A Love Letter to the Land
There is a special generosity to hazel, especially in winter, that resonates deeply with us. Cut while dormant, hazel stems retain their suppleness in a manner almost conversational. They bend, arc and weave willingly, responding to hand and eye with just enough resistance to hold attention. Nothing about hazel is inert. It asks to be worked with, listened to, it is a partnership of mind, maker and material.
Hazel structures sit quietly within a long lineage of English garden making. From traditional pea sticks and hurdle fencing to the subtler architectures of cottage and working gardens, these forms were never meant as ornament alone. They were additionally tools of care, protecting young plants from wind and pests, lending support to climbers and the laxer herbaceous perennials, shaping space lightly with volume. Over time, they weather, soften, silver, and return gently to the land, just as we like it.
There is also something deeply, anciently cultural in this kind of making that taps into the same world as hedgelaying, wattle work and rural craft practices that sit between utility and expression, where beauty emerges through function rather than being applied afterwards. Those who work with these crafts have a natural eye for creating beauty beyond that of simple, efficient utility.
Late winter is an especially fitting time for this work. The garden is stripped back and readable. The songbirds begin to find their voice again. Structure matters more than surface. Adding volume changes awareness. Daylight now stretches quietly, but perceptibly, to the observant; the land feels poised, not yet active, but attentive. Time spent outdoors now carries a particular gladdening clarity. It sharpens the eye and heartens the spirit.
On Saturday 14 February, we’ll be marking this moment with a day devoted to hazel structures at Hortus Poeticus. Love Letter to the Land is an introduction to making simple supports and forms for the garden, pieces that are as useful as they are expressive. The day will move between making and looking: understanding where structures sit best, how they relate to planting, and how they can bring rhythm, protection and playfulness to a space.
It feels fitting to hold this on Valentine’s Day. Not as a grand gesture, but as a quieter one, a gift of time, skill and observation. An offering to yourself, to the garden, or to another. A way of honouring the land through work that is practical, thoughtful and rooted in attention.
You’ll leave with hands and heart warmed, materials understood, and a deeper sense of how small, well-made things can hold meaning, in the garden, and beyond it.