Just when you think the garden has finally ebbed for the year, along comes the September mist and love is once again restored.

It’s getting quite autumnal now, but I feel ready for it this year. We’ve had so much rain and hence, so much growth, that I’m looking forward to a reprieve and a slowing down. 

I’m never quite sure what I’ll see when I look out of the window here. I could happily gaze out most of the day; there is never a moment when some animal or other isn’t up to something.

Roses: you have finally got me. 

Something has to give. 

It was a bit of a surprise, two weeks ago, to awake to this:

It’s been a funny old month. Not the easiest in many ways. 

If you asked all Brits to name their least favourite month, I reckon February would be top of the pops. Winter is dragging on, there are no public holidays; it’s like an annoying, short aberration of a month with nothing going for it at all.

It’s hard to describe the scale of thrill that a deep covering of snow induces. Even in my forty-sixth year. 

I think the Queen was right. But then I am quite a fan. I’ve grown out of thinking her too frowny and miserable, posh and frumpy and now see her for the extraordinary force of good and stability and sacrifice that she is.