Birthdays, butterscotch and foxy bulbs.

It’s been a while…. and much has happened since I last posted anything here. The gardens have closed for the winter, our new heat pump has been installed (yes, the house is warm, yes it’s wonderful, yes you can ask me about it if you really want to…), and I’ve stepped gingerly into my new role on the RHS Council. All of which is proving very excellent indeed.

My favourite vista through the garden at the moment. Actaea ‘White Pearl’ in the foreground.

Right now though, I’m preoccupied by the thought that two thousand bulbs have arrived and I don’t want to plant them. Not yet. The garden needs a rest after a summer of being walked on, peered at, poked and picked over. I like to leave it alone after we close, let it breathe. Let the blackbirds tug at the fallen apples, let the Red Admirals linger on the Asters without the intrusion of a phone camera, let the long-tailed tits cavort uninterrupted through the tree tops, flicking amber leaves onto the magenta flowers of Geranium ‘Patricia’ below. Pat isn’t the only Geranium having a late fling, by the way. ‘Ann Thomson’ is at it as well, as is ‘Jean Armour’. ‘Dreamland’ and ‘Tiny Monster’ are also blazing away gloriously when they should be heading for senescence. As am I, I suppose.

Clockwise from top left: Geranium 'Patricia' with Anthemis 'E.C. Buxton', Geranium 'Ann Thomson', Geranium 'Dreamland', Geranium 'Tiny Monster'

It doesn’t feel right to stand on the soil between still-green plants, squishing the air out of it under my boots and prising it open to insert bulbs when it is still so alive, but I can’t leave it too much longer. There isn’t enough room in the fridge for them all and they will soon start to sprout in this mild October. So I picked out the most urgent bulbs which are to go in the least important areas and made a start today. Also, these Imperial fritillaries smell disturbingly foxy. I’m much happier now that they’re buried deep underground.

Last year a few little chequerboard-patterned Fritillaria meleagris appeared in the lower, damper part of the orchard meadow which looked very happy there, so I thought I’d speed things up a bit and plant another couple of hundred or so. Planting them shouldn’t have taken long. My technique is simple and long-practiced. Slide a trenching spade in at a sharp angle, lever it up and down, roll the bulbs down the curved blade into the slot, heel it back down again. In theory, the job should have taken about half an hour.

But last night the temperature dropped close to zero and at dawn a silvery, cold fog bleached out the trees beyond the field opposite the house. At lunchtime the sun burned through and the temperature rose fast enough for me to shed two layers in quick succession. The warmth drew scents around me, the fresh cut grass, the still lingering whiff of the Imperial frits and then the unmistakeable, sumptuous hot butterscotch, fresh candy-floss aroma of the Katsura tree, Cercidiphyllum japonicum.

It’s a pleasing enough tree for the rest of the year, but unremarkable, except for that extraordinary phenomenon - exactly the right smell at exactly the right time of year. I think I spent as much time leaning on my spade, thinking of funfairs and bonfire nights as I did planting.

Bulbs aside, it’s been a happy week, especially on Tuesday when we celebrated Jan’s 80th birthday in true Bluebell fashion, with tea, cakes, scones and laughter. Jan has worked here longer than any of us, since before I arrived. She hasn’t retired, she’s just too busy to come in much now as she’s working so hard as chair of Cheshire’s NGS, among many other things. Jan, you’re a star and we all love you to bits. xx

Almost all the Bluebellers…. From bottom left, clockwise round the table: Me, Jess, Sheila, Anne, Louise, Gemma, Sally, Chris, Jayne, Jan, Steve, Marilyn, Matthew, Tina and Ginny.

Enough words. Below is a little gallery of snaps I took this morning, taking my cue from the wildlife around me and taking time to enjoy the garden as it shimmers and gleams its way into winter.