I remember an incredibly strong feeling of emptiness come over me during May 2018. It was the twelfth month at our new home and for every one of those twelve wonderful months, new, extraordinary and beautiful surprises had greeted us in the garden almost every day. 

It all kicked off at the beginning of June. Of course, I should have realised. I’d mentioned in May that the sheep hadn’t yet begun their Houdini acts, but I also mentioned how dry the ground was. And sillily didn’t put two and two together.

If there’s one thing more exciting than a week at Chelsea, it’s coming home to find broad-bodied chaser dragonflies have moved into your pond (with a bit of identification help from the ongoingly wonderful Pete the Pond).

I always cry at Chelsea. Of course, I pretend I’ve got something in my eye, or that the hay fever season has come a little early, but each year I shed a tear or two. Or three or four. I’ve already started and we haven’t even got to the awards yet; that’ll be the next time to reach for the hankie, bright and early at 7am tomorrow morning.

I think I probably ought to stop worrying.

I don’t know what comes in to your mind when you think about a garden re-awaking after winter. Traditionally, for me, I see the bright heads of daffodils popping open, the blue haze of forget-me-nots covering the ground and the uncurling of fresh green leaf buds erupting from a skeleton of branches.

The garden has been both the bane and the medicine of my life this month. I had one of the most stressful weeks I can remember, although admittedly, it does sound a bit ridiculous writing it down. It was over a vegetable garden that I felt this immense stress. We’d asked someone to come in and build the garden for us, and he neither built what we asked for, nor would listen to anything I said and all in all was a thoroughly unpleasant man. When this happens in your garden, and you’re me, it feels a little as though your heart has been ripped out. And we are now left with a half-finished, totally off-brief and out of character vegetable garden, a lot less money in the bank and a whole host of decisions to be made. 

If I had a pound for everyone who said there can’t be much for me to do in the garden at this time of year…..well, I think I could probably employ an army of men, who could perhaps help me achieve at least half of my very long list of winter jobs.

I vividly remember, this time last year, walking over the little stone bridge across the stream in our new garden, upon our return from the Falklands. I remember just standing there, looking, and then my eyes welling up and a couple of tears rolling down my face. It seemed I had got over having to leave the penguins behind; these were tears of overwhelming, happy wonderment.