A postcard from June

After a stiflingly hot and humid spell (which felt like it dragged on for weeks), June’s finally feeling cooler. It rained heavily overnight and the breeze has a fresher feel to it; we’re still sleeping on top of the covers, and the skylight window in the loft’s open to try and encourage a draught. But at least it’s bearable again.

Having said that: J made pizza yesterday, and the car made the perfect place to prove the dough. So that’s something to bear in mind.

I’m working in the bookshop tomorrow through to Thursday next week, so thought I’d put this post together now, on Sunday evening. I intend to take my laptop in with me (we’re allowed to work on our own projects in quieter moments) but that usually tempts fate, and the day ends up being very busy - both with customers, deliveries and those unexpected crises that have a tendency to present themselves as soon as you start open a document.

Because writing’s a process which requires concentration, and an uninterrupted period of time in which to think. And yes, I’m now wondering if I should bother.

There are only three weeks to go until school breaks up for the summer. It always seems to come around so quickly. And yet, we were out yesterday because we needed to buy picture frames, and there was already Halloween-themed merchandise on the shelves. In June.

After the searing heat, I’m relishing the thought of autumn. But not enough to actually celebrate it in what is, after all, early summer. We still have the gorgeous anticipation of the seasons turning; the sun burning lower in the sky. Thistledown and things going to seed in the most beautiful of ways.

I was out in the garden yesterday evening. We’d had a few very short-lived rain showers in the afternoon, enough to revive things and intensify the colours again. Although before that, I’d taken the poor shrivelled violas and petunias from the window boxes, trimmed away any curling leaves from the heucheras and ivy, and added some small geraniums before soaking the lot.

The windows got a good wash while I was at it. The constant stream of tractors had coated them with dust from the road, and there’s been much traffic (and local irritation) due to people ‘wild swimming’ in the two small reservoirs up on the moor.

It isn’t really wild swimming if it’s in reservoirs which are filled with somebody's - thankfully not our - drinking water. It’s also private land. Apparently there’ve been barbecues lit, piles of rubbish left behind and the police and fire service ticketing parked cars because they’re obstructing a very narrow road.

Much bickering has taken place online.

This is one of the reasons I got rid of Facebook.

So: in our little kingdom, things are flourishing. The sunflowers are almost crowding out the roses and gourds so I’ll have to tie them back (which means trying to locate the ball of twine, and it could be in the cellar, and I hate going down there).

There are alpine strawberries, raspberries and tayberries gleaming out from the dense foliage like garnets. The dill’s now in flower: tiny, yellow inverted parachutes joining other airy blooms from the verbena bonariensis and the fennel.

My thunbergia has been a thing of great joy, and continues to be. Those twisting stems and heart-shaped leaves, the flowers that start out a deep burnt amber and fade to pale peach have been (and continue to be) a source of deep pleasure. I’m going to try and overwinter it indoors, but until then it sits and glows and beguiles.

I’m longing for a thunderstorm. We keep being warned about them being on their way, but nothing has materialised yet. I crave the smell of damp earth and the feel of cool air, all the humidity dissipated.

In the kitchen we have ripe nectarines which are so juicy you have to eat them with a tea towel clutched in one hand. I bought Joe some little Petit Beurre biscuits as a treat, and we’ve had croissants for breakfast. I’m also maintaining the habit of taking breakfast and lunch into work. Overpriced, underwhelming pre-packaged sandwiches are now a thing of the past. I haven’t bought a coffee in ages, although that will no doubt change once autumn arrives.

A celebratory mocha is a wonderful thing.

Speaking of habits: yes, of course I bought myself some stationery whilst out yesterday. A daily journal - in which I fully intend to write a page every evening - because writing requires a certain level of commitment and routine. Even if I miss a day (or two, or more) of First Drafting, at least I’ll be getting something down.

I also picked up a planner. Although as I’ve mentioned previously, I like to work within the academic year so this one spans late July to the end of December 2027.

The picture frames I bought are for above my desk. We’re planning on decorating our bedroom within the next few months, and the little writing nook’s going to be wood panelled and painted white, along with the loft steps above. So I want a collection of meaningful photographs and artwork; to surround myself with beautiful and inspiring things.

I already framed a greetings card I bought from work: Eric Ravilious’s Caravans. I love his work and have a few cards depicting his watercolours, but this particular one just looked right. The colours, the time of year.

Of course, I’m not looking to have everything looking uniform or matching. So I’ll put together a collection of frames: gilt, wood, metal - and hang them in a no doubt slightly haphazard way.

I’m still on the lookout for hydrangeas, so I can dry them out for the mantel. Perhaps I’ll call in at the florist in town; it’s just the most beautiful shop you could imagine. In the meantime I bought a bunch of sunflowers with the groceries. A vase of sunshine, a little pocket of Provence lighting up the dresser.

Ours should be blooming within the next month or so: white blooms with golden centres in one bed, and the gargantuan Russian Giant in another (I’m already questioning my choice on those, having read just how giant they actually get).

I had a little mooch around the garden last night with my camera, enjoying the softer light and the (slightly) cooler weather.

And today’s been slow and uneventful, as Sundays should be. A few more days and it’ll be July. The nights are getting longer - it isn’t noticeable just yet - but the sumptuous green has faded into paler, more subtle shades. Before the descent into autumn there’s the riot of pink Himalayan balsam, that thuggish interloper that smothers the countryside and emits a soapy, cloying scent before exploding its seeds far and wide.

And whinberries. Picking them has been a late summer ritual since I was a child. Purple-stained fingers and mouths, and backs aching from stooping to gather the low-growing berries. They’re tiny, and can be hard to spot, and even the smallest punnet might take an hour to fill. But they make the best pies and jams, these little moorland jewels.

In a few days, we’ll have the Strawberry moon to gaze at. And hopefully starry skies.

On Thursday we drove into Liverpool (on the hottest of the hot days) to see the Foo Fighters. The journey in was one of the worst I’ve ever made: the passenger side window refuses to open, the air conditioning was just regurgitating what felt like someone else’s warm breath, and the sun - whichever direction we were travelling on - seemed to be relentlessly glaring in through the same spot of the windscreen.

There were traffic queues on the motorway, and then in the outskirts of the city. We joined big crowds to walk through the park to the stadium; the ground underfoot was baked hard and the expanses of long grass bleached and dried to a near colourless hue.

But heading back to the car afterwards at around 10.30pm, that same park was a shadowy and enchanting place to be. Clusters of people walking together, clear skies with bats flitting about above us. Footbridges over the lake where inky water winked under the moonlight.

The return to bearable temperatures has, for me, been the high point of June. I hope it lasts…

Thank you for reading.

Sarah.