Our garden is at its lowest ebb from early February until the Ides of March, on the 15th of the month. Battered by gales laden with salt and sand, scorched by snow and starved of light, everything but the eternal evergreens* is pale, frazzled or mushy. I try to like what I see, but I yearn for it to be April and for the blemishes of winter to be erased by lush new growth. By normal standards, our spring bulbs have been extremely slow to get going, although we do now have a smattering of hyacinths, daffodils and crocuses to enjoy. These offer a sure sign that spring is underway and that more colour will follow. We now have well over one hundred terracotta pots in their final positions, containing tulips, narcissi, hyacinths, anemones, ranunculus, lilies and hardy orchids. The emerging foliage of persicarias and hostas will help to break up a sea of flowers. At least that is the theory. Anything especially good looking or precious will be promoted to the worktop of our outdoor kitchen to be admired at close quarters.

The tasks we’ve been undertaking over the last fortnight are not glamorous; they have not lent themselves to pretty photographs, hence I have been short of excitement to share here. We’ve emptied and cleaned the greenhouse, repainted the fence around the Gin & Tonic Garden (at least The Beau has), repotted about twenty percent of our perennials, house plants and shrubs, and started umpteen dahlias and begonias into growth: the spare bedrooms are filling up fast. First to sprout are Dahlias ‘Twynings After Eight’, ‘Fubuki Red and White’ and ‘Burning Love’. The rest will not be far behind. On the allotment, we’ve planted eight fruit trees (plums, damsons, apples and a cherry), then weeded and dug in anticipation of more planting once the weather warms up a little. Our homage to the Dutch bulb fields, a square bed planted with 15 varieties of tulip in straight rows, is a source of great anticipation. The lines are now evident and it’s fascinating to observe the differences in leaf colour and shape as they emerge from the cold earth.

Deliveries of bulbs, seeds and plants keep on coming. These first packages are modest in size, but there are many more to follow. If there’s one thing I have learned from last year, it’s not to be caught short, so I am already stocked up with pots, fertilisers and composts to keep me going for a few weeks at a time. It looks like it will be a bumper year for the nurserymen as the nation prepares itself for another summer spent in the garden. I am returning to those companies that served me well through 2020, as well as trying a few new ones – Halls of Heddon, Farmer Gracy, Pheasant Acre Plants and Brookside Nursery included. My begonia tubers from Farmer Gracy were so enormous that I could barely fit them in the palm of my hand; purchases from the rest have yet to arrive. A collection of beautifully grown clematis from Thorncroft will fill the gaps on our boundary fences. I treated myself to Clematis florida var. florida ‘Sieboldiana’ which I will grow in a pot and hope not to kill. Books have also been arriving thick and fast, the last flurry before my evenings become consumed by watering, staking and deadheading again.

Whilst neither glamorous nor showy, this is an important time in the gardening year; it sets the standard for the rest of the year and time that can’t be had again. How plants are handled, potted on and coaxed back to life will determine how they perform in the mid to long term. In March there is always more to do than there’s time for, and there’s never much to show for it. Working conditions can be uncomfortable but occasionally wonderful, especially on those days where it feels warm, or when a drowsy bumblebee strays across one’s path. We soldier on, knowing that our efforts will soon be richly rewarded. The Ides of March may have been ominous for Caesar, but just as in Roman times they mark the end of the old year and the start of the new for us gardeners. TFG.

*the eternal evergreens are: Phillyrea latifolia, Laurus nobilis f. angustifolia, Pseudopanax chathamica and Trachelospermum jasminoides. Rarely do they ever look anything other than perfectly green and healthy.

It’s a little known fact – so little known that one might almost call it a secret – that the first job I ever applied for was with the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. As a Landscape Architect I would be travelling the world, recommending how to look after these historically important sites. The main attraction was not the work, but the opportunity to visit new and unfamiliar places. When I looked a bit harder, I found the commission’s planting style to be spartan and manicured; totally appropriate for war graves, but a little restrictive for a young creative wishing to spread his wings. I wondered how rewarding the role might be. I didn’t get the job – I don’t even recall being interviewed – and soon found something else to do.

