Musing

I never seem to get used to the stillness of this place, the silence and the beauty. This evening I finished in the garden earlier than usual having accomplished a mutitude of tasks. I've finally been able to clear the area between the oil tank and the compost bins, and I've layed down sheets of weed-supressing membrane in preparation for the eight slabs which will be delivered tomorrow. Between them and the stones I rescued from the first version of the pond plus a pile of shingle which I still have spare, this space will be both utilitarian and smart. I've also nearly cleared all the turves which Nick and I piled behind the summerhouse this time last year to rot, the leftovers after we'd reshaped the lawn. They are mostly rich earth now, and I've been spreading them around the beds wherever they're needed. I did this work in the hot sunshine, resting frequently and drinking lots of water, and I still had plenty of energy for a long walk through the Woodland Trust. When we got back I dead-headed the dahlia and roses, watered where necessary considering that the weather is set to break tomorrow, and then just sat in the garden with a cold beer. I really can't get over how amazing it is being here. Hugo tried to herd me indoors as he does every night, having been fed, watered and walked. He doesn't understand why I won't settle down for the evening at this point, usually around 6pm. But I couldn't go inside and leave the garden, the peace. I rolled my icy beer bottle along his body to cool him off after his exertions, and he moved around under the massage with a look of ecstasy on his face. Then I had to be stern: Go to bed, I ordered. Go on, bed. He slouched up the garden in a wavy line, looking back frequently to see if I meant it. He was both tired and reluctant to leave me. Bed, I said a few more times, and in he went. I lingered still, unable to tear myself away. Anyone seeing me in my chair alone in the garden, doing nothing but looking, absorbing, thinking, might suspect I was lonely, or depressed. But they couldn't be more wrong. This might be the last perfect day of the summer. What a gift it has been. You have to catch it while it's there, acknowledge it, and then let it go. Its imprint doesn't vanish.