A Taste of Spring? Norton Conyers, 5th March 2018

A Taste of Spring?

Wet, but no rain today. The air is saturated - almost liquid. Puddles - small lakes crossing the Wath road. It is unseasonably cold, as has become the custom of the last few weeks.

It is 8am but Norton Conyers has an eeriness about it; as I approach, the house reveals itself imposingly through the fog.

I turn my car towards the courtyard and a squirrel darts across the snowdropped lawn, but no Shandy or Plum in pursuit - not yet at least.

The snow remains in patches; rain having melted much of it away, and the courtyard is a slushy mess.

I’m here early, and nod to resident, Walter as he heads to the stables. He returns promptly, leading his chestnut horse across the cobbles, the gentle echo of hooves ringing through this space.

And then peace. Interrupted only by the cheery chirping of birds, positively affirming spring despite the conditions.

Walter returns and fills a bucket of water. Then back and forth with wheelbarrows of hay. 

These were my observations as I journeyed to work and sat in the car in quiet contemplation of the coming day. 

The gardens weren’t open the previous Thursday due to the snow, so this was the first open March day. The snow had nearly all disappeared, but the drooping snowdrops showed the strain of bearing the weather.

Giles arrived, and I noticed he had a plaster underneath his eye, ’Mrs G hit me with a saucepan’, he said in his classic deadpan. As I later discovered, he had actually been chopping wood which had hit him in the face…

The return of Shandy was welcome after her absence the previous week, although she cut a subdued figure as the ‘garden force’ assembled. ‘She is regretting coming out.’ Giles admitted, and would later return her to the van.

In contrast with her big sister, Plum was lively and birght-eyed - jumping and craving attention; no sign of a small creature to occupy her, so human play would have to suffice! 

Only the distant muffled ‘knuckle rap’ of the woodpecker reverberated through the fog as a reminder of life outside these immersive gardens. Giles set out his plan for the day; as we looked upon the area of our work, I asked him what the botanical name of the Dogwood was. ‘It’s not Dogwood, it’s Willow!’ He replied. ‘That’s a good start (!)’ Well, that was embarrassing. The species in question, ‘White willow (Salix alba)’ offer warming bursts of gold and russet - a welcome injection of colour over the winter.

White willow (Salix Alba)

Willow grows extremely vigorously. Since last years’ pruning, fresh growth has more than doubled the height of the willow hedges. However, by taking the willow back and tying suitable branches, the Willow can be effectively managed - maintaining a height and breadth appropriate for the environment. This process is called pollarding.

The first part of the process involved identifying weaker stalks - young, fresh growth or unhealthy stalks were removed with secateurs. But Giles provided a useful rule of thumb: ‘If in doubt, keep it!’. The remaining stalks were ‘defeathered’ - off shoots removed from the main stems.

Weaving was next on the list - finding strong but flexible stalks to bend horizontally to provide a neat top to the hedge, and tying with garden twine. Willow is extremely pliable, and has many practical uses, including making baskets. But its pliability belies great strength. It swishes through the air like a whip when quickly waved.

We stepped out of the orangery after lunch to a new start; the sun shone through the clouds for the first time in what felt like an age  - the sensation was almost alien. The brightness almost added a new dimension - slumbering senses were awoken, with a gentle warmth intensifying dormant scents. The garden was coming into fresh life. A taste of Spring.

05/03/2018: 13:54 - The first real taste of Spring

And so, after a final thirty minutes, the annual willow pollarding was completed - a beautiful blend of the manmade and natural. I may have made this sound like a quick and straightforward process; it took five people nearly five hours - before gathering the debris.

The woodier discarded stalks were kept for future use in the gardens, whilst younger stalks were taken to the woods for building habitat piles - like Rumpelstiltskin’s gold, wheelbarrows of metallic lengths deposited on the fresh earth.

During this time I saw Walter’s horse, standing looking in through the visitor entrance to the gardens. He stood tame with warm gentle breaths, a long white stripe from the centre of his forehead to his right nostril. As I stroked his warm, suede nose, his strength and power was disarmed by a gentle, noble spirit.

We headed to the fruit gardens with wheelbarrows and spades. Alison and Bex tackled the gooseberry bushes; Beth and I the raspberries. 

New raspberry plants had grown from Stolon (or runner roots) from existing plants. However, many of the new plants were out of line. So we dug them up and replanted them in among the newer rows, helping to ‘fill in the gaps’.

In front of the fruit beds, apples continued to rot and mush underfoot. The smell is distinct - strong and bitter, but not unpleasant.

We ended the day helping Alison and Bex in pruning the Gooseberry bushes - a hazardous task! The spines are lethal, instantly piercing gardening gloves and skin.

By this time, the sun had hidden again - a brief outing today, but it seemed to promise a faithful return soon.

This was a day of contrasts - fog and clarity; cloud and sunshine; smooth and spiky; fresh and rotten. Perhaps that is a joy particularly pronounced in the winter garden. To a visitor, it may seem dead and dull, but only the gardener is familiar with the contrasting sensualities.