He wasn't young anymore and he looked a bit rough: His longish, straggly grey hair probably could have done with a wash, he had the clothes, physique and worn hands of a builder. Neither did his eyes have a particular spark or anything. But I could have hugged and kissed him.

It was late May and I, in my early Twenties, was sitting in Berlin's overground train S-Bahn with a huge backpack between my knees. I was nearly home after several hours' journey across Germany and really looked forward to giving my mum my presents for her recent birthday. One of her favourite flowers being Lily-of-the-Valley (Convallaria majalis), I had assembled a collection of all sorts of things "Little May Bells", the latter being the literal translation of the plant's German common name.

There were napkins with the flower's likeness, lily-of-the-valley soap, a beautiful birthday card with a photograph of a lily-of-the-valley posie and more. In France, where I had recently been on a day off from where I was working at the time, I had bought a box of chocolates decorated with an artificial flower stalk because, as I had discovered, it was customary there to gift each other lily-of-the-valley on May Day.

What I did not have for my mum was an actual, real bunch of the flowers with their heavenly perfume. For one thing, they probably would not have fared well on that long journey home. More importantly though, it's near-impossible to buy them. Well, almost. In any case, you can't just walk into a flower shop, even at the height of the season: very few German florists will have them on offer. If you don't grow your own or can cadge some from a friend's garden, your best bet are individuals who may wish to make a little money on the side. You sometimes see them standing - much like the original flower girl Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady - with a basket full of posies on the pavement, selling their homegrown surplus. Unfortunately, I hadn't come across such private seller.

Then a man entered the Overground - and he carried a bucket full of lily-of-the-valley posies! The train was packed but someone opposite me had just left. Since flower man was the first one through the door he sat down right in front of me, putting the white plastic bucket that once had held paint on his lap. A cloud of perfume drifted towards me.

Now, much like in London it is considered odd in Berlin to talk to a stranger on public transport. You just don't do it. Besides, even though it seemed obvious that he was going to sell the flowers somewhere, I could not be 100 per cent sure. Moreover, I was a very young woman and he a considerably older man who did not look the most approachable. Also, there were people all around us. In short: much as I would have loved to, I didn't muster the courage to open my mouth and ask him if I could buy a bunch off him. How would that have looked? What if his reaction was odd?

Instead, trying to transport myself away from the crowded carriage, I just shut my eyes, deeply inhaled the flowers' perfume and smiled. Dreaming of gardens or some other thing nice, a tap on my knee a few minutes later suddenly brought me back to reality. Opening my eyes again I saw the guy opposite, right arm stretched out towards me, a posie of lily-of-the-valley in his fist. "Here!", he said, his expression not unlike that of a caretaker who hands some youth a broom because they forgot to wipe their feet.

I think my jaw might have dropped in surprise; then my face lit up. Under the smiles of those around us who had witnessed the scene I thanked him profusely. But even though I didn't say much more than "Oh - thank you so very very much!!", he seemed a little embarrassed, perhaps by his own good deed. "But don't sell it on!" he sternly added. I happily promised I wouldn't.

I thought of him and this episode when I came across an old woman sitting on a stool in a public square the other day, just such a white paint bucket full of lily-of-the-valley posies in front of her. They were for sale, of course. And of course I couldn't pass. It made my day. Like an addict I smelled and sniffed and inhaled, soaking up the unmistakable sweet yet somehow also spicy scent on the way back and whenever I passed it over the next few days.

I didn't tell that stranger many years ago what his surprise gift meant to me, beyond being a small bunch of fragrant flowers. He will never learn that it was the bouquet in my life that made me the happiest - even though I have received a few more very precious ones which were almost as special and made me similarly gasp. But I do hope that from my shiny eyes, my surprised gasp and my whole demeanour he caught a glimpse of how well his generous gesture was received, how much joy it brought. And I hope his kind act got its own reward - good karma or whatever. I for one arrived home at my mum's skipping.

