Heavy rain for the first time in weeks last night. Proper waterbutt-filling, sleep-depriving rain. Long overdue.

After waking early – thank you, wood pigeons – I make a cup of tea and go out to do the rounds.

Huge brown and black slugs navigate across the lawn. A blackbird picks them off before I can dispatch them. My new best friend.

Despite the deluge, the potted bamboos are still dry, the leaves starting to crisp.

I fill each of the wine bottles – my homemade irrigation system – and push them into the holes I’ve gouged-out in the soil.

The courgette – a revelation for its enormous foliage, though I’ve always enjoyed the eating – has flopped onto the lawn, the wonderful starfish flowers a crumpled, soggy mess. No tempura for us tonight, then…

For some reason, I don’t pay enough attention to scent in the garden. I know I should, but a lot of the time it just doesn’t cross my mind. (Well, my nose.)

I say much, because, in the evening, I can’t resist burying my nose into the heliotrope that’s in a pot next to the back door.

But the scent of a garden after rain is something else. Life-affirming, even.

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