Monday 16th September. On my way to Torquay, I turn left through the village and go up the hill. The Blackdowns are flat on the top and steep on the sides. The weather is always different at the top and bottom, and sure enough, there is mist rolling across the road at the junction for Churchinford. The beeches form a tunnel. One of them, just one, has turned a shocking yellow. The first to turn, but not the last.

Tuesday 17th September. Harvesting corn on the cob. There are gaps appearing in the kitchen garden and in the cutting beds. The flowers are smaller now, although there is a sense of endurance about them. Things take longer to go over at this time of year. I stop cutting the cosmos and let the seed fall. Although it is technically not hardy, I know there will be seedlings in Spring.

Wednesday 18th September. The dog walks take longer and longer. Hugo picks blackberries along the lane and catches his ears in the thorny cables. Maud chases mice in and out of the long grass and refuses to be dissuaded. I stop and check them for burdocks stuck in their feathers and in their tails.

Thursday 19th September. My husband leaves for Italy for an Iron Man. Hugo and I drive him to Gatwick. Hugo sleeps the whole way, waking only to sit bolt upright and stare at the stationary cars on the M25. He is a country spaniel. He does not understand congestion.

Friday 20th September. After our late night, a gentle day. New stockists, new orders. The Newt is gearing up for Christmas and asks for lots of everything. The first delivery of botanically dyed silk ribbon arrives in the post. It will be in the Christmas hampers for florists. The gardeners will get twine.

Saturday 21 September. A day of unadulterated fun. Coffee with a wise business mind, and some planning for the Christmas workshops (oversized mild steel hanging wreaths and chandeliers). Then ceramics from Ali Herbert at At The Chapel. Then the most wonderful studio of Lunaria. And then. And then. South Wood Farm. I went last year when it was open in June. It was a vision of dog daisies and romance and alliums and the very early roses. I loved it then and I love it now, in September, with big kale plants and the hazel domes smothered, and the most daring combination of rusty heleniums and purple asters that really shouldn't work but sort of does. I spotted this garden on a Boxing Day walk a few years ago. I wasn't having fun. I think there was sleet and some impassable footpaths. We skirted the edge of a garden and followed the signposts round the back of an orchard. That's an Arne Maynard garden I said. It really is. I'd know one anywhere, even in the middle of nowhere, even when I'm cold and wet. It's all in the topiary. All I need is topiary.