The majority of Britain’s graveyards are not maintained in the same meticulous fashion as war cemeteries. They are, in most instances, considerably older and have expanded slowly, sometimes over several centuries. Disturbance tends to be minimal, whether that be in the form of noise, development or foot traffic. Chemicals are not applied, and maintenance is often reduced to a bare minimum to save money. All of this is an attractive proposition for wildlife, helpful in building biodiversity. Provided a reasonable balance is maintained between the sensitive care of memorials and letting nature run its course, graveyards are one of the more successful examples of humans, plants and animals coexisting in a confined space.

Near to where we live is the church of St Peter-In-Thanet. It was first built in 1070, then enlarged in the 12th century. A square tower was added in the 15th century. For hundreds of years, St Peter’s church was the seat of local government. The village of St Peter’s was the largest settlement in the area (Broadstairs did not expand from a fishing village until in 18th & 19th Centuries), hence most of the parish’s great, good and indeed not-so-good are interred here. Some older memorials, close to the church, are very grand indeed. Over time, more and more space was required for burials so that now the graveyard extends to nine acres, a long, narrow finger of green extending north west towards Margate. The newest plots are furthest from the church. These can be identified top left of the photograph below, looking rather more open than the rest of the graveyard. One wonders if additional space will be required in future.

From a wildlife perspective the middle section of the churchyard, where one can find several war graves, is the most interesting. The trees are smaller here, mainly hawthorns and deciduous ornamentals, allowing a meadow rich with flowers to establish beneath them. Here and there, brambles form thickets favoured by birds, and no doubt rodents. Our natural flora is augmented by plants that have escaped from planting on and around the graves themselves. Chief among the interlopers at St Peter’s is the daffodil. Destined to naturalise, daffodil cultivars old and new can be found romping between the gravestones, forming large clumps or scattering themselves artfully around. It’s very possible that they have hybridised, creating daffodils that might only be found in this one spot.

Daffodils are likely to have been introduced to our country by the Romans from the Iberian Peninsula, but like snowdrops, they’ve been with us for so long as to be considered native. They are certainly very much at home on our shores, both growing wild and being cultivated for flowers and bulbs. The reason they are so successful is that they are brilliantly adapted to our damp, maritime conditions and strongly perennial. It takes a lot to push a clump of daffodils into retreat; even then they may dwindle and refuse to flower rather the die out altogether. Daffodils are survivors, glad of man’s helping hand, but self-sufficient thereafter. Noel Kingsbury sums it up perfectly:

“At the heart ….. is the idea of the daffodil as a metaphor for our relationship with nature, as being a cultivated plant, but one which is capable of living its own life. Like cats, they feel only part domesticated”

Noel Kingsbury, Daffodil, Timber Press.

A daffodil expert might have a field-day in the graveyard at St Peter’s when it is flooded with blooms every spring. They might even gain clues as to the identity of each variety based on the age of the graves they are growing near: it might be pure coincidence, but the only daffodil we can accurately identify, N. ‘Feu de Joie’, was introduced by William Copeland pre-1927 and is growing close to graves dating back to WW1. It is a beauty, and we will be tracking down bulbs to grow at home next year. This kind of blousy, romantic daffodil was left behind as fashion favoured neater flowers on stronger stems, but to me the form and colouration of ‘Feu de Joie’ is exquisite.

We are not daffodil experts, so we spend our time generally enjoying the scene and marvelling at each and every different flower we alight on. Although variations on a theme, the permutations of colour, trumpet and petal are remarkable. Bobbing in a stiff breeze, they bring so much joy and hope for the year to come. Pictured below are just a handful of the varieties in bloom at St Peter’s at the end of March. I’d love to hear which ones appeal most to you.

We’ve experienced such a long, cold spring in 2021 that the daffodils have lasted much longer than normal. In the Jungle Garden, many have yet to bloom, which means we’ll be enjoying flowers well into May. Planned carefully, a succession of bloom can be achieved quite easily, starting with a variety such as N. ‘Cedric Morris’, which will flower in time for Christmas Day, and ending with N. poeticus, which might occasionally hang on until June. Five months is a long time to enjoy daffodils, although some might argue it’s not long enough.

I can recommend a couple of excellent books if you are interested in learning more about daffodils:

• ‘Daffodil, Biography of a Flower‘, Helen O’Neill, Harper Collins.
• ‘Daffodil, The remarkable story of the world’s most popular spring flower‘, Noel Kingsbury with photographs by Jo Whitworth, Timber Press.

