A Table in February
Tynemouth in February is not a spectacle. It’s a table of beginnings. Clay, soil, green tips, woodsmoke scent. Late winter is not generous. There are no armfuls of flowers. No soft abundance. No easy colour. The light is low and angled, and most of the work is happening where you cannot see it.
That is precisely why I value this season. February is a quiet sort of month. Nothing shouts. Nothing spills over. The stall holds what the season allows: amaryllis just beginning to unfurl, narcissus lifting through compost, hyacinths gathering themselves before the push upward.
It’s not showy. It’s honest. What I noticed most were the conversations. Not rushed. Not transactional. Questions about where an amaryllis would sit at home. Whether a north-facing windowsill would be enough. Which candle felt right for a February house.
Bulbs are unremarkable.
At first glance. Just weight in the hand and soil in a pot. You plant them into cold compost weeks before there’s any visible sign of life. You carry on watering something that appears unchanged. The work is happening, you just can’t see it yet. The transformation is inevitable but never rushed.
The candles I poured the week before the market felt appropriate. Clay vessels. Resin, wood, herbs. Notes that sit close to the ground rather than float above it. Late winter scent is not bright; it is steady.
Market days at this time of year are quieter. Conversations are longer. People notice the weight of terracotta, the texture of linen, the handwriting on tags. They ask how long amaryllis take to flower. They want to understand forcing bulbs indoors.
And from Newcastle to the North Sea coast.
They lean in to inspect the stowaway, is it real?
It’s less about impulse, more about intention. Which feels right for this time of year. While nothing dramatic appears to be happening outside, this is one of the most important periods in the growing year. Roots are forming. Energy is gathering. Seeds are being sorted. Plans are being made. Foundations are being laid.
A seasonal business follows the same rhythm. This month gives you fleeting sunshine and moments to decide what deserves space in the coming season.
Late winter asks for clarity. It asks you to choose carefully, to plant thoughtfully, to trust that steady work now will become visible later.
Back in the studio tomorrow, there are trays under cover, bulbs continuing their slow push upward, candles curing quietly on shelves. Nothing is rushed.
Spring is close enough to sense but only just.
Exactly as it should be.
And for those of you who were wondering, yes, she was real.
Jane.