Hellebores

Last weekend we had our first properly dry, sunny day in what feels like months. Not warm exactly — but bright. The kind of day that makes you think, right, we're going out.

So we headed to Ness Botanic Gardens.

We're members, so it's somewhere we go often as a family. It's easy. No big plan. Just a wander to see what we find, capturing little moments as we go.

Even though we've been so many times, we ended up exploring parts we'd somehow never really walked through before. This time we wandered off the path and across muddy, squelchy grass towards the far corner of the garden, where we were rewarded with two buzzards circling low overhead — perfect for my son to practise his bird photography.

That's the thing about gardens — they're never quite the same twice.

 

The snowdrop walk was beautiful in the sun. It genuinely made me stop. All those small white heads catching the light under the trees. Crocus scattered through in soft purple and cream, pushing up through the soil like they'd decided winter had had long enough.

We weren't the only ones making the most of it. It felt like everyone had emerged at once. Birds singing overhead — we spotted a song thrush — and when we looked across the Dee, the view towards North Wales was clear and bright, with snow still covering Moel Famau. Winter and spring in one glance.

And then we came across the hellebores.

They're easy to miss at first. Low to the ground. Slightly turned in on themselves. Almost impossible to photograph because they insist on facing down. I spent a good few minutes crouching and trying to gently tilt one without looking like I was having a moment.

But when you do see inside them — really see — they're incredible.

The detail in the centres is something else. The tiny markings. The layers. The way everything is structured so precisely. It feels almost extravagant for February. As if nature didn't need to go to that much effort… but did anyway.

I always forget how much there is to notice when you actually slow down.

Being outside reminds me of that. You can't rush a garden. You have to walk it. Look properly. Bend down. Stand still for a minute.

My hellebore piece came from that morning — the light under the trees, the snowdrops nearby, the quiet way the flowers were just getting on with it. This piece now sits within Available Works.

I'm already thinking about what I'll make next. That part never really stops.

But for now, I keep coming back to those hellebores — heads bowed, quietly intricate, doing their thing whether anyone crouches down to look or not.

Rebecca