There’s still time to get out and enjoy daffodils as gardens and parks begin to open up post lockdown. Make a note of your favourites and order bulbs in summer ready for planting in early autumn. For heritage varieties like N. ‘Feu de Joie’, you may need to search the Internet for specialist growers such as Ron Scamp in Cornwall. (It goes without saying that you should never take daffodils from the ‘wild’ or from parks and gardens without permission.) Unlike tulips, daffodils need to be planted before it gets cold in winter, so they can establish their roots in warm earth. They grow well contained in pots, but they’ll never be as happy as they would be in the ground, where they are never very far from claiming their freedom. TFG.

It has been the strangest month; cold – indeed the frostiest April in sixty years – and desert-dry. Although we’ve escaped spring frosts here on the East Kent coast, it has been bitter day-in, day-out, with desiccating winds blowing in from the north and east. Most days I have returned from walking the dogs feeling like I’ve had a facelift. Our heating is still on and I’m bundled up in my Ugg boots and a thick wool sweater as I write this post. Meanwhile, we have been watering our pots twice weekly since the end of March. (Rain forecast overnight tonight may save me a job later on.) The Meteorologists explain that dry ground combined with clear skies exacerbates the frost situation by encouraging ‘radiative cooling’. If I have learned one thing this year it is that gentle watering actually helps to guard against frost damage at ground level, although that’s of little comfort to those who lost their magnolia and camellia blossoms during the snow earlier in the month.

The impact of the weather on both gardens and the allotment has been pronounced. For weeks plants have grown at a snail’s pace when normally they’d be erupting from the ground with gusto. On the upside, our daffodils and tulips have never lasted longer. They’ve remained bright and unsullied for at least twice as long as normal, rewarding us with a terrific display. Less than half the tulips have coloured up so far, thus as May approaches there is much left to enjoy, including anemones, ranunculus and slipper orchids. I have only dispatched a handful of snails and other pests, since all creatures seem reluctant to come out of winter hibernation. Once again, I’ve not set eyes on a single lily beetle. Long may that continue. On the downside, our tiny greenhouse is bursting at the seams. The first twenty dahlias we potted up in March are now large enough to be planted out, eighty more are sprouting and another twenty have not been prompted into growth at all, owing to lack of space. Despite delaying seed sowing by several weeks we are going to experience a severe case of overcrowding if we cannot move anything outside soon. In the workshop, the gingers, cannas and brugmansias that are usually growing apace by now are only just showing signs of life. Although plants are fiendishly good at catching up, I predict summer will be on the later side this year.

Regular readers of this blog may recall that in November I revealed our bulb planting schemes for 2021. At the allotment, we went for smouldering purples and fiery reds and yellows. These colours make my heart sing. Through the fence between us and the carpark we hear a lot of ‘Oooh! Look at all those tulips!‘. We hope passers-by find them as joyful and uplifting as we do.

On the whole, I’ve found that the tulips at the allotment have stopped well short of their expected height, I presume due to drought and the openness of our plot. Tulip ‘Cash’ has been a winner, although it’s very close in appearance to T. ‘Apeldoorn Elite’, which I have grown since I was a child. The main difference is that T. ‘Cash’ is 50% taller than my old favourite with enormous flowers. The Beau is in love with T. ‘Ravana’ which is short yet extravagant with flamed petals and variegated foliage: definitely a more-is-more tulip. We have been taken aback by the similarities between some other cultivars. T. ‘Jan Reus’ and T. ‘National Velvet’ are extremely hard to tell apart, as are T. ‘Antraciet’ and T. ‘Uncle Tom’. What this and our other experimental plantings demonstrate is that one can’t go by pictures in a catalogue or website. They are almost always inaccurate, sometimes gratuitously so. One must try new varieties out for oneself, to properly assess colour, stature, flowering time, hardiness etc. etc. We can now select the best of these pairings for our situation and make room for something new and different next time.

