"For much of the winter the garden sulks outside. It is a lumpen thing like a chicken in moult or a catwalk model in curlers and spots. The thing itself is still there but not, certainly not, at its best. I find it hard to engage with it." (from Fork to Fork, p. 126, in the chapter on February)
"Northern winters may be long and dark, but northern springs are matchless." (p. 127, March).
I feel strong sympathy with the second of these quotations, but I'm not so sure about the first. I've described our garden as sulking at me in winter before, certainly (and bullying me in the summer). But there's a certain perverse satisfaction in being out in the garden when nobody else fancies it. Less self-consciously, if you do something now, it stays done, unlike in the likes of June, where a week later you can scarecely tell where you've been.
I feel a little like a man with an impossibly glamorous wife. During the day she strides about, fiercely independant. In the evening she sparkles and he accompanies her proudly but somewhat in her shadow. But at night, as she lies asleep, he looks down at her beside him, without her make-up and elegant outfit, and she's all his, there in the dark together.