How the quiet ritual of pruning blackcurrants in winter connects me to generations of hands that grew before mine
Eleanor Ashford
Every winter, when the chill seems almost unbearable and the garden rests under a light veil of frost, I find myself drawn to the blackcurrant bushes. They stand like weathered sentinels, their branches bare and unassuming, a shadow of the fruitful glory they displayed in the summer months. Yet, hidden beneath their modest appearance lies a silent promise of abundance come summertime, if only I am careful with my craft.
Pruning blackcurrants in winter is more than a gardening chore; it's a ritual that speaks volumes of tradition, patience, and connection. Each cut made with my well-worn secateurs feels steeped in history, as if I am not alone in this task but joined by a multitude of hands from years gone by. This tactile engagement binds me to a lineage of gardeners who too have answered the call of nature's cycles.
The Legacy of the Blackcurrant Bush
My affair with blackcurrants began in my grandmother’s garden, where the vibrant purple globes were an annual delight. She would regale me with stories of how her own mother tended the same bushes with reverence and skill, turning bounty into jars of ribena-rich joy. Back then, I paid little heed to the significance buried in her tales, the echoes of bygone hands planting seeds for the sake of sustenance and survival.
Blackcurrant pruning mirrors the delicate art of storytelling; it requires knowledge passed down through generations, a whispered advice over cups of tea. There's a precise science behind the art, the oldest, stoutest stems bear the sweetest fruit, and the newer, rebellious shoots promise the wonder of what might be. Each snip carries an essence of renewal and the continued narrative of those who grew before.
A Dance with Time
As January sets in, daylight is fleeting, and frost is a constant companion. Yet, there’s a particular type of peacefulness within these short, brisk days, perfect for the solitude of pruning. In a world that moves at a frenetic pace, the stillness of winter gardening presents a rare invitation to slow down.
Dawn breaks ever so grudgingly, the horizon lit by a weak sun that barely kisses the earth. It's against this backdrop that I prepare my tools, don layers of woolen armour against the chill, and step into the quiet garden, my breath mingling with the crisp morning air. Systematically, I work through each bush, removing old wood to make way for the young upstarts, making cuts at strategic angles to encourage growth. The rhythmic snip-snip of the blades is like an orchestral melody to an otherwise muted world.
This deliberate engagement with the passing of time cultivates a mindfulness that is as refreshing as it is unexpected. My thoughts, often scattered like the leaves of autumn, align themselves, and I find a clarity that feels lost in everyday chaos. Each branch I prune symbolises a restorative escape from the relentless march of time, a rare and precious pause button amidst life's hustle.
The Generational Thread
Reflecting upon the act of pruning, I am inclined to consider the continuity of life itself, how it is inextricably linked from one generation to the next. My fingers feel guided by the echoes of those women who came before me, and I can't help but cherish this connection to my ancestors, real and imagined.
It is in this perpetual relay race against the seasons that I am struck by a comforting sense of belonging. Despite changes in gardening techniques and modern innovations, some truths remain untouched by time. Hands may have evolved; tools may have been refined, yet the essence of the task endures. The blackcurrant bush, intricate and intrepid, draws on shared wisdom to thrive.
Honouring Heritage Within Nature's Cycles
The Japanese have a term, Shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing, a mindful immersion in nature's calm embrace. Pruning blackcurrants in the depth of winter has much the same effect on me. It demands not only my hands but my heart and mind. I am present in every cut, attuned to the plant's silent dialogue, celebrating their regenerative capacity.
The sufficiency of pruning respects more than just horticultural best practices. It acknowledges the earth's right to renewal, the cyclical whimsy of nature that commands surrender and celebration. I prune knowing that, come July, the fruit will embody the hope sewn in January, a tangible testament to patience rewarded and earth honoured.
Coming Full Circle
Once the last bush is tended to, when all seems said and done, I stand back and survey the order restored amid winter’s disarray. A crisp wind sharpens my senses, reminding me of the thoroughness required by the enduring art of blackcurrant care.
Through this ritualistic act, this quiet morning of introspection amidst the pruning, I find myself embraced by the lacework of past, present, and future. My hands, though tinged from the cold, are joined by unseen ones, ushering me along and reminding me of an unspoken promise to nurture the land, the plants, and myself.
