I have felt for the garden this week in temperatures which feel uncomfortable and out of kilter. It reached 48 degrees Celsius in the polytunnel despite its cloak of shade netting and 37 out in the open for several days in succession and it is still only June. 

On Monday night I was away in London, but Huw witnessed the lightning storm which struck our neighbour’s house on the hill opposite and lashed and boomed over Bath. It was like a tropical storm, he recounted, the likes of which we’ve never witnessed here. Later that night at 4 a.m. the storm arrived in London, more meekly perhaps, but with enough force to demand I get up and stand in the doorway to witness the power of a night sky illuminated, the rumble and the cooling thrash of rain splashing to my knees from the paving. The next day our studio garden, which is cooled by the green of sixteen years of growth, provided a feeling of respite. But the treeless street to the other side of our garden’s high wall, radiated a punch of heat that made you want to shelter. London felt like another city.