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.