow in the gloom, whereas deep reds and oranges can often look muddy in shade.

The takeaway: play with form and foliage. Don’t plant all hostas and then wonder why it’s a bit flat. Mix it up. Add structure, cushion the base, lift the eyes, and scatter the garden with light. Add a focal point.

Tip: Forget the dogmatic approach to planting design.
That old rule of short plants at the front and taller ones at the back doesn’t always work in shade. If you’re planting under trees, the darkest, driest part is often at the back.

I plant thalictrums and aquilegias towards the front, where they catch a little more light. They’re fine and floaty, so they don’t block the view, just adding height, movement, and a touch of magic.

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Design Tricks to Maximise Every Ray

A little light goes a long way in shade. You just need to help it along. In a shady garden, light is treasure. Rare, valuable, and worth enhancing wherever possible. A few simple design tweaks can make all the difference.

Don’t paint your fences black, or that horrid dismal forest green, unless you’ve got really bright planting to set off against the dark foil. Leave them natural to silver with age, or go pale (white, stone, sage green) to spread whatever light you get.

Add mirrors. Hang them on fences or walls. Tuck them into borders, screwed against a posts (securely fixed in the ground). Angle them to catch bright sky, dappled canopies, or the slightest gleam of sun. They also add a piece of theatre. A touch of magic and surprise.

If you’ve got mature shrubs casting deep shade, try crown lifting. Prune away the lowest branches to open up the ground beneath. This frees up planting space and lets light reach spring ephemerals like Cyclamen, snowdrops, crocuses, Scilla, and Erythronium. Something that brings joy early in the season.

Note: Identify your shrub or tree before reaching for the loppers. Some species need pruning at specific times and others won’t thank you for over-enthusiasm.

Containers, Contrast, and Seasonal Swaps

Even if your shady spot is paved, not planted, you can still do plenty. A shady border isn’t the only place for transformation. You can do a lot with containers, even in a gloomy courtyard.

Use pale or reflective pots (white ceramics, galvanised metal) and go big. Small pots dry out fast and can look cluttered. Larger containers hold moisture better, need less watering, and give you more room to play with mixed planting.

Fill them with shade lovers: hostas, ferns, hellebores, astrantias, foxgloves, epimediums, Solomon’s seal, violas, and spring bulbs. You can create seasonal displays by dropping in fresh pots as others fade. Tier pots at different heights using bricks or stands to add interest and layering.

The goal is to keep that corner feeling tended and loved, even if it never sees full sun.

Tip: Try hot-swapping. Have a few prized containers? Real gems? Don’t let them be hogged by plants that look good for a fortnight, then sulk. Instead of planting directly into the container, plant into recycled plastic pots and drop them in. When one fades, swap it out for something fresh.

It takes a little planning to keep the crescendo rising all season, and you’ll need a spot to store your ‘yet-to-shine’ stars. But it’s a brilliant way to keep a shady corner looking lively and loved.

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Final thoughts…

Throughout it all, give yourself permission to experiment, get it wrong, and try again. Shade is a spectrum and you’ll need time for trial and error. But that’s how shady gardeners learn: not in great leaps, but in quiet layers. A tweak here, a swap there, a patient mulch-and-wait.

Shade teaches you to pay attention. To notice the details. The shift in light. The slow unfurling. The quiet resilience of plants that thrive where others falter.

So here’s to the shadowy corners. May they be rich with texture, full of life, and never overlooked again 🌿

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Coming up…

Next time, we turn towards the light. I’ll be sharing what I’ve learned about growing sun-loving plants in beautiful pots and containers. Those resilient beauties that thrive in full sun and don’t mind life on the dry side. Expect practical tips, planting ideas, and a full list of tried-and-tested favourites from my garden.