Chilled

I thought it was called the summerhouse, silly me. It's the whippet house. Hugo is just like Monty Don's dog Nigel, but less hardy. He follows me around in the garden, checks I'm OK, then disappears back into the warmth to lie on the rug and watch me. That chilly wind is not good for a thin-coated little fellow like him. Couch potatoes, they are affectionately called. I have to hand it to him though. If I start to play he's with me in a trice, racing up and down, charging at me and missing by millimetres. I don't understand any of his games but he loves them. My game is to get him to sit, and then walk farther and farther away, cautioning Wait! Wait! his face getting more and more tragic, and then calling him to me. Oh he loves that game. He wants to please. He never needs a treat when he achieves these goals, just a hug and a pat, and lots of praise. I could go on and on but I must stop. Suffice it to say he is un chien tres exceptionnel. Tres, tres exceptionnel. Je l'aime en morceaux.

Three more David Austin roses arrived yesterday, two Desdemona which are creamy white shrub roses and Claire Austin, a creamy white climber. Both kinds are heavily scented. I've cleared the area where they are going, and am hoping for some help with the diggin' since I seem to have lost the ability. I'm moving the dark pink Gertrude Jekyll to the end of that bed for the most striking effect. Once the climber gets going it should be glorious. I'm gradually returning the bark which has covered the newly-extended flower beds throughout the winter over to the path by the boundary hedge. Then I can get on with planting those bare areas with more perennials. I think that by the end of this summer it should be looking really good. Or will I be saying that every year?

A very heavy frost this morning but lovely and clear. I think a little chap might wear his coat on our walk. He can borrow one of my hats if he wants. I'd hate him to catch a chill.