As we reach the middle of February here in Lewes, UK, our winter is releasing its frozen grip out there and I can already see signs of hope out there on the horizon. I, inevitably, have succumbed to the latest viral infection that it buzzing round town but I haven’t been entirely idle.

I’ve been reading Alex Ross’s excellent book on 20th Century classical music, The Rest Is Noise. One of my new year’s resolutions was fulfilled this morning when I came to the end of this massive and massively impressive study of a difficult but truly exciting period in music.

I have also been writing – pretty well as usual – and over the last week, amongst other projects, I have written six new Fibonacci poems, scribbling away in the little doodling book that I keep for the purpose.

Naturally, I’ve been keeping company with a number of 20th century composers during this time and, this week, I’ve been listening to Shostakovich, Copeland, Jerome Kern and Messiaen – what an amazingly varied century it was for music.

Outside, in my little urban garden, things haven’t been idle either.

The bulbs are more than stirring….

the primroses are in bloom…

as is the wonderful Hellebores out there, like the primroses, thriving in two of the garden’s darkest corners.

My camellia too is beginning to flower with its boldly unseasonal red petals.

The snowdrops, of course, are now in their element….both old favourites….

…..and new plantings.

Before the lurgey forced me indoors, I’ve been out on my rambles around Lewes and was delighted to find one of my favourite plants in bloom down the road in the town’s Grange Gardens.

The Chinese witch hazel, hamamelis molis, with its intoxicating perfume and vibrant colour offers more than enough hope to me here in this moody Lewes February. Late winter is always interesting here in the UK, if you love plants. You just have to look a bit closer for their beauty.

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My little garret writing room is bathed in sunshine this fine January morning here in Lewes, UK. Me and my Bonsai tree aren’t sure if it’s summer of Winter in here and, if it wasn’t that it’s too easy to turn into a weird eccentric when you spend too much time working at home on your own, I’d be tempted to change into Bermuda shorts and sunglasses but it’s good enough to feel the sun on my face as I sit here squinting at my trusty computer screen.

Looking out of the window, I see that my neighbour’s almond tree is in blossom and, as usual round here, that plucky little tree is the first herald of life in the middle of Winter.

The sunshine and almond blossom are enough to lift my spirits when the international news talks of snow blizzards and preposterously low temperatures. I suspect it will end up getting cold here again but, for now,  I’m happy to bask in the spirit of this false Spring.

Out in my garden, I too have some heralds of Spring – snowdrops are always in the vanguard of those flowers that defy reason to bloom in the most inhospitable of times and mine return with a smile every January.

My primroses too, unexpectedly brighten the darkest corner of my garden with their radiant but tasteful shades of pale yellow. These have been flowering since before Christmas even though they are not supposed to open their petals for at least another couple of months.

That’s enough gazing out of the window, back to work.

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My first daffodil of the year started to flower yesterday here in my small Lewes town garden. It looks a sad but plucky little thing on a sunny but cold February day but it is not entirely alone.

The snowdrops are still going strong and there are plenty of signs of flowers to come in the surge of green.

This unusual variety of snowdrop, I think it is Swiss, came in a small batch I bought decades ago. Just one plant survived in the urn that I have moved with me over the years but, this year, well thrillingly for me if no one else, I have a new addition. I’m hoping that next year I will get even more new ones. I have always loved its chunky grey/green leaves and its extra large blooms that dangle satisfyingly pendulously beneath steely stems.

Not that my rare snowdrops detract from the other, more common varieties. The delicate upright type may be more familiar but it has a purity and perky freshness that speaks to me of bravery in adversity.

My single daffodil is not the only yellow out there because the winter flowering jasmine is still going strong as are the two urns of primroses that started to flower in December. Winter flowers have a special place in my affections arriving as they do when all my hopes and resolutions for the year ahead are at their most optimistic. If they can look so cheerful at this time of year, well, then so should I.

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Christmastide feasting is a sensible idea when the daylight hours are short and when we all need some time for social recuperation but it can also be a rather indoor pursuit. Now that the feasting is almost done, well, here in Lewes, UK, anyway, it is time to look outside again and to see what has been going on in the natural world. My small town garden may not be entirely natural but it was wonderful to wander out there this week and to find that my primroses have started to flower. What better way to feel hope in the new year than to see these joyful plants celebrating life’s renewal.

Primroses are one of the glories of Europe’s natural flora and I’m glad to live in that part of the World where even the dullest winter day can produce something as inspiring as these “first roses” – primroses, the prima rosa.  The formal name is Primula vulgaris but there is nothing vulgar about these delicately shaded flowers.

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Sunday morning here in Lewes was sunny and warm until a breeze arrived mid afternoon with some milky clouds. It was the perfect day to admire the cherry blossom which has been especially beautiful this Spring but will peak in perfection this week just as it has been joined by my “Denim” Irises and its neighbourly Bramley Apple blossom. They were all set off perfectly by the pure blue sky.

My small walled garden is looking particularly orderly at the moment but it is also bursting with energy now that last week’s rain has brought a rush of new foliage whilst failing to disturb the blossom or my magnolia which has finally settled down in its giant pot after reacting bad-temperedly to being replanted last year.

The bright red ranunculus plants, the first time I’ve grown them, are looking very much at home blending their confident colour nicely with the blues and pinks that surround them. They go especially well with my neighbour’s washing too – I’m pleased they weren’t hanging out anything orange coloured this Sunday.

Blossom, flowers and new leaves made my small garden a mini-oasis yesterday allowing me to enjoy the Spring with enough promise of Summer too to fill me with optimism for the future.

The cherry blossom has been particularly popular with the bees who fly away quite intoxicated after their sojourn in those delicate pink blooms. When the blossom has long faded, I’m hoping to keep the bees interested with two new lavender plants that will sit in urns by the roses all Summer.

This though is the time for delicate, short lived pleasures so I’m enjoying my irises and tulips in their brief moment centre stage.

The primrose flowers that have been radiant bunches of yellow at the shadowy recesses  have nearly all gone now but their new foliage is illuminating darkness with vivid green and will remain like that right through the Summer and justifying it place in the shadiest corners of my small space-challenged garden. They are like our own native aspidistras sitting their in their urns like lights in the darkness.

My climbing roses are also adding their leafy energy to this space contrasting well with the grey of my old flint walls and reminding me that, come Summer, the garden will be full of colour and rosy perfume.

I have just noticed the first crop of rose buds taunting me with anticipation.

Another set of Summer’s prophets are thrusting their way upwards out of the grow-bag that has been sitting out by the dustbin since I decided that the frost isn’t going to return round here. These little plants are heliotropes getting ready for planting around my small apple tree when the bulbs have all died down.  They, like my roses, are not just beautiful to look at but they will fill this part of the garden with the heady vanilla perfume.

Another seasonal sign has been the increasing number of snail shells lying crushed on my Yorkshire flagstones this week. I have a new friend in the garden, who leaves up to eight snail shells out there each morning. It is the handiwork of a song thrush who uses the stones to break open the shells for a deliciously soggy breakfast of snail, the principal pest in my garden. Now though I just have to sweep up the shells – a pleasant form of washing-up that I’m happy to undertake.

Whilst I’m gardening I’m also entertained by the song thrush’ s glorious singing voice – nothing in these parts sounds more like Summer. Here is a recording so that you can share my daily pleasure – it also includes the cooing of a wood pigeon another cheery Summer sound in my Lewes garden.

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