We did not plant enough bulbs for the Gin & Tonic garden, where our theme was ‘ice and lemon’. Having failed to finish planting all our purchases in autumn 2019, we played it too safe and focussed on the Jungle Garden. However, we have lots of favourites here, including the ubiquitous Narcissus ‘Tête-à-Tête’ and the delightful, N. ‘Lemon Beauty’. Much as I love N. ‘Lemon Beauty’, her flowers face demurely downward like a hellebore, making it difficult to appreciate them fully. We planted generous quantities of T. ‘Purissima Design’, which is nicely simple without being boring. Yellow-edged leaves, reminiscent of a hosta, are a good foil for the ivory, egg-shaped flowers. The scheme would not be complete without T. ‘Exotic Emperor’, a flower which lives up to its name in all but colour. You’d naturally expect something rich and jewel-toned rather than off-white and green, but what it lacks in colour T. ‘Exotic Emperor’ makes up for in flamboyance of form. Surrounding a soft, powder puff of petals there are all sorts of pointy bits (botanical term) reminiscent of the tines that hold a jewel in place: unique and well worth growing. I’ve been waiting in vain for Acacia verticillata ‘Riverine Form’ to produce its pill-shaped puffs of yellow, but this feathery little shrub is showing typically antipodean disdain for our cold British weather and is not budging. The Beast From The East has left many other plants leafless until it warms up. Next year we need to think bigger and bolder about this small space, adding some fizz to bring the cocktail alive.

The main event at The Watch House is the Jungle Garden. We were inspired by the National Trust’s Emmetts Garden near Sevenoaks in Kent after a visit in September. Here, tulips ‘Pink Diamond’, ‘Kingsblood’ and ‘Queen of the Night’ are planted in the grass beneath cherry trees. I had never contemplated mixing pink, red and purplish-black before, and went to town on a full spectrum of colours from blush (T. ‘Poco Loco’) to ebony (T. ‘Continental’). We planned everything out on paper, including flowering times, to ensure we had a long succession of bloom. That part of the scheme worked; the palette is more of a happy accident, with a mix of pinks and reds that turned out to be too yellow or too blue alongside a few outright bad choices. Back to the point about trying things first hand, next year I am determined to perfect this scheme by planting more of the same cultivar and sticking with either warm pinks and reds or cool ones. The stand-out tulip, by a country mile, has been T. ‘Albert Heijn’. It is all too easy to be dismissive of established, popular varieties, but there is generally a good reason for their elevated status. T. ‘Albert Heijn’, unromantically named after a Dutch supermarket chain, has a chiselled silhouette and blooms that for last weeks. If you’re looking for a good pink tulip, you cannot go wrong with this one. T. ‘Czar Peter’ did something very peculiar and developed flowers which never properly opened, instead puffing out like Chinese lanterns, every petal seemingly fused at the tip. This is not normal, but looked marvellous.

One thing I did get right is the quantity of hyacinths. Every year I chastise myself for not growing enough, but this year I cracked it. Ten pots, each planted with twelve to fifteen bulbs, have filled the garden with intoxicating scent. First to bloom were H. ‘Anne Marie’, followed by H. ‘Carnegie’ and H. ‘White Pearl’. Then came H. ‘China Pink’, H. ‘Miss Saigon’ (totally wrong colour, but a gift, so I can’t complain) and now, H. ‘Dark Dimension’, which has the darkest navy flowers I have ever seen.

I had been waiting for the perfect moment to photograph some of my favourite tulips for you. Fearing my stars may never align, I took the plunge today, ahead of tonight’s rain, despite some only just developing their true colour. Below, from left to right are: T. ‘Claudia’, T. ‘Attila Graffiti’, T. ‘Alison Bradley’, T. ‘Albert Heijn’ (almost gone over), T. ‘Poco Loco’, T. ‘Continental’, T. ‘Fantasy Lady’ and T, ‘Lasting Love’. If I had to choose three I would plant again, they’d be T. ‘Attila Graffiti’, which is the most fabulous, shimmering fuchsia-pink, T. ‘Continental’, with petals richer than Macassar ebony, and T. ‘Lasting Love’ which, as its name suggests, is lovely and lasts for weeks. If I had a sophisticated garden full of silvers and greys then T. ‘Poco Loco’ would be a sublime choice, but in this company it looks inspid.

Here, at the tail end of April, we are in a strange situation where our display is halfway through rather than at an end. The buds of narcissi including N. ‘Calgary’, N. ‘Salome’ and N. ‘Cotinga’ have yet to burst and the list of tulips still to bloom is extensive – T. ‘Supri Erotic’ (what a name!), T. ‘Hemisphere’, T. ‘Capri Dream’, T. ‘Design Impression’, T. Black Hero’ and T. ‘Pretty Princess’. I must conclude that despite the weird weather it’s been an exceptional year for growing spring bulbs. Having invested a pretty penny, we’ve really got our money’s worth. TFG.

