After one of our worst winters for cold, the arrival of daffodiles, hyacinths and crocuses are a welcoming site. The pilgrimage begins for gardeners to the nearest nursery, loading their carts full of colour and hope. The hope that this years garden will swiftly awaken from its long, cold sleep. The hope that this years plants that were so carefully picked to join the garden will add new life and a new way to enjoy the landscape before us.

Yesterday, was a good day to take some time to leave the office and place my hands in the dirt. To place my flowers in their new home, grab a watering can and give them a drink to help them along. I am by no means an accomplished gardener, in fact, if it wasn’t for my mother I wouldn’t know where to begin. Her gardens of the past were so English, a beautiful display of controlled chaos. Things grew where they should not, a profusion of colour wrapped around her home and little gems would pop up in tiny spaces. She has adapted now, at this stage in life, to container gardening and that too amazes me. A patio that draws the eye to beauty and whimsy with little solar statues that light up at night to remind us her garden is there.

I can only aspire to see a garden the way she does, but at least the effort is there. In walking out into my garden of late I am reminded there is life, death and rebirth happening year after year. The story unfolds every year and it is good to stop and take it in, get your hands dirty, feel the grass under your feet and bathe yourself in the brilliance of it all.