The beauty of spring at Dan Pearson's Somerset garden

Catkins stream yellow on the hazels down by the brook and a shadow of green begins to hug the contours of the wood where the wild garlic is on the move. As the snowdrops fade, they give way neatly to the first of the primroses. These were once just a small colony under thickets of bramble, which eclipsed the silvery line of the water that runs down the ditch. My partner Huw Morgan and I make it a mission to split and divide the primroses every year, spending a day extending their reach. They now stud the moist banks among the shrubby Salix purpurea ‘Nancy Saunders’ that I have planted for their early catkins.

Along the stream edge, I have introduced a ribbon of wild daffodils, which stop and start, and pool occasionally where I want to concentrate the feeling of the growing season in the wild places. The Narcissus moschatus, a pale ivory daffodil native to the Pyrenees, are located in their own clearing in the coppice, as a counterpoint to the gentle yellow of our native N. pseudo-narcissus. Both are now beginning to seed and there is joy in plants that show you where they are happy. The Tenby daffodil, N. obvallaris, is the brightest of all the wild daffodils and is kept closer to home on the banks below the garden, where I’ve been naturalising bulbs in the wet meadows. Here, there are winter aconite, native snake’s head fritillary, summer snowflake and, in the wettest hollows where the bulbs struggle with excessive moisture, a flare of the brilliant gold marsh marigold. Eventually, I see this running the length of the ditch, guiding your eye to follow the spring yellows, and I plant 50 every year. I love these early risers for their brilliance and for their timely bridge between winter and spring.

We have pushed hard over the winter months to complete the last of the winter work, so spring can run untouched in the wilder places. But it is time now to pull back and concentrate our energies in the garden. The spent perennials of the last growing season have already been cleared round the Helleborus x hybridus, to allow them their moment under the cool of the medlar and the other trees that pool shade on our south-facing slopes. The big cut-back, which begins in mid February, runs over a month of weekends and is a process of looking, learning and then taking action to redress the balance. The cut-backs are followed by two weekends of adjustments.

Each year reveals a new landscape in the mapping of mingled perennials: identifying plants that need splitting or moving, or that need a new companion where they might have become out of balance; splitting and replanting where it is required; and thoroughly weeding ahead of mulching. We mulch with a recycled green waste that is clean and easy to apply. It keeps seedlings at bay and acts as a protective eiderdown to hold in moisture. Mulching needs to be complete by the end of March, because growth is now burgeoning and the tight flushed rosettes are soon unfurling and foliage once again growing outwards to fill the gaps.

Concentrating energy on spring saves time later, but it is all too easy to have your head down in the rush to get ready for the growing season. Final pruning and preparing the kitchen garden need to be completed in March. We begin sowing under cloches and then in the open, as soon as the weather warms. But it is important to stop, if only for a moment. The Yoshino cherry (Prunus x yedoensis) helps us keep an eye on the big picture, and its presence compels us to slow down and witness the transition as winter loosens its grip. We have just the one tree to intensify the experience, but the image is doubled by its reflection in the water of the trough that stands beside it.

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I have surrounded the house with trees that follow on from the cherry and provide a continuity of blossom. The best of the crab apples, Malus hupehensis, and yellow-berried M. transitoria nestle on the slopes behind the house and blend with the wrap of the orchard beyond. There is an exchange between the garden and the landscape. Clouds of hawthorn blossom that express the energy of the season on the hills are brought back into the garden in the beautiful scarlet hawthorn Crataegus coccinea.

Now, we mow a sinuous line out onto the Tump to take in the rise of the meadows and enjoy the daily shift as they flush first flower – a pinpricking of colour that inspired the way flowers appear in the garden. Meconopsis cambrica, Anthriscus sylvestris ‘Ravenswing’ and the delicate grass Melica altissima ‘Alba’ are allowed to self-seed, making a connection with the hedgerows, while biennial Lunaria annua ‘Chedglow’ finds its own way, giving the garden a shifting rhythm and lived-in feeling.

Foliage is never more important than now and I use it as a tapestry of greens and a foil to a steady injection of flower. I have deliberately not worked too much colour into the garden with spring bulbs or a fanfare of tulips, so the planted spaces retain a quietness and your eye travels easily out to the landscape. Camassia leichtlinii subsp. suksdorfii ‘Lady Eve Price’ and ‘Electra’ are the exception in providing their welcome blue tapers. A stand of mahogany-red Paeonia delavayi at the gateway to the garden are almost as good in red-flushed leaf as they are in flower, as are the Paeonia ‘Late Windflower’ with their coppery tones in the leaves. The energy in the new life has to be watched daily now if you are not to miss it: delicate marbling on epimediums; Polygonatum verticillatum and giant fennel racing skywards and breaking the horizontal. Then, almost too quickly, the first signs of summer are with us, with the early bearded irises doing what the marsh marigolds did at the start of spring, as we segue into warmer weather.