Our bulbs this year were sourced from J. Parker’s Wholesale and Dutch Grown, who are currently offering a 15% early bird discount to organised gardeners. As new kids on the block, selling direct from The Netherlands, this family-run company is definitely worth a look.

If I were to win the lottery, The Salutation is the house I’d want to live in. I’d spend every spring and summer there, before overwintering in Capri, or the Caribbean; I can’t decide which. It’s probably not a choice I’ll ever be called on to make, but I like to think about it nevertheless.

Our first visit to The Salutation each spring is one I always look forward to; foremost because it’s an opportunity to admire the garden’s fine structure before it becomes shrouded in foliage and flowers. Whilst Edwin Lutyens would surely recognise today’s layout as his own, The Salutation is an unusual combination of informal features, such as Lake Patricia and the Woodland Garden, and the elegant formality for which the architect is famed. Packed into three acres on the edge of Sandwich, every inch of the garden is on show, which must be quite a challenge for the gardening team lead by Head Gardener Steve Edney.

Over winter there have been some minor changes to the layout; the removal of some hedges; the creation of a new area just off the long border, which I suspect might be an extension of the tropical garden; and a major overhaul of the space surrounding the potting sheds and greenhouses. Everything was looking particularly spick and span when we visited last weekend to renew our season tickets and get some fresh air.

The Salutation’s tulips and hyacinths are way ahead of my own, basking on the warm, dry, south-facing bank that skirts the long border. The scent of hyacinths was intoxicating, and the hum of red-tailed bumble bees so loud it was almost deafening. Accompanying the bees with their coarse calls were innumerable seagulls, a reminder that the English Channel is not far away. In December 2013 the briny came too close for comfort when it flooded a significant part of the garden, including the Long Border. Four years later, apart from the unevenness of the path, one would never know the garden had been inundated with salty water.

Within moments Him Indoors had taken to a garden bench to consult his phone, which these days appears to be superglued to his hands. It seems gardens are no distraction from the allure of Facebook. Behind him in this picture are several clumped banana plants, still carefully wrapped in fleece and hessian lest they experience a late, damaging frost.

Having taken the obligatory shot of the Queen Anne inspired facade from the end of the double borders, and not a good one I’m sorry to say, I ventured into the Woodland Garden.

Since the great flood, the Woodland Garden had been left to its own devices, becoming slightly down at heel. Over winter the garden’s winding paths have been spruced up. There are new vistas into the rest of the garden and evidence of new planting.

Every year I marvel at the quantity of blue and white Anemone blanda that flood out of the Woodland Garden onto the lawn, surging like a floral tide towards the perennial borders.

At the Holm Oak Walk one is reminded exactly who designed this handsome garden. The immaculately clipped evergreen columns, their simple underplanting of roses and lavender, the mighty oak gate in the garden wall, presided over by an exaggerated key stone, are all Lutyens’ signatures. When either side of the Holm Oak Walk the gardens are frothing and fizzing, this stately axis remains calm and quiet.

I never seem to hit the White Garden at quite the right moment. As much as I like the concept of single colour gardens, this one doesn’t do a lot for me. The layout is clever, with deep, box-edged borders and narrow paths, but even the addition of plants with black foliage doesn’t lift the slightly melancholy air. A tall specimen of Daphne bholua ‘Peter Smithers’ provides delicious scent on the way out.

I would much rather be on the close-mown bowling green, where the borders to either side are stuffed with an artful mix of foliage and flowers sharing similar reddish tones. At this time of year there is less to see, but an edging of Bergenia cordifolia ‘Winterglut’ provides both burgundy foliage and waxy, magenta-pink flowers in spring. I spotted a couple of rogue Muscari macrocarpum ‘Golden Fragrance’ in one patch, a bulb I have tried and failed to grow, but which is lovely enough for me to try again.

The Yellow Garden, at the end of the circuit, is crowned with a circlet of narcissi in spring. More hyacinths have been added, which is as good for the bees as it is for visitors. This is a lovely idea that anyone with a lawn might replicate: and it relieves one of the obligation to cut the grass until all the bulb foliage has died right down.

The clock ticking on the car park we were in and out of the garden within an hour, but not without acquiring a pot of Moroccan spearmint (Mentha spicata) and a single stick of Clerodendrum bungei, a plant I have hankered after for years. It’s a shrub that throws up suckers hither and thither, but with large corymbs of pink blossom in late summer it is worth any hassle.

