So, I’m back from the best ever trip – to Scotland – and I’m dazed. I called to see my brother Pete in Shropshire on the way home and we walked round the field and conjured up an orchard of perry pears – there are four trees left and they were smothered in blossom. I don’t think I can talk about Scotland just yet, it’s too fresh, too much like the golden liquid pouring over the edges of the glass when you’ve forgotten to close the tap. I need to let it rest, let it infuse my soul some more before I can let it out in words.

One of the many joys of being a gardener is coming home after being away. It takes the sting out of the ending of the holiday. It is so green down here, so soft. A lorry fire blocked the main road near Birdlip and Google maps took us on a gentle tour of the tiny lanes of Gloucestershire and there were bluebells. I wrote in Galloway of “the hope of bluebells” carpeting the woodland floor. In Gloucestershire the hope was fulfilled. Gentle drifts of nodding mist. Sky under the trees. It is so singular, so personal, so mythical. One of the great moments of the year. And Lily’s birthday soon!

In the garden here there are many bluebells. These are the Spanish ones. I am trying very hard to like them, and say nice things about them. I did not plant them, and they are rather like guests who overstay their welcome, and then start breeding.

I like Spanish bluebells, I like Spanish bluebells, I like Spanish bluebells – it’s like writing lines. Yet they are blue, and have bells. I just wish you could eat them!