I grow ever more fond of watching night fall in the garden. After the bustle of the day and distant traffic noises, a quietness descends at around 8 o’ clock as the late summer evening draws in.
Although I find the geraniums beautiful in the daytime, they now look so dramatic against a background of shadowy foliage, in the “miniature woodland” area of our tiny potager.
Still catching the last rays of light is this pretty self-seeded wildflower, towering next to the stream, that I believe must be a loosestrife. Living at the top of a hill, it is rare for there not to be a breeze rippling through our garden. I love to watch the constant sway of tall plants on spiked stems and the bees that weave and dart around them.
A light rain starts to fall, however at this time of year I do not have to rush back inside for a coat. It is a delicate, refreshing shower, not a downpour. At the first sign of soothing water, a snail emerges to make the most of it.
Soon after the rain stops it has already faded from the stone walkways, yet remains clinging to the plants. The poppy seed heads, which hover over the stream, bob and dip. The droplets slide down stems, into the running water below.
I slowly walk the paths whilst reading about the life and times of a woodland. I have been enjoying this book little-by-little since New Year’s Day. There is an entry for every date of the year and tonight’s July observation seems very apt.
“How enjoyable the land is, when the sun has sunk below the rim of the known world, when other people have gone to bed, and there are stars over the dark, still oaks.”
“The Wood: The Life and Times of Cockshutt Wood” by JoHn Lewis-stempel
The light dims a little more; I return my book to the kitchen and grab a favourite woollen jumper.
We have lost a few young apples to the rough storms throughout late June, yet the hardier fruits hold fast, looking eminently tempting.
The raindrops stick in place on the water resistant bamboo leaves. I move the plant stem gently; the droplets descend slowly, in an orderly queue.
The bees make their final forage until morning. I took a liking to this little hard worker, heavily laden, pollen stuck to his fur.
The moon is framed by the branches of the silver birch tree. The woollen jumper’s sleeves are perfect for pulling down over my hands as the temperature drops. My husband makes me a cup of hot tea and together we walk the garden and quietly reflect back on our day.
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