Another hard frost this morning...

 Plants that come into flower at this time of year are hardy enough to take it, even these seemingly delicate Crocuses.

 The wintry morning sun played across the garden and slowly the thaw began.

 The ability of plants to deal with adverse conditions never ceases to amaze me. This Hellebore was covered in frost with leaves drooping and head bowed.

 After a few hours of cold sun it perked up again. I should qualify the term adverse; plants are hardy in their native habitat and genetically programmed to survive a range of fluctuations (and in fact thrive on them).

As I wandered round the garden the local robin appeared and settled right next to me. I sensed I was being asked to rustle up some breakfast and obliged with a sprinkling of sunflower seeds.

 Two plants for winter interest: the vivid red berries of Ruscus aculeatus and the marbled leaves of Arum itlalicum. The former I photographed at the South London Botanical Institute, the latter in the back garden.
 The common name of R. aculeatus is Butcher's Broom, and its spiny stems were reputedly used by butchers to sweep their chopping blocks. The berries are so red and perfectly spherical that they almost look like plastic decorations! NB way back in February 2017 I wrote an entry about walking through Epping Forest to search out this rather rare and curious plant.
 A. italicum grows in a difficult and shady area towards the far end of the garden where not much else will grow. I noticed a handsome clump of it over the fence in next door's garden in an adjacent spot and thought: if it does well there it should do well here. And so it proved.     

 A close-up of Gorse as seen on top of Wolstonbury Hill when I walked on the South Downs yesterday (see previous entry). There are several types of Gorse in the UK and I assume this is Common Gorse (Ulex europeus) judging by its height and locale. The others are Western Gorse (U. gailii) and Dwarf Gorse (U. minor).

 "Our blunt, bow-headed, whale-backed Downs" is how Kipling referred to the South Downs in his poem "Sussex". Brilliant sun was forecast all day (and no work on this week, hurrah!) so I took the train from London Victoria to Hassocks and from there walked up onto the Downs.
 My first thought was to head out to Devil's Dyke and back but following my nose I decided to do a circular walk over and around Wolstonbury Hill. It's too early in the year for flower hunting but the pockets of broad leaved woodland on the lower levels will be full of Bluebells in spring. Similarly the grassy slopes are noted for very fine displays of orchids into the summer months.
 This was my first strenuous walk of 2019 and it was good to get the legs moving and the heart pumping though my body was a little reluctant to be honest.

 In fact there were some flowers to be seen- on the very top of the hill exposed to the worst the weather can throw at them. As plants go Gorse must be the toughest of the tough with its viciously prickly spines and luminous yellow blooms through winter that no wind or rain can dislodge.
 The highest point of Wolstonbury has splendid 360 degree views for miles upon miles into Sussex and towards the coast.

 I can see the sea! Descending the other side of the hill there are vistas across to Brighton and the Channel beyond. This is a small island and really we're never that far from the sea but somehow I always feel like I've traveled a long way when I catch a glimpse of it on the horizon.

 The Snowdrops at the end of the garden are going strong. In the past few days the drooping flowers have opened up to reveal the bold green markings within.
 This colony was here when I moved in, presumably planted by a previous tenant. They have increased slowly in the time I've been here and no doubt have been doing so over decades. Each year I divide a few clumps and plant them away from the main group to increase their spread. Like all bulbs they clump up by producing offsets (small bulbs) which separate from the parent bulb. I assume they must be self-seeding as well though I have read that Snowdrops don't set viable seed in the UK.
 Galanthophiles are obsessive about the many varieties and variations to be found among the Galanthus genus. For me the effect of seeing them en masse is what I love most. The ones in the garden are most likely some variation on the Common Snowdrop (G. nivalis) though I'm not sure which one- possibly 'Sam Arnott' as discovered by the 19th. century Scottish Galanthophile of that name?

 Crocuses are poking through already. Crocus tommasinianus in shades of magenta, lilac and white are the first to show themselves in the garden and a pot of Crocus angustifolius is coming into flower on a window sill, a variety called 'Cloth of Gold' :

 The bright orange anther and pollen sacs dusted with pollen are very prominent when the petals of the Crocus unfold and open to the sun- though I don't think many bees will venture out in the damp chill of a day like today.

 Lent a hand at the South London Botanical Institute yesterday, mulching round the beds which is something they do every year. A small band of us distributed a layer of well rotted but still steaming horse muck with a layer of spent mushroom compost (i.e. the stuff that mushrooms have been grown in). The former is slightly acidic and the latter somewhat alkaline so the resulting mix is probably fairly neutral.  

 Finally we had a hard frost in central London overnight, the first we've had this winter. The frosted greenery and frozen puddles told the story when I stepped out into the garden this morning.
 London is a bubble of heat and needs its fever reduced from time to time. A cold spell is part of nature's biorhythm in a northern climate and should be welcomed.

