January is the quietest of months at Gamekeeper’s Cottage. After the flurry of Christmas and the soft glow of twelfth night, the garden settles into something slower — a kind of watchful stillness that seeps into everything.
There’s no real rush to do much this time of year. The soil is cold and heavy, the trees are bare, and the sun, when it shows itself, rarely climbs high enough to warm the ground. But that doesn’t mean January is wasted. Far from it. It’s a time for looking, listening, and quietly taking stock.
One afternoon last week, I wrapped up and took a slow walk around the garden. The frost clung to every twig and blade of grass, the light low and pewter-grey. The borders are stripped right back now, the bones of the garden fully visible — old brick walls and fences, empty beds, the promise of structure in the bare branches of roses and shrubs.
Birds bring most of the movement at this time of year. Robins, always bold, keep close to the house, flitting between the rose arch and the hedge. A pair of blackbirds have taken to patrolling the back garden like they own it. On still days, you can hear the quiet tap of a blue tit on the feeder, or the sudden flurry of wings as a wood pigeon lands too heavily in the hawthorn.
I’ve kept the feeders topped up and scattered a few extra seeds on the ground for the dunnocks and wrens. It’s a small effort, but an important one — the garden may look asleep, but for the wildlife, it’s a time of hard going.
Indoors, I’ve been flicking through last year’s garden notebook, making quiet notes about what worked and what didn’t. There’s a comfort in that sort of reflection — no pressure to act yet, just a chance to dream and remember.
So while there might not be much to show just yet, there’s plenty happening beneath the surface. Roots are settling, bulbs are stirring, and plans are slowly taking shape for spring. The stillness of January is its own kind of work — calm, grounded, and quietly full of promise.