Letters to July (four)

It is the overture of July and England basks in endless sun. It is too hot for this country, we are not built for it, nor are our houses, yet a golden summer has been decreed and nobody dares complain. The garden and the veg patch are a tangle of greens, butter-yellow tomato flowers arrive by the hour, and I have a feeling we’re going to be sick of courgettes by the end of the summer. 

It was a weekend for seeking shade in the cool solace of ancient woodland, for picking wild raspberries, admiring lupins. It was a weekend for pinching out growing tips and straw hats and linen skirts swishing around the ankles. It was a weekend for cheering (it’s coming home! Isn’t it?) and picnicking. It was the height of summer.