 Keep on keeping on seems to be the best way to get through January. At the weekend I dug and filled the second compost trench on the allotment (see also my entry on 13/01). Also did some leveling of the humpy bumpy paths. A good time of year to concentrate on tasks that keep you warm.

 You can never have too many photos of Snowdrops. And when I step out into the garden and see them gleaming in chilly winter sunshine I feel compelled to get my camera.
 Having posted this entry I will make a cup of tea and take a few minutes to commune with them...

 Winter Aconites (Eranthis hyemalis) are bulbs -or more accurately small tubers- that flower with the Snowdrops and like the Snowdrops they're early this year. I've tried to introduce them in various parts of the garden but only a few here and there have stood the test of time which is disappointing. All the more so because the ones that do appear (as above) are a welcome sight with their golden yellow flowers.
 Seems like they don't prosper in damp heavy clay soils which are characteristic of London but they naturalize well elsewhere. I took the photo below several years ago in a village in Hertfordshire. Here the soil is lighter, chalky and free draining which is probably more reminiscent of their natural habitat in calcerous woodlands from southern France across to the Balkans.

There was a light frost overnight in central London, only the second or third of the winter. Perhaps a "beast from the East" will move in but the bulbs are behaving as though spring is here- the stems of Narcissus February Gold in the lawn are already pointing skywards and about to flower.
 I wrote last week that the Snowdrops were starting to appear and now they're well on the way:

 And here is another Periwinkle. Vinca major and Vinca minor were the subject of my last entry but I reckon this is Vinca difformis.
 Today I dropped in at the South London Botanical Institute to have a natter with the good people that keep the show on the road at this rather wonderful outpost of botany in Tulse Hill. I saw the starry specimen above in full flower in one of the beds at the front of the Institute.
 We mused on whether it might be a white flowered form of Vincas major or minor but V. difformis seems most likely- the flowers cut diagonally at the tip are indicative. V. difformis is known to flower from late autumn onward which is another indicator of the plant's identity.
 I also note that the one at the SLBI is not as shrubby as the Greater Periwinkle but not so prostrate as the Lesser Periwinkle. Researching the species just now I learn that V. difformis is sometimes known as the Intermediate Periwinkle, presumably a reference to being somewhere between major and minor?    

 There's something cheering about seeing the occasional early flower that's decided to raise its head rather too soon- like this Periwinkle I saw on Sunday.
 This is the Greater Periwinkle (Vinca major) and it is more usual to see it flowering on the cusp of late winter/early spring. So too the Lesser Periwinkle (Vinca minor) which has similar starry flowers. Both do well in shady surroundings but V. minor has a low growing, spreading habit whereas V. major is a taller, shrubbier plant.   

 Trench composting is a very simple way to improve soil fertility that's been practiced around the world across the ages: dig a trench (or hole), add organic matter e.g. fruit and veg "waste" and drag the soil back to fill it in. Traditionally it's a winter task to prepare the bed for spring. 
 It's particularly useful for hungry crops like runner beans. Next time I'm on the allotment I'll repeat the process with a parallel trench. In May I'll set up an A-frame type runner bean support along the length of the bed so that the plants root into the trenches.
 I started by chucking in what was on the bed before I started digging; what looks like straw is the dried up stems of Nasturtiums. 

 I also chucked in some Leeks that hadn't amounted to much but the bulk was provided by a barrowful of household compost that had been accumulating in a big black plastic composter. Plastic bins have a tendency to become overmoist and the contents are difficult to turn over when full so the stuff I used was rather slimy and smelly but that won't matter in a trench.
 I will write another post sometime concerning the differences about aerobic and anaerobic composting which is an important consideration for the compost connoisseur. Suffice to say this particular bin load was becoming anaerobic but then again trench composting is an anaerobic method.

    

 So the idea of trench composting is to create this rich fertile seam which assimilates with the existing soil to improve soil structure and humus content...

 And here's another benefit: lots of juicy worms!

 I see the first Snowdrops in the garden are coming into flower. Galanthus species flower in late winter/early spring but these are rather early; the end of the month or beginning of February is more usual.
 London has a microclimate warmer than surrounding areas and I think we have in effect a nine month growing season. Even so the Snowdrops are ahead of time, probably because we've had a wet winter so far and no sub zero temperatures to speak of.     

 The Stinking Hellebore (Hellebore foetidus) is the first plant in the garden coming into flower as has been the case in previous years. It seems a bit harsh to call it stinking or foetid; the leaves have a musty smell if crushed, other than that it causes no offence.
 H. foetidus is widely available as a nursery grown plant (which is where mine came from) but the species can be found growing wild in scrub and woodland on limey soils. I sometimes see them growing alongside railway lines -even in London- and I suspect the limestone chippings used to lay tracks provides them with the calcium rich habitat they favour.
 The Green Hellebore (Hellebore viridis) is a close relative, also native to the UK though rarer. Lower growing and more compact the flowers are an even purer shade of green. A few years ago I came across an extensive colony in an ancient woodland in Kent:

Green Shade Diary 2019 page 1...