A single morning’s wet snow before Christmas and four consecutive frosty days in the middle of January don’t really constitute a proper winter in my book and we’re fast running out of time in which to have one. How different from last year, when a trip to the walk-in fridge where vegetables are stored was a good way to get out of the cold.

In the garden, the only consensus among the plants seems to be that there is no general consensus as to which season it is. The hebes and roses apparently still think it’s autumn since they haven’t stopped flowering, whilst the first cherry blossom appeared around the solstice and there have been daffodils out for two weeks now.



Needless to say, the weeds have not stopped growing. What were spotless beds full of sleeping garlic are now infuriatingly covered in a green fuzz of chickweed (very laborious to weed until it gets bigger) and the garlic’s well up. So too are the broad beans that I sowed in mid-November. They haven’t suffered a single loss. On a whim I sowed a load more on January 9th, a good six weeks earlier than I normally would, just on the off chance that it would continue to be mild. It’s looking good so far.



On the harvesting front, I’ve been sending Jerusalem artichokes to Fifteen - the nice pink skinned French ones - and oca (Oxalis tuberosa) to Barbecoa. I’m a big fan of this fluorescent Andean tuber. It deserves to be more widely grown. Astonishingly, I’m still picking cape gooseberries, which I’ve never known before. They can stand some frost but are normally dead by Christmas. The plants might yet over-winter.

All in all, it’s a bit peculiar, even though mild winters are not uncommon here. Still, I had the pleasure of hearing a skylark sing today and a chaffinch try out its spring song, so I’ll think about spring and attempt to ignore the nagging feeling that the climate is behaving more strangely than it used to.

About the author: Peter Wrapson takes care of Jamie's garden in Essex.

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