The Last Hours of June

I've always preferred being outdoors. Looking for houses over the years, it's been the garden I've investigated before the rooms and their dimensions, though internal brightness is crucial; if you've got to be inside make it as much like the open air as possible. And I've always walked, though never as much as since I've lived in Suffolk. I walk in the daytime of course, but once supper is over, whether it's sunny or dark, hot or cold, wet or dry, I have to get out. Alone or with company, the lure is too strong to resist. The scent of evening is intoxicating, seductive, literally rootsy. It reminds us of who we really are, where we come from. It's the same in the morning when the dew falls and is burnt off by the sun. As children we used to camp en famille, usually on trips to the Old Sod. En route for Holyhead we'd park up by the River Severn at Shrewsbury and pitch camp for the night, and those are among my most magical memories. Sausages, beans and a mug of tea, then bed on a plastic lilo while the river scents drifted into the tent. It didn't even matter much that we all bickered and squabbled as usual, all fighting our corner including the adults. Once across the Irish Sea my grandfather's field would be our base, and in the early mornings while my siblings slept in our pup tent I'd be off exploring through the wet grass. Once my father joined me, and together we hunted for mushrooms and later cooked them in a pan of butter - country butter, we used to call it, rougher and saltier than Anchor - over the calor gas for breakfast. Nothing has ever tasted as nice since.

Wheat growing behind the house

Every walk is a Proustian memory jogger, every sight and smell reminiscent of another, earlier one. This evening I was out for over half an hour after a day of feeling different, better somehow. Still a bit tired, but more energetic too. And so I ventured farther than I have for weeks. Alys's wind turbine was whizzing on the horizon despite there being not a breath of air, and the sun was soft and still hot on my head and skin. I drank it all in thirstily, the view from my window for so long finally in close-up. It's impossible to describe the beauty of the countryside on this late June evening. The wheat fields are losing their early green and gently turning pale. The peas plants have sprouted cream flowers, and the sky is voluptuously, lazily bright despite the late hour. The land feels bountiful, the sky benign and generous. It's such a privilege to inhabit this space.

I've finally pinned or sewn the hems of my four new garden room curtains, my print from Chikako is on the wall, and a favourite old lamp at home in the corner. My books are ranked by Penguin Modern Classic or author, as colourful as a full-size collage. It's by far my favourite room.