I can't say I've looked forward to spring. Neither am I embracing it. This year, rather than sparking happiness and joy, the flowers that gradually appeared over the last few weeks were met with almost unwilling surprise: "What are you doing here?" I have been, and to some extent continue to be, in full-on winter mood.

But spring, luckily perhaps, doesn't care about such sentiments and simply forces itself upon you, like it or not. You may feel bleak and sad inside, and a dank, dim January day would be the better match, but March sends brilliant sunshine, endless clear blue skies and fragrant violets all the same.

I've turned and almost hid from all that, eyeing snowdrops, crocus and winter aconites (Eranthis hyemalis) with suspicion as they simply felt "wrong" to me. But nature is a great soother. This year, I have seen more brimstone butterflies than I can remember seeing ever before: hundreds, if not thousands to date, though of course usually just one or two at a time. Even when depressed and sad, these wonderful "flutter-by's" can't fail to lift your mood and cheer you up a little as they leisurely dance across the still barren earth and hedges. There is an air of optimistic carefree-ness about them that is, if not infectious, at least uplifting.

Likewise the brilliant blue of Scilla sibirica (Siberian or wood squill), one of my favourite spring flowers. I haven't seen that little spring bulb all that often during my years in Britain, at least not to any extent. But here, almost every garden boasts at least a little congregation and quite often substantial patches of these true-blue, star-shaped little harbingers of spring. I've seen some gardens where the whole ground under big old trees - often beech trees, I've noticed - is covered, a carpet which makes the heart sing. I could stand and peer through the fences or gates for ages, just soaking up this sight.

Strangely, much as I love these too, neither snowdrop nor crocus nor even daffodil carpets have that effect on me, Wordsworth notwithstanding. The closest thing perhaps is an English bluebell wood in flower. But while the latter has an enchanted, dreamlike feel to it, the carpet of Scilla sibirica seems much more of the here and now. Perhaps it's because the trees are still bare and thus the light clearer and crisper, perhaps because their shape is less flouncy, their blue a less "romantic" hue and also, perhaps, because the setting for Scilla in these parts of the world usually is domesticated (garden versus "wild" nature) and often urban.

Anyway, spring works its magic and is slowly thawing my soul. I may not have wished for the birds to sing, the flaming yellow Forsythia bushes, the magnolias, hyacinths and the first emerging lime-green leaves, but over time they feel good all the same, as does the bright sunshine in my face. Watching them all emerge, along with the butterflies, bees and millions of firebugs, this year I may not feel happy but I sure feel deeply grateful to them. Like when a deeply trusted friend comforts you - they can't take away the pain, but they provide reassurance and a bit of relief nonetheless.

I found it is the same with my own plants. Which may not sound surprising at all but in the circumstances still wasn't expected. Because for the last few months, I did not care about them - as in: I came to feel deeply indifferent about or towards them. Why? Well. There are a number of reasons, depression being one of them, but also because - while most simply rested - some had fared really badly during the winter months. And they were the ones I passed daily: more than any other, it's the Camellias that suffered badly - the one species I had worried least about!

Grown, as all my plants currently are, in pots I had felt sure they'd do well on the landing in front of our flat. The hallway is unheated and two small windows above the landing provide light, even if - facing East - it is perhaps less than would be the optimum. No way. First slowly then rapidly they lost their leaves until they were literally naked. All of them. Though not all at the same speed. I have no idea why. Did I water too much at one point? Or too little? I was aware of needing to keep them on the dry side - so maybe it was too dry?  Or perhaps still too much water for the chilly if frost-free quarters?

It felt like one more blow to me. I was a failure, even on that front. I averted my eyes and, other than the roughly fortnightly watering and the sweeping away of the dull green-and-brown dead leaves which dropped like pine-needles of a Christmas tree in mid-January I strove to forget about my plants. Especially since the rest of the tender guests on the landing didn't look much better, namely the Kowhai (Sophora tetraptera) and the already severely mutilated Southern Rata (Metrosideros umbellata). The various ornamental sages (Salvia), surprisingly, were those that seemed to fare best.

