Monday 1st June. The first day of June. Fittingly, a blistering summer’s day. The big hay field down the lane has been mown and the golden grass lies in fat windrows, curing in the clear, dry heat. The dogs are ecstatic, glorying in the new smells revealed in the short stubble. They race across the field, tucking up their front legs to sail over the piles of hay, like perfect galloping steeplechasers.

[This is not a photograph of this wonderfully uplifting sight. I often chose to not take my phone on dog walks now and my enjoyment of them is much increased as a result. This is Hugo having a nap.]

Tuesday 2nd June. The second wave of corn poppies has arrived. The first is all hard, pillar box, lipstick red. I am so grateful for the colour that they bring in mid-May and for their sheer exuberance that I welcome them. It is only when the later plants start to flower that I realise that there is a whole other level of poppy beauty. The whites, then the more subtle colours, then the chalky reds, the burgundy ones which sit at just the point where red meets purple. Elegant. Compelling. Utterly exquisite.

Wednesday 3rd June. An unfamiliar noise. An unfamiliar gloom. A few spots in the morning as I check on the tomatoes and pull a few weeds from the leeks. I think that maybe that is it, but the clouds have other plans. The spots thicken and quicken and the rain sets in for the day. Wetting rain, persistent, fat drops. The soil seems to swell with relief, and some of the cracks in clay, opened by the driest May I can remember, heal.

Thursday 4th June. A day in the office. There is no one else there and it has a sense of suspended animation. To do lists with long past dates. Clocks still set to GMT. The biscuits are stale and there is no milk in the fridge. So familiar and yet so forgotten and strange. Unsettling. I come back to the garden and look at the seedlings that have been brought into life by the rain. It is not all good news; the roses are edged with brown from the water damage and the peonies are shattered.

Friday 5th June. I do not like orange Calendula, which is like saying one does not like hairy dogs. Last year, I grew ‘Sherbet Fizz’ which I adored. This year, I found a packet of ‘Bronze Beauty’ that I had clearly forgotten about. Calendula germinates rapidly and is very satisfying to grow, and the first shoots appeared in days. And then disappeared again. I caught a blackbird snacking on them just as it took the last ones. I do not know why it was so selective; the greenhouse was packed with trays and trays of other things but they seemed safe. I am therefore delighted to find a thick patch of calendula seedlings where the fizz were last year. I gently dig them up and plant them in a neat row. (This picture from last July.)

Saturday 6th June. A day of getting stuck into weeding. But there are always urgent things to attend to first. The little Victoria plum by the big gate is laden with green fruits, each branch covered from trunk to tip. I should have thinned them but I could not bring myself to sacrifice anything so perfect. One branch has snapped and two others are bending at an alarming orientation. Having failed to solve this with sticks and wooden rods, I fetch the shepherd’s hooks used for hanging lanterns down the track at summer parties. Perfect.