We humans are a strange species. It is mid-winter. The days are short; a carpet of leaf litter glistens with frozen fractals; and the natural world is shrouded in a glorious stillness. Most mammals – if the neighbourhood mice scratching about under my living room floorboards are anything to go by – have long since darted for cover, cosying up, bedding in, waiting out the winter.
Not us. Not only do we go about our lives as normal, but most of us at this time of year actually resolve to be more active. New year, new us. New plans. New motivation. On January 1st, with the scent of gunpowder still hanging in the air and the taste of cheap prosecco still lining our gums, we leap into action, lacing up our running shoes, diving into icy ponds or, worst of all, slipping on our gardening gloves.
Oh yes, for all our supposed seasonal sensibilities, we gardeners are as guilty as anyone when it comes to doing too much, too soon.
Look, I get it. The view out of my window over my small urban garden is a bleak one. The rainbow palette and sheer abundance of summer are a distant memory. Instead, I see bare branches, skeletal silhouettes, bare soil. Brown is the dominant colour. Even the evergreens, battered by frost, hang limp and forlorn, looking as sorry as I feel.
The urge to get out there, to do something – anything! – is strong. But it is also wrong.
If you live in the UK, then attempting to garden right now could actually end up doing more harm than good. It may be satisfying to hear the sound of frozen grass crunching underfoot, but you will feel significantly less satisfied once your lawn has thawed, and all you have to show for your little walkabout is a trail of unsightly bootprints, the blades of grass that once stood there now shattered like glass, and any hopes you had of having your best gardening year yet shattered along with them.
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Even if your garden has been relatively unscathed by the winter weather, and the recent cold snap hasn’t transformed your patio into a pop-up ice rink, there is no horticultural task that needs to be completed with any urgency right now. Sure, winter is a good time to plant a tree, but not when the ground is frozen solid or water-logged or some wretched combination of the two. Yes, roses can be pruned in January, but waiting until February will be just as fruitful (and most varieties will even forgive you for holding off until March). Likewise, those tomato, chilli and aubergine seeds can – no, should – be sown indoors next month.
If you absolutely cannot bear the thought of sitting still and staying inside, and the idea of inactivity fills you with guilt, then there are ways to busy those green fingers of yours. Tidy your shed. Clean your greenhouse. Audit your pots. Sharpen your tools.
But don’t get gung-ho with all the cleansing and tidying – at this time of year, a little mess in the garden is a good thing, especially as far as wildlife is concerned. If you’ve neglected to sweep up those piles of leaves until now, good for you: depending on the size of your plot, there could be thousands of teeny tiny critters taking shelter under there. It’s all very well and good growing pollinator-friendly plants, but don’t be surprised if said pollinators don’t show up for dinner come June if you unceremoniously swept them to oblivion in January.
Practicalities aside, it is fundamentally a good thing to take a break every now and then, even from the activities that bring us the most joy. Giving ourselves a month or two off from actively gardening at this time of year can recharge our batteries, restore our energies, not to mention give our creaky knees and throbbing lower backs a chance to rest and recuperate.
January is not a time to do, but to think. If this is going to be the year that you overhaul your design, it’s not a spade you need in your hand, but a pencil. Start sketching. If 2023 is the year you become self-sufficient in fruit and veg, leave alone your heated propagator, and begin to plot your rotations. Start seed shopping.
But my favourite hibernation-friendly, garden-related job for January can be performed without even leaving the plump, cosy comfort of my bed. That is, to peruse my library of unthumbed horticulture books – purchased online, borrowed my friends, foraged from charity shop shelves, then soon forgotten at the bottom of a literary tower of good intentions.
So put down the spade, step away from the shrubs, and go back inside. Your body will thank you for it; your soul will thank you for it; but most importantly, your plants will thank you for it. The most useful thing you can do right now for your garden is to pop the kettle on, make yourself a cup of tea, and get stuck into a good gardening book. And that’s an order.