Cradling my steaming mug of tea this raw January morning, I’m mainly composed of cheese, chocolate and Baileys after a blissful festive food fest that included a self-imposed phone ban (and wasn’t that lovely?). Breath billowing like dragon smoke, I peer around my January garden, a rather unexpected earworm has taken up residence in my head. Nope, it’s not another tired list of garden resolutions – those get forgotten faster than a January gym membership – but something far more inspiring about finding joy in the pause. Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” has become my internal January soundtrack.
Right now, I’m ignoring the expensive tools gathered in my garage (sorry, beautiful Sneeboer border spade), and that towering stack of gardening books by my bedside. Instead, I’m learning from the quiet persistence of the snowdrops pushing through frozen earth. Talk about determination –these tiny warriors, with their spear-like growth and hardened leaf tips, have mastered the art of thriving in adversity. They’re not sitting around waiting for perfect conditions – they’re out there doing their own thing no matter what’s happening all around them.
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My complete snowdrop philosophy (and why it’s exactly what we need right now)
My late planter’s manifesto (spoiler: those 800 tulips in my garage are absolutely fine)
The truth about forcing bulbs (and why timing is overrated)
Garden teachings to comfort through life’s challenges
My five favourite things this week (including a very special pig)
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Let me tell you about the snowdrop’s secrets – though they’re not really secrets at all. Those hardened leaf tips break through frozen soil like nature’s own ice picks. Inside their cells are playing chemist, brewing up proteins that stop ice crystals forming – sort of like the antifreeze we add to our cars, but infinitely more elegant. McFerrin’s melody seems particularly apt as I watch them work: “In every life we have some trouble, when you worry you make it double.”
And they’re not alone in their winter resilience. Next to them, the hellebores demonstrate their own kind of grace under pressure. When the frost hits hard, they simply bow down to the ground – not giving up, mind you, just taking a tactical retreat. Come the thaw, up they bounce again, flowers intact. It’s rather like that saying about bending so you don’t break, and these Christmas Roses have turned it into an art form.
Then there are winter aconites, pushing up their little golden faces through whatever January throws at them, and steady Cyclamen coum, carrying on regardless. Even the camellia buds are sitting tight, wrapped in their scales, waiting for their moment. But it’s the snowdrops that really have this timing thing mastered – no rushing, no dawdling – just that perfect pace, persistently present.
The Snowdrop Approach
While everyone else is creating elaborate schedules that look like military operations, I’m embracing what I’m calling ‘The Snowdrop Approach’ and taking my time. Just like Bobby McFerrin’s Caribbean-inspired wisdom might seem odd for a January garden, but trust me – it’s the perfect soundtrack for this unhurried season.
Some history for you pop pickers, Bobby McFerrin’s deliciously catchy “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” made history back in 1988 as the first acappella song to reach number one on the Billboard charts and nabbed three Grammys whilst doing so. The inspiration? A lovely little phrase from Indian guru Meher Baba that McFerrin spotted on a poster in San Francisco. One of those rare gems that reminds us, through its simple melody and cheerful message, that sometimes choosing happiness really can be as straightforward as deciding to embrace it.
The Late Planter’s Manifesto
Right, confession time – I’ve only just planted 1,000 bulbs between Christmas and New Year. The wet weekends before then made it impossible, but finally I got the Alliums ‘Glory of Pamir’, ‘Tobago’ and ‘Yellow Fantasy’, with groups of Iris hollandica ‘Purple Sensation’ and ‘Strongold’ through the borders. After so many deluges, I was grateful that the earth was butter-soft, making light work of it. Though I’d bought an auger just in case (memories of bloodied knuckles from early-career daffodil planting into frosty ground haunting me), the Hori Hori blade made light work of it. The job proved to be a pleasure, even in the mist.
There’s still a small army of 800 tulips waiting in the cold darkness of the garage, their green tips beginning to show from the bulbs. You know what? They’re absolutely fine. In fact, they’re probably feeling rather smug about missing all those autumn downpours!
Seriously, if you’ve still got bulbs to plant, this weekend’s forecast cold snap is perfect timing for the tulips. They need that chill to break dormancy and trigger flowering. Plus, cold weather helps prevent tulip fire – that fungal menace that thrives in warm, damp conditions. Even the squirrels are less likely to dig up bulbs in this weather (every cloud, eh?).
My garaged tulips are destined for the new pots I bought last autumn exactly for this purpose. Spotting the forecast, last night I dragged the bags of compost into the garage. Fingers crossed they won’t be too frozen when I need them come the morning. Once planted, the pots will find sanctuary under the rhododendron canopies beside our drive – safe from both excessive rain and the tulip fire that plagues the back garden while mysteriously sparing the front.
Paperwhites and Patience
Indoors on the kitchen table, my paperwhites (Narcissus ‘Erlicheer’) are taking the slow road to blooming. But these aren’t your standard Ziva paperwhites – ‘Erlicheer’ brings its own personality to the party with buttery-coloured, double flowers. They completely ignored the Christmas deadline – despite my carefully planned planting timings, they remained tight in their mahogany conker bulbs over the entire festive period. But no matter, I’m now as steadfast as them in channelling “don’t worry be happy”. They’ll give me something to look forward to in the coming weeks.
