As the first rays of sunlight peeped over the horizon and the darkness started to ease, I noticed the silhouette of two small ears outlined against the white garage doors.

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.