Wintering in the Wildlife Garden

Two Crows silhouetted on bare tree branches against a pale blue winter sky - this is wintering in the wildlife garden

January this year has been about taking things easy, adapting to the season, and honouring nature. I’ve been wintering in the wildlife garden — and in the woods.

Last Saturday I got turfed out of bed early by Mark, who was on a full GSD (get shit done) mission. It wasn’t so bad — he did bring me a cup of tea. The plan was to take the dogs out early to the woods before tackling the broken fence. As I’ve said before, he really is determined to GSD.

I enjoy these early morning visits to the woods. Mark likes to run; I prefer a brisk walk — less sweaty. It works well: he runs two laps while I walk one with the dogs.

Wintering in the Woods

Winter woodland path with sunlight filtering through bare trees, puddles reflecting the light and a quiet sense of onward movement.

Getting up early was absolutely worth it.

When we arrived at the woods, the temperature was –1. Mark went off for his run, while the dogs and I set off walking. I couldn’t have been more grateful to myself for getting my butt out of bed. The woods were stunning — a crisp, sunny January morning at its very best.

I tried to take photographs that did justice to the scenery, to preserve some of that ethereal beauty for my own future perusal. But how can you capture a sense of awe like that on a screen?

In the Business of Noticing

Standing there in the woods that morning, I felt the bitter chill of the air on my face and fingers. I took a moment to linger, to be part of this ancient woodland. With my senses engaged in the business of noticing, my mind drifted as I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

The earthy aroma of the woods awakened something primal in me, something utterly joyful. Natural, herbaceous scents reached my cold nose — damp, with a hint of mushrooms and a background note of something almost spicy. My body knew it was home.

When the Woods Whisper

A four-panel collage of bramble leaves in rich yellows, reds, browns and greens, photographed for wintering in a wildlife garden.

No longer listening to the chatter of my thoughts or the stomping of my feet, I began to hear the secret sounds of the woodland: birds singing, wood pigeons cooing, a squirrel hopping from branch to branch. The movement sent droplets of water tumbling down onto the decomposing leaves underfoot. Nature’s own symphony.

When I opened my eyes again, colours popped — colours previously overlooked. Emerald green moss, yellows, purples and reds in the leaves of tangled bramble stems, rich browns and bright silvers of bark, and patches of almost black, nutrient-dense soil where the ground had been disturbed by night-wandering animals.

And oh, how to describe the rays of the sun slanting through those trees? That low winter sun — brittle and bright — settling on patches of dried bracken fronds, glowing copper and gold. That faint warmth causing steam to rise in smoke-like clouds, drifting into the shadows beneath the tall pines.

I can almost feel myself there right now.

Sunlight streaming through trees in ancient woodland, illuminating mossy ground and drifting mist on a winter morning. Wintering in the woods

Not only have I been indulging in a spot of forest bathing, but the kind weather has also meant I’ve enjoyed some productive time in the garden. The first Saturday I got out there was entirely unintentional. I popped out in my pyjamas to top up the bird feeder, as you do, but on my way back in I spotted some new growth in one of the flower beds and was instantly diverted. When I say flower bed, I mean that in the loosest possible terms — if you saw it, you’d be forgiven for thinking it was simply a pile of weeds.

That inevitably led to a bit of gentle weeding, which then led to some tentative pruning of dead ivy. How does ivy just die?

The pruning escalated wildly, as these things often do, and I eventually found myself cutting back the huge rose bush that was pulling down the fence. This needed to be done so that Mark can put a new one up, but it was a job I’d been putting off because I really do not like cutting anything back hard. Even when it’s for the best, I feel terrible for the poor plant.

That said, I’m hopeful it will bounce back. Once the new fence is in, I have a bag of well-rotted manure standing by as a treat for it — the rose bush, that is, not the fence.

I should probably add that I did pop back inside to throw on some sensible clothes and wellies before things escalated — just in case you’re now picturing a middle-aged woman in fluffy slippers, wielding secateurs and hacking hedges like Edward Scissorhands, but pink.

wintering in the wildlife garden. Four-image collage of a winter wildlife garden showing old fence timbers, overgrown beds, pots and steps, documenting a garden resting and transitioning in January. — *a few pics of the garden in progress*

Gardening and Technology

I’ve taken some videos on my phone, along with lots of photographs. My intention is to put these together into a before-and-after video. I love that sort of thing — seeing the transformation — and I’m genuinely excited to learn how to edit one myself.

OK, honest translation: I’ve put off trying to edit this video for two weeks now, because I strongly suspect I’ll end up having a menopausal meltdown and crying into my cup of tea.

The old me would procrastinate over this for months. I’d far sooner reorganise my sock drawer or paint the skirting boards — and I hate those things. I don’t really know why technology fills me with such anxiety, although I have tried to unpack my aversion to it.

The conclusion I keep coming back to is this: what I want to avoid isn’t the task itself, but the tidal wave of emotion that engulfs me when a computer refuses to do what I want it to do. Is this an age thing? I’m not sure. Before I had a computer, DVD players used to fill me with rage, so it’s probably just a me thing.

Better step up the meditation!

A thin crescent moon hanging low in a blue and orange twilight sky, above the silhouette of trees at dusk — peaceful and dreamlike.

In other news, there was a new moon on the 18th, which means it’s time to plant some flowers. The waxing moon is traditionally a good time to begin things that grow above ground, so naturally I took this as encouragement to go a little crazy, seed-shopping online.

That’s not entirely true — I don’t really need encouragement to buy seeds… or plants… or gardening books.