... problems but a spaniel ain't one. Or red ballons, depending on your era. Welcome to the 99th edition of the Sunday night newsletter. 

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Monday 24 May

Suddenly, everywhere, there are irises. The dark ones have been out for a while and have been gloriously velvety with rain drops on their inky falls. But now, the browns, the russets, the slightly odd coral-orange ones that look horribly artificial when they first flower and then mellow to a perfect shade of gold. I thought the ravenswing was going to be the highlight of the week but the combination is infinitely greater than the sum of its parts.

Tuesday 25 May

Finally sunshine. 

Finally finally finally. 

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Wednesday 26 May

You wouldn’t know that I was a grower from my front garden. Indeed, you probably wouldn’t know that anyone lives in the cottage at all. It is completely wild and full of ox eye daisies and tiny white alliums. I open the door unexpectedly and a fledgling falls out of the thatch. I think it had been waiting to gather up the courage to fly and I had just surprised it into flight. It lands, somewhat clumsily, on the stone wall at the front. Its mother, more accustomed to the appearances and disappearances of the postman and the DPD driver, arrives to offer comfort and (I hope) some congratulations.

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Thursday 27 May

Matt Austin films the field. Oh so inconveniently, the sun blazes and the sky is a hard blue. Contrary to what you might imagine, sunny days make for very tricky photography. But the day starts with an arrow of geese, honking across the sky. I can never remember if left to right or right to left is good luck, which means any direction of geese is taken as a positive omen in my mind. And rightly so, because Matt Austin is a genius and the film came out amazing.

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Friday 28 May

The verdant landscape of the field, so lush and green, and so absent of flowers after the howling gales and relentless rain, starts to pop with colour. Not always immediately evident, but throughout the day, one joy, then another then another. The first peony, a Coral Charm. Scarlet corn poppies, a first, a second, a third. They seem to burst open as if all responding to the same call, which I suppose they are. Sunshine. The irises had been braver than most and had bloomed despite the rain, but now they seem to multiply, unfurling minute by minute. David Austin roses. Viburnum opulus. I go round with my camera but then I put it down on the table in the orchard and just drink them in. There is magic in this moment, and we have waited for it. We have earned it.

Saturday 29 May

For every day of magic, there is a day of weeding. Today, I weed.

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Sunday 30 May

A lunch in the orchard and then a walk in the woods. I have never managed writing this newsletter ahead of time; I write the entries day by day but I put it all together and press send in real time. This is the 99th Sunday night newsletter I have done. I only missed one, which was the night of the Derriford Garden build at the beginning of the first lockdown when I was absolutely overwhelmed and exhausted. (I may possibly have done one on a day other on a Sunday between Christmas and New Year when I completely lost track of what day it was, but I am fairly sure I caught up promptly and everyone was too polite or drunk to mention it.) 

As ever, with love,

G x