Outside, I simply ignored my perennials and tiny shrubs. In about mid-November I had raked as many copper-coloured leaves from the huge old beech tree in the yard as were left. I had actually ignored a hefty cold to do so as I had worried the caretaker otherwise would beat me to it. I then stuffed most of the huge piles of leaves into black bin liners or bin bags which were then put end to end in a line on the  open eastern side of my improvised "border" of potted plants and some of the most exposed spots elsewhere.

This row of leaf-filled bags was meant to provide a thick insulation against the cold as well as a kind of frame to keep the rest of the leaves in place. The latter were gathered thickly all around and partly over the pots, a natural bed or duvet that would hopefully keep them from freezing through, protecting the plants inside. Additionally I had bought garden fleece, intending to cover the whole strip if the frost got prolonged and severe. I wasn't at all sure that this would be enough - after all, we can get -15 degrees Celsius or worse, if rarely - but there was little else I could do.

In the end, this winter turned out to be comparatively mild. Yes, we did have frost, but mostly at night when temperatures during one spell plunged as low as -10 degrees. Most days however were frost-free, if just above the freezing point. It thus seems to have worked for most plants as far as I can tell by now, although I already discovered one Arisema corm turned to mush. The leaf-litter bed also seems to have balanced moisture levels pretty well - protecting pots from both excessive wet and from drying out completely during dry spells.

So my overall verdict is that, while not an ideal solution, if you find yourself in a similar pickle as I - having to overwinter a sizeable number of (hardy) plants in pots in frost-prone areas and worrying they might freeze through - it might be worth giving this method a try. I should add that beech leaves were ideal because they did not decompose and become slimy and compacted.

But back to my neglecting them completely for months. Two weeks ago I really could no longer deny  that spring had well and truly arrived, with several days of almost summery temperatures. Well, 20 degrees Celsius, more of course in the blazing sun. I may not have felt like gardening but I couldn't ignore the fact that, if I didn't do anything, my plants were likely to suffer considerably under their winter coat. Suffocating, perhaps, for lack of light, or becoming too leggy, or just being spurred into growth too much too early by a false sense of warmth, with premature tender shoots then exposed to any frost that might still be to come. And yes, despite the daytime temperatures, we did have light frost just last night.

Thus I spent two afternoons diligently fingering out every dry leaf and - just as important - every beech nut and husk out of my pots. With the beech nuts, it was just about in time: many had gown roots already, as long as 15 cm! Amazing. There were, however, no leaves yet so I didn't feel as bad pulling out little plants. I decided to leave the actual pots sunk into their leaf-bed for a while longer though - there is still a risk of frost for several weeks to come.

While at first I was reluctant and pushed by a sense of duty and guilt more than anything, increasingly I enjoyed the task. Enjoyed rediscovering my plants. Having to concentrate on it so as not to accidentally damage the tiny buds or stalks unfurling from the Epimediums diverted my mind and filled me with a quiet joy and calm. I know I need to repot many of them, I know I ought to ask permission of the landlord and then start creating a proper bed for many of my plants, but I still shrink away from this task as it is not as straight-forward as it may sound. And I still haven't lugged down the suffering plants from the landing in the hallway to put outside again as I still worry about the frost. Also, the hallway being cooler than outside during daytime now acts like a fridge, holding them back artificially - although the ornamental sages at least have started sprouting again and grown quite leggy.

But at least I have reconnected a little with my plants, with the plant world outside in general. I know that slowly, slowly my winter mood will lift at some point. Even if I can't bring myself to fill pots with gaudy pansies and primulas or get out the Easter decoration. I have opted for a few forget-me-nots (Myosotis) and the cultivated form of Bellis perennis instead. Apart from being perhaps my favourite spring-bedding flower combination, it seems an apt choice this year.