Monday 2 August

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Swallows, swifts or house martins. I confess, I cannot tell the difference. But this week has been all about the swooping. Golden fields and long shadows are the backdrop for aerial acrobatics. This year's don't seem to chase the dogs, which is a shame, because that really is one of the funniest things.

 

More golden wonder in the Dyeing Garden. The first Hopi sunflower heads have swelled and dropped, as big as a dinner plate and satisfyingly solid. I cut them and get them into the studio to dry fully because I worry about them being food for the finches. Hopi sunflowers dye comes out with colours of maroons, purples, and (if I do it right) black.

 

A huge thank you to Christine Lewis for the seed.

 

Tuesday 3 August

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The day starts on the wrong foot. Maud unzips a packed lunch bag and sits under the kitchen table tucking into slices of sourdough bread. Blake, the girls' breeder, complains that his newest puppy is a prize winner but thick. I am of the opinion that a not very bright setter is infinitely less trouble than the criminal genius that is Maud. My Taunton Deane perennial kale cuttings have taken though, so the day isn't an entire disappointment. 

 

Wednesday 4 August

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More beds cleared. More apple trees pruned. I harvest armfuls and armfuls of echinops and the bees follow the buckets. I hate harvesting the flowers that the bees love the most; it feels like stealing. I leave the Salvia'Caradonna', even though they are in the wrong place because they hum with the happy sound of thrumming bees.

 

Thursday 5 August

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Our wedding anniversary. I spend the evening having welcome drinks with the people who have just moved into the Old Vicarage. This always brings the up the tricky question of whether I introduce myself to strangers as a psychologist or a seed-merchant. All the identity stuff. It is much more fun speculating wildly as to why the previous owners installed gates you couldn't see through, eight foot fences, and a £15k hot tub.

 

On a slightly unrelated note but I know a lot of you can be found inside Instagram. There is a general received wisdom that a) faces and people get more likes than things and b) lots of engagement means that your picture gets shown to more people. Luckily I do not locate my self-worth in an app, because a iPhone snap of a bent foxglove that I fished out of the compost with a slightly dodgy filter has outperformed a very rare and exclusive photograph of me in my hand-made wedding dress. I do love it for many reasons, but IG really is a mixed bag sometimes. 

 

Friday 6 August

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A glorious evening. So perfect we take gin on the evening dog walk and sit on the crest of the hill but the woods and look over the vale towards the Quantocks. Hugo sits on the picnic blanket waiting for the olives to be served (we didn't take any) and the girls race up and down the slope chasing imaginary pheasants. The week of on and off but torrential rain has left its mark. The Sally Holmes rose has mottled pink marks on its pure white petals. Just beautiful.

 

Saturday 7 August

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A sneaky day off. The Pythouse. The most perfect lunch with the most perfect chat. A walk in the garden and a slow drive home singing along to Bette Davis Eyes at the top of my voice in the hammering rain.

 

Sunday 8 August

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It threatens rain all day and then in the late afternoon, the summer sun comes out. Warmth in the air and blue skies. The sound of pigeons, fighting in the church's cedar trees. I find a courgette that has been missed and is approaching marrow proportions. Waste not, I think, and I cook it anyway. In the time that it takes me to be interviewed for the Somerset Stories podcast, Maud has eaten every scrap of it, warm from the pan. She is the absolute limit.