INSTEAD of heading for Barbados or Quebec this Easter, we opted for B&Q. If nothing else, the queues are preparation for passport control for when finally we take to the skies. The painting and decorating aisles were busy, as you’d expect, but that was as nothing compared to the spaces devoted to spades, fertiliser, hoses and wheelbarrows.

Trying to elbow our way in, it felt as if every gardener in the country was on the march, like an army on manoeuvres. In the vicinity of pressure washers and cordless mowers it came close to single combat. From the look on the faces of some shoppers, they wouldn’t be taking prisoners if they were thwarted.

Can you blame them? At this time of year slumbering flowerbeds and tranquil lawns are awakening, along with every weed known to Monty Don. Where for months there have been dormant borders and hibernating climbers, now there are triffid wannabees, eyeing up the guttering as base camp.

At home, I unwrapped a strimmer – our first! – and spent the next 40 minutes screwing on the protective guard and fathoming how to adjust the handle and cutting head. Quite how something based on a fishing reel can flatten a wasteland of thistles is beyond me. I had expected blades on the lines of Edward Scissorhands, but even though we have now cleared various untamed corners, I still don’t have a clue how it works.

As we put it to use, we were for once the noisiest house in the village. Unlike those whose high-powered mowers roar, our self-assembly lawnmower is more like a piece of pre-war gym equipment. Although it keeps my husband fit, its main advantage is how quietly it does the job. Not much louder than an egg-whisk, its rattling growl transports us to summers of yore, when folk rubbed their limbs in vegetable oil and lay out on the grass, like bangers under the grill.

Finally acquiring our own mechanised gadget felt like a rite of passage, beyond which there is no return. Where once we were children, now we are grown-ups, holding our own with the rest of the tooled-up brigade.

As the proliferation of garden centres shows, this is a booming industry. Increasing awareness of the environment partly explains its ever-rising popularity, along with the desire to grow our own produce. Sometimes, though, as the ever-expanding rows of machines and tools suggest, its allure is as much about accessories as cultivation.

Whatever the motivation, tending a garden is costly, both in money and time. When we first viewed our house, and its sward of rugged grass, weeds and trees, we were thrilled. If we had been told what getting it under control would entail, we might have paused, but I’m glad we didn’t. Discovering how much work it takes has been a revelation, as has the fun.

Not that we were fooled by TV shows where the horticultural equivalent of the SAS transforms a derelict space into a blossoming haven overnight. Even as rookies we could tell this was unlikely. As we took the first steps in ripping out colonies of weeds, digging up tree stumps and a quarry’s worth of boulders, cobblestones and ancient crockery, the scale of the endeavour dawned on us.

Ours is not a large plot compared with some, but nor is it small. Yet whatever the size of patch, a garden can be all-consuming. Your time is no longer your own. Weekends? Spent doubled up over the earth, or digging halfway to Australia. Where once there was time to relax, now there’s a long list of jobs to be done before the working week resumes.

So much for the accepted wisdom that gardening is a mere hobby. Once begun, it won’t let you go. There’s no opt-out or deactivation clause. If you try to ignore it, it’ll grow over the doorstep or blot out the light. As far as I can see, it requires total immersion: voluntary enrolment in a course of further education embracing botany, horticulture, soil chemistry, landscaping, ecology and rewilding. Unlike most degrees, though, this one takes forever. Rather than four years you could be looking at 40.

Thanks to charity shops, I have a pile of trusted titles telling me what to do and when. I could spend all day reading them; putting them into practice, however, is the only way to learn. Of all realms of human activity few are more a question of hands-on experience, of experimentation and failure, hit and miss, than getting a garden to grow.

An Edinburgh chum has recently been racing against the clock to get his plot into shape for an annual open-garden day. What previously was a private enterprise has become a public exhibition. It sounds nerve-wracking. Fortunately, we’re decades away from anything like that, although some of our neighbours have planting schemes to rival Capability Brown’s.

Last week a friend gave me a tour of his and his wife’s garden, which they’ve planted almost from scratch. With raised beds bursting with leeks, kale, gooseberries, raspberries, rhubarb, runner beans and potatoes, they could withstand a siege. Every inch is tended and given a purpose. Bees and birds are almost bewildered by the choice on offer, while exotic and tender species are as coddled as grandchildren.

And there’s the point. Cultivating a garden is like raising a family. Each plant and tree matters. As does the wildlife they attract. Gradually, what started out as a maintenance job, or a matter of tinkering around the edges, becomes a daily source of fascination and concern.

Spring might signal the start of the growing season, but gardening is a year-round occupation. Even when snow blankets the earth the most serious cultivators will be going through catalogues, deciding what seeds to order; or they can be found in the greenhouse, nurturing toothpick shoots for the day when they can be planted out.

I’m not in their league, and never will be. For me, and many of us, it’s being outdoors that is the greatest part of the pleasure. That’s not to say there isn’t also an element of showing who’s in charge: giving nature a helping hand in some areas, and quashing it firmly in others. No doubt that explains the scrum around the strimmers and mowers as we strive – not always successfully – to keep the upper hand.