A circle is a terribly predictable shape. For a wreath, at least. Entirely round, with no kinks or awkward edges; just the kind of perfection that I find it hard to identify with. I like circles, but find them a bit aloof, a standard I’m rarely, if ever, going to attain, and probably wouldn’t want to, even if I could. It’s an antipathy with which my body seems only too happy to fall in line – I have yet to construct a wreath whose shape bears any great resemblance to a circle for more than three quarters of its circumference, after which point, a sticky-out bit is bound to assert itself. I have a lot of time for things with sticky-out bits. Wreaths, or personalities (I was going to say “people”, but could already see some of you there in the back row preparing to snigger which, to be fair, is exactly what I’d be doing in your place. People with sticky out bits, come on, that’s just a gift...).
It starts with the wreath base – a hoop of whippy hazel stems, as long as I can find them, usually a couple of metres tall before I chop them off the tree (we have three here, though it helps to work in a garden with a whopping great nuttery around the edge). Tied together with twine or wired, depending on what I’ve got to hand, it’s all going so well and so circley, until one bit refuses to bend quite where it’s supposed to, and a corner appears, and I tell myself, it’s fine, I’ll hide it with some foliage, but inevitably instead of being hidden it’s accentuated, to the point where I tell myself it’s deliberate and write a Substack post about it. Imagine how boring things would be if it was perfectly round.
Of course, it wouldn’t be boring, because a wreath is an intrinsically exciting thing, especially for one whose idea of flower arranging is a hastily gathered posy-of-what’s-looking-good-today, bunged into a vase with as little ceremony as possible. Invariably, such displays of displaced and delicate bits of the garden wilt within a day or so, and either get consigned to the compost or left to dry in their container. But the kind of winter harvest that’s required for a Yule wreath can’t help but gather in the most resilient material the garden has to offer in this season; evergreen, woody, whippy and waxy, and reluctant to admit to itself that someone has come along and rudely separated it from the tree or shrub from which it grew. And, as long as it’s not placed too close to a radiator, this little band of garden indestructibles will see out the old year and welcome in the new, looking just as perky as the day it was wired to a shonky base of hazel twigs, which is just as well, as it’s gracing the front door right now and even I draw the line at a ring of dried-out sticks adorning the entrance to our home (that’s another lie, isn’t it? I’m now thinking a wreath of old twiggy bits would look great – in fact, my friend Franny specialises in constructing seriously beautiful wreaths to which such a description would be far from inappropriate. But I don’t think any of these begin their ornamental existence green, and then dessicate in place).
And slowly, over a few hours of snipping and wiring, representatives of the most enduring bits of the winter garden find themselves bound together, the hazel base being covered first with yew, then Christmas box (Sarcococca confusa), holly, and ivy. There’s been a frustrating lack of rosemary here this year – no doubt due to last winter’s waterlogging – else that would be there too, and a little bay might find itself tucked into the ensemble, nestling in next to the few rose hips that the birds haven’t already scoffed. It’s a glorious harvest of the finest winter has to offer and, while it might not be perfectly circular, it begins and ends in the same place. To my mind, this might as well be the same. Perhaps it takes in a few little diversions along the way, even the odd wrong turn, the impulsive decision quickly checked. That’s something I can understand, too. Beautiful, resilient, and imperfectly circular. My garden in miniature, hanging on the front door.
What a beautiful wreath you've made, Andrew. I love the evergreen bounty available to us at this time of year. I'm honoured to be given a mention here, too - it's a great compliment coming from you. I do love a twig and a dry stick, they do lend themselves to the very imperfection that makes my heart sing.