Flaming June

Do you ever have the feeling you’re in the wrong place? I had made a vague plan to be in London for the weekend, but waking incredibly early on Saturday morning (I’m slightly looking forward to the nights getting longer, I’m finding all this daylight at four in the morning a bit much… but can you believe it is the end of June already?) I realised that really where I wanted to be was in the garden. I got up and jumped in the car. Driving through a deserted city in the grey morning light, I was soon on the open road and down in Dorset in near record time… putting a coffee pot on the stove I would say at about 8.15am. Well, it was an early start…

A storm blew through the West Country on Saturday and there was a certain irony to the expression flaming June when I decided to light a fire for some friends coming round for tea. I suppose the only advantage of quite so much rain is that the valley is incredibly, intensely green. Strangely beautiful.  The house felt warm and toasty… not something you really want to write in the middle of summer?

Sunday dawned clear and warm. I had done so much gardening the day before, in the wind and before the rain, that there wasn’t so much to do. And I did what true gardeners never really manage… and had a sleep in the sun, and read, for an hour or two, and made plans. Bliss.




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