Meanwhile, my Amaryllis ‘Mystica’ decided to finish its performance two weeks before the festive season (typical), and so I’ve ‘Pink Rival’ still in the wings, about to be planted in a tall glass vase on gravel, giving it plenty of time to make its grand entrance.
First Stirrings
In a delightfully apt twist, my sweet pea ‘Beaujolais’ is quite the opposite to the paperwhites and are leading the germination race – rather fitting after the festive season’s wine consumption, wouldn’t you say? Planted the day after Boxing Day, they’re already pushing through. Sometimes the best gardening happens when you’re meant to be doing something else entirely doesn’t it.
The Great Divide
Perhaps there’s a deeper reason to my rather laissez-faire approach. Today’s one of those pause moments in the garden calendar, indeed in the everything calendar if the truth be told. As ever, the garden is proving a distraction. As I write this, my husband’s at the hospital seeing his consultant about his latest cancer scan. He prefers to go it alone, processing everything on the drive home. After nearly three years of borrowed time, I’ve learned not to push it. Much like the garden at this time of year, Jules and I need our own space too. That earworm keeps humming: “Don’t worry, be happy.”
It’s funny how spending time with plants teaches you things, supporting you through all life’s moments without you really noticing. Like those hellebores that arch over when the frost hits hard – they’re not giving up, they’re just taking a moment. Then up they come again when the temperatures climb and they can cope. Today I choose to focus on sharing my love of gardening, looking ahead to the lengthening days and emerging snowdrops – promise and hope held in every unopened bud.
A Different Kind of January Promise
So here’s what I’m thinking – instead of those rigid resolutions we all know won’t survive till February, I’m taking my cue from the snowdrops. Doing what I can, when I need to, rising up when I can. This year, I’m promising to watch more and worry less, to celebrate the small victories (like finding that last forgotten bulb in the bottom of the bag) and to remember that sometimes the finest moments unfold in our minds while we’re curled up by the fire.
Each morning, I’ll get out there – yes, even in this raw cold – and really look at what’s happening. When the frost makes everything sparkle like I’ve sprinkled the garden with the leftover Christmas glitter, when a determined shoot pushes through the cold earth – these are the moments that matter, and they’re moments I’d like to share.
Not worrying, being happy, and perhaps being a bit more snowdrop about it all.
Starting this year, each weekly newsletter will be a genuine window into my gardening world, sharing both successes and stumbles, along with tips from thirty years in garden design and gardening. I’ll include weekly discoveries that caught my eye – sometimes one, sometimes ten, always honest and unsponsored. They might wander beyond the garden gate occasionally into unchartered territory, but that’s fine isn’t it. So let’s begin, shall we?
Five Favourite Things This Week
The Pig at Barnsley House in the Cotswolds (yes, you read that right. An actual pig, and she’s magnificent). Jules and I spent New Year there with dear friends and had the most wonderful garden tour with Head Gardener Jen Danbury and Kitchen Gardener Kate North. Kate’s gone from ecology degree to running those raised beds like a pro – proof that garden paths, like career paths, can meander in the most delightful ways.
Rosemary Verey’s laburnum walk at Barnsley House yesterday in January. Pastoral Gardens by Clare Foster – bit of a splurge at £55, but oh my, what a book! Not just another coffee table pretty face (though Andrew Montgomery’s photos are stunning). It’s a proper deep dive into how gardens are adapting to our changing climate. Got mine at the launch and haven’t stopped reading since.
Scribehound Gardening is fast becoming the Radio 4 of gardening, and has become my daily earworm replacement therapy. Yes, I contribute, but honestly, listening to other garden writers share their stories is like having a pocket full of friends chatting away while you work.
Me with my Scribehound Gardening colleagues. The Chiltern Seeds 2025 catalogue just landed – 50 years of seed magic and over 225 new varieties to tempt us. After I’ve finished planting my tulips, this weekend’s designated for seed selecting, and I can’t think of a better way to spend a January afternoon. Cup of tea, catalogue, credit card... dangerous combination!
Sarah Raven’s new dahlia collections are calling my name, and as my beloved ‘Totally Tangerine’ mysteriously vanished last year, some retail therapy is surely in order. Sometimes losing a plant is just the garden’s way of making space for new adventures. Or that’s what I’m telling myself anyway!
Meanwhile, following a lot of rather fabulous whistling and oohing, here’s Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry be Happy ’s first verse. Hope you find it as comforting as I do!
Here’s a little song I wrote
You might want to sing it note for note
Don’t worry, be happy
In every life we have some trouble
When you worry you make it double
Don’t worry, be happy
Don’t worry, be happy now
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No audio version this week – do let me know if you missed it. I'll be back to recording for the next newsletter.
Until next week, with love,
Think I’m going to be more ‘snowdrop ‘ from now on too 🤍😉
As a relatively novice gardener I have spent the last 2 years stressing about trying to design a garden with zero experience and getting some plants in what was a blank canvass of grass, gravel and paving. Worrying about whether I am doing the right thing, does it look ok, are the plants going to survive, will other people like what I have done and so on. This year, as I seem to like to pile even more pressure on, I also have decided to create a cutting garden, as well as ‘finish’ the rest of the back garden, and to try to raise as much from seed and cuttings as possible. All without a greenhouse 🙈. This article has reminded me that, actually, I need to stop and enjoy the process more and that if everything takes a little longer then that’s fine. And in the meantime, my husband will be happy that he keeps a little more of his beloved grass for just a little while longer 🤣🤣