Ten years after opening to the public following extensive restoration, The Salutation is hosting a series of masterclasses, courses and tours throughout 2017. Click here for more details.

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Gardens in winter have so much to offer. Designers often wax lyrical about the delights of ‘structure’, by which they mean woody plants, particularly evergreens, that reveal their shape and volume when herbaceous plants are resting below ground. Nature lovers will draw your attention to thick hedges of ivy, piles of decomposing leaves and log piles that provide a refuge for insects, mammals and amphibians. The plantsman will be down on his or her knees, pointing out the tender tips of narcissi and shy snowdrop flowers nodding in the breeze. Meanwhile, the romanticist will catch a faint whiff of Christmas box or daphne in the bracing air and be transported to warmer climes by their sweet, tantalising fragrance. Add all these elements together and you have a garden full of riches, if you choose to discover them.

While the summer garden is a smorgasbord to be demolished with relish, the winter garden offers a tasting menu of scents and colour to be savoured slowly. Many plants that provide winter interest are unassuming, even invisible for the rest of the year, which is one of several reasons why they are often overlooked. Rarely will a gardener proclaim how glorious their Algerian irisies (Iris unguicularis) or grey-leaved euryops (Euryops pectinatus) are looking in midsummer, but at this time of year they won’t hesitate to show them off. It’s often said that you should position winter-flowering plants near the house, so that they may be enjoyed at close quarters. There’s something to be said for that when they’re compact and scented, but I’d recommend planting them at a distance from the back door, both to give you a reason to venture out on a cold day and to preserve such prestigious positions for plants that have greater year-round appeal.

Because winter interest plants are few and far between, they ought to be especially cherished. Perversely, I find that familiarity breeds contempt, up to and including the point at which spring arrives and suburbia is splattered like a Jackson Pollock with acid-yellow forsythia and candy-pink flowering currant (Ribes sanguineum). This is plant snobbery at work – if something is easy to grow and found everywhere, surely it can’t be in good taste? I don’t agree. We should have a little more respect and admiration for tough-yet-attractive plants that have evolved in such a way as to fill a niche in the year when little else is attractive. They are good ‘doers’ and, unlike their soft summer cousins, have an inherent toughness which often means they remain looking beautiful for months, whatever the elements throw at them.

If aesthetics are not sufficient to tempt you into planting for winter colour, then consider the wildlife perspective. Dense hedges of ivy, star Jasmine or yew provide shelter and roosting sites for birds: the bright berries of cotoneaster and pyracantha provide an excellent food source. It matters not if they are native plants, so long as they serve nature well. Snowdrops, winter aconites and early narcissi are magnets for bees. (Incidentally, it’s probable that each of these bulbous plants has been introduced to the UK from continental Europe, although we now consider them part of our native flora.)

If you’re gazing out of your living room window, wondering why there’s not more to see in your garden, then the first thing to do is get outside and take a proper look. You may be surprised by a resilient rose or the marbled leaves of Arum italicum subsp. italicum ‘Marmoratum’ pushing through the frozen ground. If you can find nothing to marvel at, then now’s the time to take action. Apart from spring-flowering bulbs that need to be planted in the autumn, most winter-interest plants can be purchased and planted between now (mid-February) and the end of April, provided the ground isn’t frozen. (Snowdrops are best planted or transplanted ‘in the green’, i.e. once their flowers begin to fade.) One good way to discover what’s looking good at any given time is to visit your local garden centre and see what they’re promoting front-of-house. Keep in mind that flowering plants may have been ‘brought on’ in a greenhouse or tunnel and so they could be blooming a week or two in advance of their natural timing. Weather conditions also make a huge difference – many winter-flowering plants have evolved to stop and start their development depending on the air and soil temperature. A second option is to visit one of the many gardens that open during the winter, including the RHS gardens and various arboreta. Here you will see first-hand that flowers are anything but the main event in the depths of winter; the smooth, white bark of silver birch (Betula pendula) or the filigree fronds of soft shield fern (Polystichum setiferum) are just as alluring.

An alternative option, especially on a cold, blustery day, is to light a fire, make a cup of tea and peruse my shortlist below. Then search the Internet for a reputable supplier and await delivery.

If you can find space for five or even ten of my recommended plants – a mixture of trees, shrubs, herbaceous perennials and bulbs – you will soon have a winter garden to be proud of.

