Whether it is for this:
work is not a chore at this time of year. The early mornings are the best time, everything seems a little more wild, a little more feral. A time before most of us disruptive humanfolk have intruded onto the natural world. Before the walkers have set on their way, click clicking up the hill, or the tourers religiously following their Sat Nav descend down the “scary route” from Woolacombe, guided by a sadistic software programmer, faces frozen in fear as they emerge. The birds are hungry for their breakfast, plants are fresh from the cool night, revived by the dew. All is calm and so usually am I.
This lasts at the most an hour; it is time for sorting and planning, ordering my mind and maybe a little potting shed disco. Gradually the pace quickens and I am ready to dive headlong into the day ahead. It has been a full-on week; we have been very busy watering, planting out, watering, weeding, watering, potting on and yes even more bloomin’ watering. I am not complaining about the wonderful unremitting sunshine, it just takes a little adjusting to, especially as my webbed feet were evolving quite nicely.