Hello friend,
I’m back in your inbox, and I hope the start of this year has been kind to you and your loved ones.
Quick question: what are you up to in March?
Because Season 2 of The Sentimental Gardener podcast begins then!
Last year felt a little like planting a random seed - you have an idea of something, without entirely knowing what it will grow into.. There were microphones and mugs and sunflowers and stories that caught me off guard in the best possible way.
And then there was the quiet after the Christmas special. The kind of quiet where you realise something is no longer just an idea. It’s alive. And living things need tending (as I’ve discovered as the former owner of many now-deceased indoor plants).
Which sounds obvious … until you realise tending isn’t just about doing more (I learnt this the hard way by overwatering my beefsteak tomatoes … cue blossom end rot). It’s about finding the right rhythm.
And that’s what I’ve been sitting with. Not how do I do more. But how do we do this well - sustainably.
I don’t want this (waves hand vaguely at podcast + content creation) to feel like something I broadcast into the void.
I want it to feel like a space we’re in together.
Which means a few things are gently shifting this year.
Ten new guest conversations across the season, released monthly. These are people whose lives have been shaped (sometimes quietly, sometimes dramatically) by gardens and the natural world.
I’m starting something new called Sentimental Friends.
Once a month, past guests, friends and a few trusted experts will pop in to share what they’re currently tending - in their work and in their gardens - and to answer your questions. The curly ones. The practical ones. The “I’m not sure if this is a silly question but…” ones.
Some of you prefer listening in Apple Podcasts. Some of you prefer keeping everything here on Substack. So I’ve made it simple:
If you’d like access to the monthly Sentimental Friends episodes, you can choose what works best for you:
You can subscribe inside Apple Podcasts for $4.99/month and listen there.
Or you can become a paid supporter here on Substack for $10/month, and the episode will arrive in your inbox each month along with access to Sentimental Gardener Community Chat and other supporter extras.
It’s the same Sentimental Friends conversation, but two different ways to join.
Choose the one that feels easiest for you.
To keep this project sustainable (in the real-world sense of the word), I’ll be partnering with a small number of aligned sponsors throughout the year. Thoughtful businesses and organisations who care about gardens, nature and being better humans - the way we do.
So ……..
If you’ve been meaning to go back and listen to an episode you missed in Season 1, now’s your moment.
Then, make sure you’re following and subscribed wherever you listen to podcasts so you’re ready to go!
Season 2 begins in March 2026, and I can’t wait to share our first guest’s conversation with you.
I’ll keep her name a surprise for now… but here’s a hint: she’s won a BAFTA and is currently nominated for an Academy Award.
See you in March,
Cass Dowding
What’s below the paywall - a new feature for this year.
Instead of more emails filling your inbox, paid subscriber extras will now appear at the end of podcast newsletter updates.
In this space, you’ll find my brief fortnightly observations — what the garden revealed physically and metaphorically.
My hope is simple: that you might feel inspired to spend a little longer ‘noticing’ in your own garden or in nature. To be. To notice. To tune in to what it’s quietly showing you.
I’ve removed the paywall this month so you can see what to expect.
Enjoy.
1. Change is in the air
Autumn is in the air here in Melbourne.
You can feel it in the cool, gentle mornings and the dew-covered grass underfoot, that particular softness that feels different to late January. It’s still good washing weather though. The kind where you hang the clothes outside and feel quietly pleased with yourself.
With the kids back at school, those five hours between drop-off and pick-up feel both abundant and fleeting. Enough time to start things. Rarely enough to finish them.
2. Heat leaves a mark
The agapanthus are scorched at the tips after that long stretch of dry, intense heat. I don’t water them. They’re tough. And I didn’t plant them, so I’ve never felt especially attached. But it’s the first time in ten years I’ve noticed the ends of their leaves brown like this.
Or perhaps it isn’t the first time. Perhaps I’ve just started paying attention in a different way.
3. The blue-banded bee is buzzing at its own frequency
Outside our bedroom window are the roses - spiky, upright, very effective security -and beneath them the nepeta ‘Walker’s Low’, lavender and Autumn Joy sedums I planted earlier this year.
The other morning, while staring out the window (which I am trying to do more of lately thanks to Jodi Wilson’s book A Brain That Breathes), I heard it. That loud, unmistakable buzz.
I’ve learnt their frequency this year. Often I hear a blue-banded bee before I see one. They’re shy, quick creatures, and when I rush outside with my camera they disappear as if mildly offended.
This time I stayed still. It flitted between the nepeta and pink salvia, completely absorbed in its work. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of that sound.
4. Tomatoes are unforgiving teachers
It’s tomato season in Melbourne.
I planted mine late - partly because last year my seedlings were smashed by hail, partly because procrastination is one of my quieter talents. By the time they went in (well after the famously popular Melbourne Cup planting date), they were leggy and hopeful.
The ‘Georges’ I’m growing - heirloom beefsteaks from seed passed to me by my friend Irene, whose father brought them from a Greek island in the 1950s - developed blossom end rot.
Blackened bottoms. My gardener’s heart broken. Why? Well, I’m guessing in my anxiety about those multiple 40-degree days, I overwatered.
Now I know. A little water, often.
5. Change doesn’t announce itself
The Autumn Joy sedums are just beginning to blush. Not fully pink. Just a hint.
People like to call March the first day of Autumn but the sedums don’t seem to care about the calendar.
They’re responding to light, to temperature, to something subtler than a date. Summer hasn’t left entirely (it was 35 degrees yesterday) and Autumn hasn’t fully arrived.
But something is shifting.
I love your garden revelations, Cass. And your notion of sentimental friends! And being from the States, I've never heard the term "curly question" before. As a lover of linguistics, I just LOVE this! Thanks so much for everything you do for the gardening community. Your passion for your work really comes through. I'm looking forward to learning more. ❤️
Look forward to listening to this year’s lineup.