A season out of sequence

By mid‑August, Terrara has already passed its annual average rainfall, more than 810mm, with the ground holding every drop. It has been a season defined by water: steady, saturating, unhurried. Yet for all the wet, winter has been strangely gentle. No hard frosts. Not a single night below –1°C let alone the usual -4°C or 5°C. No moment where the land is forced into stillness.

This combination, super‑wet and mild, has created a winter out of sequence.

Across the estate, plants that would normally retreat into dormancy have simply… persisted. Lambs ears remain soft and silver instead of collapsing into winter mush. The asparagus ferns held onto their green far longer than they should have; I eventually cut them back only because new spears were already pushing through, confused but determined. The nasturtiums, which in a normal year would look melted by frost and return fresh from seed, are still green, still present, still insisting on continuity.

Even the chilli plant, usually something I’d protect or resign myself to losing, has sailed through winter uncovered, waiting for warmth to resume its upward energy.

It’s a reminder that frost is not just cold; it is a seasonal punctuation mark. It signals rest, reset, renewal. Without it, the garden holds onto last season’s growth while simultaneously preparing for the next. There is a layered quality to everything: old foliage overlapping with new shoots, textures that don’t usually coexist, colours that belong to different months sharing the same moment.

The land feels full, not in a lush spring way, but in a saturated, slightly over‑held winter way. The soil is dark and heavy. Moss thickens on every shaded surface. The paddocks carry the imprint of each step. Water reveals the contours of Terrara more clearly than any map: small runnels tracing the slope, puddles forming in familiar hollows, the dam brimmed and reflective.

In the studio, the mildness has changed the rhythm of making. Clay dries slowly, evenly, without the sudden shifts that frost or heater‑days can impose. Pieces linger longer at each stage, asking for patience. The shape of making becomes seasonal in a different way: not driven by cold, but by humidity, airflow, and the small windows of sun that appear between fronts.

What I keep noticing is how this winter has blurred boundaries. Dormant and active. Old and new. Wet and mild. It’s a season that refuses to behave neatly, and in that refusal, it reveals something about Terrara itself - its resilience, its adaptability, its quiet willingness to hold whatever the year brings.

As we move toward spring, the estate feels poised. The soil is richly charged. The perennials are already awake. The birds have shifted their patterns. Everything is ready, but nothing is rushed.

A wet year. A mild winter. A landscape slightly out of sequence, yet entirely itself.

Terrara meets it all with steadiness — absorbing, adjusting, and preparing for whatever comes next.