Like magic, hellebores bring a riot of colour at the dreariest time of year

In January, the eight-pace dash out to the writing hut in my garden is a very different proposition to the indulgent amble I enjoy in June. It’s bloody freezing, the air is thick with moisture and nearly everything is in retreat. I walk through a sludgy wash of green, brown and black.

Except, that is, in the old farm trough where the hellebores live. As everything else is giving up for the year, their tight dark pink buds are swelling. One of winter’s stalwarts is returning for another year.

It’s a much-needed and cheering sight, for there is so much to love about a hellebore. They’re perennial, so they come back each winter – usually with an uncanny knack for appearing when the season is at its gloomiest – and they are wildly long-blooming, reaching right into May if you’re lucky. I got married in April and had some in my bouquet.

They prefer shade, which means you can let them rampage over whichever bits of the garden you’re not putting sun-loving bulbs in, but as long as you don’t let them dry out they’ll be fine in the sun and their foliage provides solid interest when the flowers are over. You couldn’t be starting off a January garden with a better resolution.

Hellebores come in a paint chart of colours, from white to deep purple, but depending on your level of control freakery, these plants are also entertainingly promiscuous: they are bred to cross-pollinate. This essentially means that if you buy a fancy one – be it a delicious inky-purple (‘Ice N’ Roses’ has a strong Tudor energy) or a delicately patterned variety (‘Harvington yellow speckled’ is charming), you will probably end up with a diluted – or improved, depending on your outlook – version next year. This can be avoided by deadheading the flowers at the base of the stem as the seed pods bulge, before they scatter all over the bed.

Or, you can live and let live. One of my favourite domestic gardens is an absolute haven of hellebores, all of which have merrily cross-pollinated and propagated themselves across the beds over decades. Hellebores nod their heads to the ground, so you really have to get down close and gently cup the flowers to see how they’ve turned out. Pink, purple, shades of pale green, freckles, no freckles, a wonderful combination of the above. It’s a magic trick for a dreary time of year.

They’re also sweet in tubs, although if I’m disciplined about the pink ones (I think) in my garden, I lift them and move them to the shadiest, wilder corner, where they mingle with fern divisions for most of the year. Cut back any tough old foliage that’s obscuring the view of the flowers; if you fancy, top the pot with moss, and you can bring the pot inside on a plate as an instant centrepiece. There, you can marvel at those freckles all you like.