Dear reader...

THERE IS A corner of my garden which, in contrast to the rest, sits in cool shade. As the borders nearer the house unfurl to the sun’s warming rays, this little patch is shy, holding its secrets until the rest of the garden is in full show.

Elsewhere, the soil is striped with blue clay: claggy in the winter and parched and cracked in the summer. Yet, in this spot, where the pendulous birch lowers its boughs to the ground, the earth is dark and crumbly. Year after year, falling leaves have proffered their goodness, gradually creating a welcoming home for plants which like their feet in cool, rich earth.

It is here that I have my favourite perch: a deep wooden seat, with wide arms, perfect for sitting in the watery morning light with a mug of hot tea.

I can sit back, my feet tucked beneath me, and contemplate the glaucous leaves of the hostas crowded around the tree’s trunk, and marvel at the daily growth of the ornamental rhubarb as it flashes the red underside of its giant leaves.

If I am still, a blackbird or robin will appear to gather treats: a grub or worm plucked from its hiding place. Often, I will sit longer than intended, not wishing to disturb my feathered friends in their pursuit of a meal. But there is always the possibility of returning later, when my own daily tasks are complete, not least to see how much taller the rhubarb has grown.