20 Indispensable Plants for Winter Colour and Scent

Trees

1. Betula utilis var jacquemontii ‘Grayswood Ghost’ AGM – what a stupendous all-rounder the birch is. Our native species Betula pendula is a hard to improve upon, but this cultivated form of Himalayan birch is prized for its especially luminescent white bark. Underplant with snowdrops, aconites, hellebores and scillas for a fairytale display.
2. Pinus contorta ‘Chief Joseph’ AGM – conifers are enjoying a modest renaissance and rightly so. This slow-growing form of the lodgepole pine from Oregon’s Wallowa Mountains produces needles that turn bright yellow in late autumn. In spring they revert to lime green again. A fabulous companion for our friend the birch, above.
3. Prunus x subhirtella ‘Autumnalis Rosea’ – this flowering cherry blooms on and off from November until April. Don’t plant in the expectation of a blizzard of blossom; flowers will be produced in flurries whenever the weather is mild. Makes a fantastic resource for foraging bees. Plant with a dark hedge as a backdrop to show off the blush-pink blossom. For something punchier, the Japanese apricot, Prunus mume ‘Beni-chidori’ AGM offers a daring flash of cerise.

Shrubs & Climbers

1. Daphne bholua ‘Jaqueline Postill’ AGM – I’ve never quite recovered from the thrill of seeing daphnes growing wild in the forests of Nepal and Bhutan. Daphnes are slow-growing shrubs that prefer minimal interference, so plant and then leave well alone. Producing white flowers flushed wine red in January and February, the perfume produced is pervasive and potent.
2. Sarcococca hookeriana var. digyna ‘Purple Stem’ AGM – sweet box is a tough, tolerant shrub that has many virtues. Alas, some of its kin lack the kind of ‘wow factor’ that modern gardeners seek in a plant. This cultivar has the advantage of pinky purple, flower-bearing stems. Sweet box will never be the centre of attention, not least because its intoxicating fragrance tends to drift so far that people can’t tell where it originates from. And yet, it’s essential in any winter garden.
3. Camellia sasanqua ‘Narumigata’ AGM – living in a milder part of the UK, I generally resist the temptation to recommend plants that are a touch on the tender side. But what fun is gardening if no risks are taken? Camellia sasanqua ‘Narumigata’ produces single white flowers with a pink edge from October onwards. Although hardy to -10ºC, it will thank you for shelter from cold winds and some warmth in the form of a sunny wall. Must have acid soil and/or ericaceous compost.
4. Cornus sanguinea ‘Midwinter Fire’ – there are not many shrubs capable of ingniting passions during the winter months, but a massed planting of this superb dogwood, lit by the winter sun, will awaken even the deadest of hearts. Pruned hard every spring, almost to the ground, Cornus sanguinea ‘Midwinter Fire’ will produce a flaming crucible of stems in shades of yellow, orange and red by the following autumn.
5. Chimonanthus praecox – wintersweet, as its name suggests, is all about the intoxicating fragrance. The flowers themselves are pale yellow and waxy – the colour, texture and translucency of grated cheddar. Slow to grow and sometimes shy to flower. Once it gets going it’s wonderful to have around.
6. Clematis cirrhosa – when I was a lad, and that’s a good thirty years ago now, winter flowering clematis were a novelty. Now there are several cultivars on the market, including ‘Jingle Bells’, ‘Advent Bells’ and ‘Christmas Surprise’. As the names suggest, they can be expected to be flower for the festive season. C. cirrhosa ‘Freckles’ has white flowers finely speckled with red, and ‘Landsdowne Gem’ is a more heavily speckled, sometimes solid wine-red. These are Mediterranean plants so they need sun and shelter as well as plenty of space to ramble.
7. Mahonia x media ‘Lionel Fortescue’ AGM – Okay, so your granny had a mahonia in her garden and you thought it was gangly, boring and slighly dangerous. Me too. It’s true, mahonias can be a little stiff and static; these days that’s applauded as ‘architectural’. However, come the late autumn and winter mahonias produce lavish plumes of yellow flowers that smell like lily-of-the-valley. Grown well, which requires space and artful pruning, a mahonia will make a handsome feature at the back of a border. Here, other plants will hide its bare legs and you won’t impale yourself on the spiky leaves.
8. Euryops pectinatus – all around the town where I live, mounds of silver-grey ferny foliage are transformed by masses of yellow daisies dancing in the air just after New Year. The sheer abundance of flowers seems so improbable at such a miserable time that one can’t help but do a double take. Going by the common name of ‘grey-leaved euryops’ (so uninventive), this isn’t an entirely hardy shrub. Fortunately, cuttings root incredibly easily so a cold weather loss is a disappointment rather than a tragedy.

