A garden pond is a habitat first and a feature second. The moment it fills with water, it becomes a nursery, a larder and a winter shelter for everything from frogs and newts to diving beetles, damselflies and pond skaters. That is why the work you do around it should be gentle, seasonal and a little bit scruffy. Every tidy impulse — scrubbing the liner, draining the water, harvesting the last fallen leaf — takes away food, shelter or the creatures themselves. Think of yourself less as a pond keeper and more as a neighbour who pops round now and then with a rake.
Frogs arrive first, often in February, with toads and newts following into March and April. Spawn and jelly-covered eggs are easily damaged, so keep well back from the shallows during the breeding season and never move spawn or pond plants between gardens — it risks spreading disease from one pond to another.
Your main spring jobs are modest. Top up the water level with rainwater from a butt rather than tap water, which adds the nitrates and phosphates that feed algae. Use a net to lift out the worst of the leaves that collected over winter, but check every netful before you tip it onto the compost — newts and frogs often lurk in that soggy layer. If marginals have spread beyond their patch, divide them lightly, taking no more than a third in any one year, and leave the cuttings on the bank for a day so any hitchhiking invertebrates can crawl back into the water.
Blanket weed, or filamentous algae, thrives in warm, bright, nutrient-rich water. It is not the enemy — tadpoles graze on it and tiny invertebrates hide in its tangles — but when it smothers the surface it needs managing rather than declaring war on.
Remove no more than about a third of the weed in one go, and leave it alone entirely during hot, still spells when oxygen levels are already low.
This is when the urge to "put the pond to bed" does the most damage. Dragonfly larvae, water beetles, caddis larvae and pond snails overwinter in the silt and among the stems, while frogs and newts bury themselves in the mud and under the leaf litter. A dramatic clean-up wipes out that entire community and resets the pond to a sterile, nutrient-rich bowl that will green up faster than ever next spring.
If the surface freezes, resist the urge to break it. Smashing ice sends shock waves through the water that can injure amphibians, and the shards are dangerous. Instead, float a ball or a small bundle of twigs to keep a gap open for gas exchange, or melt a hole by standing a pan of hot water on the surface and lifting it away.
Leave a gentle exit route all year round: a rough plank, a log or a sloping stone from the water's edge to the bank. Frogs, hedgehogs and small mammals that stumble in need a way out, and a shallow, gently shelving margin does the same job for wildlife that simply wants to come and go.
If you remember one thing, let it be this: do less, and do it slowly. Rake a little, net a little, cut a little, and always leave piles of debris on the bank overnight before clearing them. A new pond takes two or three years to find its balance, and the patience pays off in newts surfacing at dusk, damselflies on the iris stems and a chorus of frogs on the first mild night of spring. A wildlife pond is never finished, and it is never meant to be tidy.
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