As these tactile musings draw a close, I carry an anticipation for the coming seasons, clinging to the belief in nature’s honesty and resilience. There’s work yet unmatched and connections yet discovered. But for now, in the depth of winter at Kingswood Green, the blackcurrants are at rest and so am I, feeling profoundly connected to the generations of hands that have shaped this heritage before mine, each quietly tending to the earth.
Pruning blackcurrants in winter is more than a gardening chore; it's a ritual that speaks volumes of tradition, patience, and connection. Each cut made with my well-worn secateurs feels steeped in history, as if I am not alone in this task but joined by a multitude of hands from years gone by. This tactile engagement binds me to a lineage of gardeners who too have answered the call of nature's cycles.
The Legacy of the Blackcurrant Bush
My affair with blackcurrants began in my grandmother’s garden, where the vibrant purple globes were an annual delight. She would regale me with stories of how her own mother tended the same bushes with reverence and skill, turning bounty into jars of ribena-rich joy. Back then, I paid little heed to the significance buried in her tales, the echoes of bygone hands planting seeds for the sake of sustenance and survival.
Blackcurrant pruning mirrors the delicate art of storytelling; it requires knowledge passed down through generations, a whispered advice over cups of tea. There's a precise science behind the art, the oldest, stoutest stems bear the sweetest fruit, and the newer, rebellious shoots promise the wonder of what might be. Each snip carries an essence of renewal and the continued narrative of those who grew before.
A Dance with Time
As January sets in, daylight is fleeting, and frost is a constant companion. Yet, there’s a particular type of peacefulness within these short, brisk days, perfect for the solitude of pruning. In a world that moves at a frenetic pace, the stillness of winter gardening presents a rare invitation to slow down.
Dawn breaks ever so grudgingly, the horizon lit by a weak sun that barely kisses the earth. It's against this backdrop that I prepare my tools, don layers of woolen armour against the chill, and step into the quiet garden, my breath mingling with the crisp morning air. Systematically, I work through each bush, removing old wood to make way for the young upstarts, making cuts at strategic angles to encourage growth. The rhythmic snip-snip of the blades is like an orchestral melody to an otherwise muted world.
This deliberate engagement with the passing of time cultivates a mindfulness that is as refreshing as it is unexpected. My thoughts, often scattered like the leaves of autumn, align themselves, and I find a clarity that feels lost in everyday chaos. Each branch I prune symbolises a restorative escape from the relentless march of time, a rare and precious pause button amidst life's hustle.
The Generational Thread
Reflecting upon the act of pruning, I am inclined to consider the continuity of life itself, how it is inextricably linked from one generation to the next. My fingers feel guided by the echoes of those women who came before me, and I can't help but cherish this connection to my ancestors, real and imagined.
It is in this perpetual relay race against the seasons that I am struck by a comforting sense of belonging. Despite changes in gardening techniques and modern innovations, some truths remain untouched by time. Hands may have evolved; tools may have been refined, yet the essence of the task endures. The blackcurrant bush, intricate and intrepid, draws on shared wisdom to thrive.
Honouring Heritage Within Nature's Cycles
The Japanese have a term, Shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing, a mindful immersion in nature's calm embrace. Pruning blackcurrants in the depth of winter has much the same effect on me. It demands not only my hands but my heart and mind. I am present in every cut, attuned to the plant's silent dialogue, celebrating their regenerative capacity.
The sufficiency of pruning respects more than just horticultural best practices. It acknowledges the earth's right to renewal, the cyclical whimsy of nature that commands surrender and celebration. I prune knowing that, come July, the fruit will embody the hope sewn in January, a tangible testament to patience rewarded and earth honoured.
Coming Full Circle
Once the last bush is tended to, when all seems said and done, I stand back and survey the order restored amid winter’s disarray. A crisp wind sharpens my senses, reminding me of the thoroughness required by the enduring art of blackcurrant care.
Through this ritualistic act, this quiet morning of introspection amidst the pruning, I find myself embraced by the lacework of past, present, and future. My hands, though tinged from the cold, are joined by unseen ones, ushering me along and reminding me of an unspoken promise to nurture the land, the plants, and myself.
As these tactile musings draw a close, I carry an anticipation for the coming seasons, clinging to the belief in nature’s honesty and resilience. There’s work yet unmatched and connections yet discovered. But for now, in the depth of winter at Kingswood Green, the blackcurrants are at rest and so am I, feeling profoundly connected to the generations of hands that have shaped this heritage before mine, each quietly tending to the earth.