Perennials

1. Iris unguicularis – The Algerian iris (below) is one of the most unassuming, uninteresting plants in a garden for around ten months of the year – a dense tussock of grassy leaves that will tolerate poor soil, drought and almost total neglect. Then, just as you’re questioning why you bothered planting such a dowdy thing, it starts to produce flowers of the utmost delicacy and brilliance. Each petal is as thin as parachute silk and a sumptuous shade of lilac. Despite their looks, the flowers are completely weatherproof and will last well in a small vase indoors.
2. Helleborus orientalis / Helleborus x hybridus – although snowdrops attract the most fanatics, hellebores are not far behind them in terms of devotees. It’s easy to understand why. Hellebores can be in flower from February until April and they come in all shades from white to almost black, although not blue (thank heavens!). Garden centres will be full of beautiful, often expensive cultivars but, if you’re patient, they can be grown easily from seed too. Propagated this way, you may get some interesting combinations of form and colour. I have recently planted ‘Anna’s Red’ (pinkish-red) and ‘Glenda’s Gloss’ (apple-blossom pink) but there are hundreds of others to choose from.
3. Polystichum setiferum ‘Herrenhausen’ – I first saw this pretty, low-growing fern growing at the Herrenhausen Palace in Hannover when I was perhaps fourteen years old. I have adored it ever since. The lacy foliage always looks wonderful, although the previous seasons’ growth is best removed in March, to allow new, furry fronds space to unfurl.
4. Vinca difformis – In the event of a nuclear holocaust, you could bet that vincas would survive. The intermediate periwinkle, Vinca difformis, is slighltly less bombproof than V. minor and V. major, but tough nevertheless. A fantastic groundcover plant, it will produce ice-blue to snow-white flowers all through the winter and into spring. A little rampant, so plant where it can run riot without annoying you.

Bulbs

1. Narcissus ‘Rijenvelds Early Sensation’ and N. ‘Spring Dawn’ – there are a handful of plants that I regularly wish I’d planted more of – these two daffodils are among them. Occasionally they will be in flower for Christmas and certainly during January. Creating bold splashes of colour, even in the depths of winter these cheerful flowers remind us that spring is only weeks away.
2. Eranthis hyemalis – the winter aconite is the perfect companion for snowdrops. They bloom in tandem at a time when we crave the sun and recall how splendid our gardens looked last summer. Do not overlook these precious, diminutive flowers. They bring hope, joy and food for our beloved bees.
3. Iris reticulata – many flowers have gap in their colour spectrum when it comes to blue. Irises make no such omission. Indeed, they have claimed blue for themselves, producing every shade from the palest ice blue to the darkest ink with some spine-tingling shades in between. The many cultivars of Iris reticulata flower early, thereafter producing long, grassy leaves of little merit. The bulbs are very inexpensive to buy, so plant them liberally – by which I mean in hundreds rather than tens – in pots, troughs, window boxes and at the front of borders – anywhere the blooms won’t get trampled or spattered with mud.
4. Crocus tommasinianus ‘Barr’s Purple’ – I couldn’t justly compile a list of winter-flowering plants without including at least one crocus. A more ethereal flower it is hard to imagine. Carried on fine white stems, the translucent purple petals form an elegant chalice around a boss of bright orange stamens and stigma. The problem, I find, is that the flowers are rarely upright for long, too readily cast down by heavy rain, snow or marauding animals. However fleeting and fragile their beauty, these crocuses are worth planting in the largest drifts you can accommodate.
5. Arum italicum subsp. italicum ‘Marmoratum’ – plants with exotic-looking leaves large enough to rival a fussy house plant are rarer than hen’s teeth in the winter garden. This striking arum is in leaf from late autumn until mid-spring after which it dies down leaving short spikes of berries that turn pillar box red in autumn. Toxic to most mammals if ingested so plant where children and pets are unlikely to venture. TFG.

Related Posts

• 10 Shrubs to Brighten the Winter Months
• How to Enjoy your Garden in February
• Scented Plants for the Midwinter Garden