On the final day of winter, the contrast with last year couldn’t be more apparent. This year nothing is dead. Nothing at all.

Even the Echium Pininanas (pictured below), more than 100 of them, have survived the cold. This is the first time in 4 years that any Echiums have survived. And although we can’t relax our guard completely just yet, plants seem to be approaching the spring with confidence.

Cannas in the cold unheated greenhouse are beginning to shoot; Gunnera, likewise, outside. In the kitchen garden the chives, parsley, sorrel and rhubarb are showing strong signs of growth. And the first Camellia of spring (pictured above) has already produced lovely big healthy blooms.

Goodness knows what the year’s got in store, but it’s got off to a splendid start.

I tried to persuade my children to learn Latin by telling them it would stand them in good stead when they became interested in gardening, but the very idea made them laugh. “That’s never going to happen”, they said. I think I put them off gardening at an early age. When they were very young they would happily trot along with me, admiring the flowers, when I visited a garden. But as soon as they were old enough to realise that there were more interesting things they could be doing with their time, their opposition became absolute. In fact, before any family expedition I’d be cross-examined to make sure that the trip didn’t involve even the hint of a garden visit, before they’d agree to set out.
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Part of the problem of course was the horrid Latin names. If only I’d been able to introduce them to the Rock Madwort, or the Bristling Bear’s Head, I could have had them hooked for life. William Robinson, who by all accounts loathed children, nevertheless championed the use of English names for plants. If his view had prevailed things might have been different, as can be seen from this selection of plant choices taken from his Wild Garden (1870).

Let’s all get up and dance to a song
That was a hit before your mother was born.
Though she was born a long, long time ago
Your mother should know, your mother should know.
           -Paul McCartney

I’ll always adore Annie Nightingale because she picked out the Heroes of She to win the competition for new band of the year at the O2 Arena. She’s the only Radio 1 DJ who’s older than I am and her musical tastes were formed when mine were, which means the Beatles and the Stones. Yes, we were lucky. Annie has been writing about Paul McCartney’s new album “Kisses” which consists of covers of songs recorded by artists such as Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby and Dean Martin, the songs of my parent’s generation. These were songs which I loathed as a child and I’m intrigued to see that McCartney liked them. (My mother redeemed herself by being one of the few people to buy the Beatle’s very first single, Love Me Do). Annie’s question is this: If we have no difficulty in recognising the iconic songs of McCartney’s dad’s generation and of McCartney’s generation, what about the songs of our generation? 

Some magnificent multi-chinned women are pictured in Tracey Lawson’s book “A Year in the Village of Eternity”. Her book is the story of Campodimele, a village in Italy whose citizens have a life expectancy of 95, which is 18 more than the Italian average. The author, who now lives in Carlisle, spent the best part of three years in Campodimele investigating the theory that it was something in the diet of the villagers that resulted in their long healthy lives.  Her book is a paean to the Slow Life.  ​