![]() Sure enough, now that the trees have had two summers to settle in, I can see that, given a damp position they are already growing more lushly than those on the higher, dryer ground. Since the land is steeply sloping I felt it would be free-draining even with running water, and so I went with it. I hit water when planting two, the springs in the bank not being visible above ground. It has been an education to see how they have already shown me where they like to be. Although widespread in Southern Europe and Southwestern Asia, their preference is for ground that holds moisture and doesn’t dry out entirely in the summer, but that never gets waterlogged. I watched for the first couple of years to find the places where the cornus might be at home, because I knew they would not take the wetness that our native Cornus sanguinea is happy with. Something to look forward to and deliberate upon whilst doing so. In time, flaking limbs, branching low and twisting give the trees winter character – a contorted, Japanese quality – and me the opportunity of raising the canopy by pruning out the understory. Though they are very slow growers – creating a wood so dense it sinks in water and is highly prized for making tools – I hope that eventually they will grow to about the height of a hawthorn and touch in places where I have planted them close enough together. Cleared and opened up again the banks have been host to meadowsweet, willowherb and other marsh-loving perennials. I brought them in three years ago as root-balled specimens to replace the brambly hedge that had swallowed this little ravine. The cornus are young and are currently not much taller than myself. One of the Cornus mas by the bridge over the ditch A multi-stemmed specimen With the snowdrops and primroses they are a magnet for early pollinators. Each bud contains up to twenty tiny flowers that are as much stamen as petal, but the accumulation of thousands make the trees appear to be spangled with an inner light. One at a time, but quickly gathering pace, the darkness in the bare branches is eclipsed by a myriad tiny cadmium yellow flowers of invigorating intensity. With the waning skeletons of the garden now behind me, the energy in the cornus help start to move things forward. I have combined the three here deliberately and en masse, so that the crossing becomes an event to focus the near horizon. I am eager for life this far into winter and the cornus budburst happens at the same time that the snowdrops claim these last two weeks of February and as they pass the baton to the primroses. Here, staggered on the steep slopes, they step from one side to the other in a group of half a dozen to frame the passage the bridge makes across the water. I return daily as they gather momentum, passing the witch hazel, which is already perfuming the exit from the garden, and crossing the track to the ditch where I have planted a grove of Cornus mas. Look closely at the beginning of February and you see the dark casings that hold them tightly, ruptured and revealing a seam of gold. Round buds plump and peppering the branches. The Cornelian cherry have been expectant for the better part of January.
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