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Birdsong and the knees rattling the odd seed case.

Birdsong and the knees rattling the odd seed case.

It’s past the tipping point in the Summer when t

It’s past the tipping point in the Summer when the sweet peas are measured in bunched handfuls - consolation posies for the cherries already stripped by more furtive feather. Octoberish, these past few days, even in July. Last weekend’s ‘Buck moon’ more raspberry moon in flavour and more thunder moon in temperament.

A moment, and no more, before the sun came spillin

A moment, and no more, before the sun came spilling over the roof tiles and made everything more matt . From translucent to opaque in less than a few clicks. The first plugs of Lauren’s Grape were sown in November and a few more handfuls tucked up again in February. Staggered sowing and successional rounds of luminous colour - the first to come up with tulips and the next to rub shoulders with the fennel and ammi and dahlias. An accommodating stretch for paper thin petallage.

The record for a human pyramid stands at 9 levels

The record for a human pyramid stands at 9 levels - a stack of knees and shoulders matched only in ambition by the sweet peas on their way up. An enthusiastic scramble of tendril cling shaping the stems as they go.

Easing into Monday morning with clouds of ammi and

Easing into Monday morning with clouds of ammi and thunderbolts of verbascum.

Much like processing colour in a darkroom, the wea

Much like processing colour in a darkroom, the weather has been experimenting with its colour washes and timing. A good few rinses bringing out the green in the fields, and with your back against the advancing weather front, even moments of blue sky nudging grey.

It must have been a good year for foxgloves. Risin

It must have been a good year for foxgloves. Rising up to join the ranks of tulips in May, and hanging around for long enough to link fingers with the dahlias and the strawberries. Their backbones still crashing around in the fug of middling Summer.

Before the rain swept in and a Monet became a Turn

Before the rain swept in and a Monet became a Turner.

A damp drizzle sort of few days. Not enough to ins

A damp drizzle sort of few days. Not enough to insidiously soak, but a rising damp equivalent starting at the sleeves and working inwards. A good few inches gained just by any flagging revived and refreshed.

The petals would have to be arranged on a light bo

The petals would have to be arranged on a light box for something similar. The volume of its iridescent glow dialled up not down by the damp grey. Damp with a side note of soggy and bedraggled.

‘Changeable’ the forecast will say, which in r

‘Changeable’ the forecast will say, which in reality means the odd ray pivoting sharply on its heels and running the full length of rainbow to stair rods in a little under ten minutes.

You could almost smell the iron in the breeze last

You could almost smell the iron in the breeze last night, the change in atmosphere suddenly at odds with the dry heat of the week. A closeness that was laying low the cows and meant the cat was not in his usual vantage point, but asleep and with his back turned to the fire. Maybe a cat’s second sense, and knowing that a deluge and an open window don’t make for good bed fellows.

The day might be shorter by a few minutes beyond t

The day might be shorter by a few minutes beyond the mid point in summer, but now the heat has inched into the realms of searing, the days have somehow eeked a little further into the pockets before 8am and after 8pm.

Much of Christmas was propped up by lengths of haz

Much of Christmas was propped up by lengths of hazel. Twisted together to make the backbone of a twiggy tunnel. Wound with fairy lights in December and more loosely decorated with a mop of languishing ammi in the final furlong of June. And, not to be outdone by the foxgloves, a few towering panicles of verbascum Olympicum. A candelabra of buzz.

There are many shades of haze, and this one comes

There are many shades of haze, and this one comes with a wallop of heat.

June at full volume.

June at full volume.

Monday morning at a slow amble.

Monday morning at a slow amble.

The sweet peas are on the scramble, their perfume

The sweet peas are on the scramble, their perfume still out of nose reach and somewhere around the knees. The airspace, instead, crammed full in June with roses, poppies, lilies, foxgloves and the last of the peonies just going over. A florilegium of petals at the mid Summer mark, give or take a few hours.

The rain will have been measured each morning by @

The rain will have been measured each morning by @juliankennard in exacting amounts (a snug fit of copper phials concertinaed into the ground for ‘just so’ levels), but it’s really the sunshine that he’ll be quietly watching. In ‘good for the garden’ amounts, but more for his strawberries. Already the rows have been combed of their first flush, and with more sweetness anticipated with the promise of next week’s forecast. Juice on the vine and the taste of Summer. Earlier this year than most, or maybe just with a weighted expectation of willing them along.
Strawberry blooms from last year.

With accompanying damp gurgle.

With accompanying damp gurgle.

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