Monday 5 July

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This magical combination of warmth and wet. The peak has been reached and plants are starting to topple and collapse. The jagged spires of the Fordhook Giant Chard from which I was saving seed snap clean in half. The ox eye daisies at the front of the cottage sink lower and lower under the weight of water. I am utterly bored of the dogs drying themselves in the middle of our bed.

Tuesday 6 July

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The Summer Gather seasonal box contains edible flowers. I bake more lemon cakes and short, crumbly biscuits for photographing but the weather is so miserable I eat them in an afternoon of endless cups of tea. 

In amongst the chaos and the piles of boxes and envelopes, a visit. Someone who was born in my village. We talk of the meaning of home. What is means to come back. What it means to go away. 

Wednesday 7 July

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Dahlias are starting to unfurl. The deep red ones are always first although there are some yellows. Tolerated because they give the best dye colour, although I wouldn’t necessarily give them room in a vase in the house. The singles, as soggy as they are, always have a sleeping bee in the centre. 

Thursday 8 July

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The soft strawberry foxgloves (Digitalis mertonensis) flower under the shade of the beech hedge. They always come later than I expect and yet are always so beautiful. The first flowers on the French beans. I try not to mind that they clash terribly. Andrew Maybury posts a photograph of a mertonensis on his feed and for a moment I think it is mine. Turns out it isn't, it is Derry Watkins'. I try not to mind that too. 

Friday 9 July

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Everyone who is anyone is a Hampton Court Flower Show. I was meant to be doing a demonstration before it was postponed and I changed my mind, and then I was just going to go as a visitor, and then I just didn’t go at all. I do find that I have to be prised out of Somerset now, and am liable to be clinging on by my fingernails. See above re: home. I wonder if I am missing out, but not for very long.

Saturday 10 July

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Finally, a dry day. I harvest poppy heads and rather half-heartedly deadhead roses. There are just too many of them and they are dispiritingly soggy. A long walk in the evening, the lane lined with almond-scented meadowsweet. Even with the break in the weather, I cook autumnal food. Roasted chicken with lemon and slightly sodden oregano. Baked potatoes and gratins. I am glad I sowed as many leeks as I did. If it feels like October in July, when will it feel like spring? 

Sunday 11 July

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It is raining again. But the light is soft and kind and makes for wonderful photographs. Oh, and mottling on the sweet peas. I don’t think an unblemished sweet pea is worth a fig. It is the ones that have stood in the rain that make my mouth water. There is a life lesson in there somewhere.