winter gardening

It was a day to keep moving, not a fingertip weeding, crawling around sort of day, and so I set off to have another go at the brambles and nettles along the side of the wood.  The saying that there is no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing, may apply to coast to coast walks but doesn't always apply to gardening, because if the ground is frozen or slimy with rain that limits what you can do.  But today the frost had held off in the lee of the wood and the soil was quite dry, so the limitation was quite definitely the endurance of the gardener.

By this stage of the year I wear seven layers on my upper half: a cotton vest, a Musto thermal polo neck, an old long-sleeved t-shirt, a proper shirt, another t-shirt, a cotton sailing smock, and a fleece.  The fleece maybe only counts as three quarters of a layer because the zip has broken.  I have a fleece scarf, a fleece hat, thermal leggings, cotton trousers and thick socks from the local tool hire shop, which are slightly on the large side because nobody with size 39 feet ever buys boot socks, obviously.  I have leather gloves that are rather stiff, so that after the first hour I had to put a plaster on the arthritic bulge on the little finger of my right hand to stop the glove from rubbing, and short wellington boots.

It was enough.  I did not feel cold as I chopped away with my pick axe and scrabbled up bits of root.  In general dry cold is fine, so long as you are moving.  When we were younger, and winters were reliably colder and drier than they seem to be now, we used to go fell walking each February.  The prospect of darkness falling by five is enough to keep you moving at a fair clip, and we walked solidly all day, carrying emergency supplies of Kendal Mint Cake, but not stopping to eat sandwiches or anything else at lunch time, because it was too cold to stop walking for longer than a thirty second breather after the steepest stretches.  We enjoyed ourselves.  Winter gardening is a doddle in comparison, and after all you can always come inside for a hot drink and to warm up any time you fancy.

It is supposed to snow later this evening, only very lightly before it turns to sleet.  That's a bore, because I am honour bound to go to a lecture by Fergus Garrett at Wrabness, having asked the organisers to save me a ticket to pick up on the door and not yet paid for it.  Besides, I want to hear Fergus Garrett.  By Sunday it is supposed to be warming up, and I should be able to plant the rest of the small hellebores, the rooted divisions of sweet violets, the plants I bought recently from Dorset Perennials, the sad left-over Sarcococca that's been sitting by the greenhouse for months, and at least one of the potted roses I've been growing on since last year.

A robin watched me intently as I worked.  I read somewhere that in nature they would follow wild boar about waiting for the ground to be disturbed, and that gardeners could think of themselves as substitute pigs.  Mr Fidget rushed past at one point and stared at me with mad eyes before rushing off again.  He too had the right idea.  Keep moving and you won't be cold.