I’ve just spent a couple of weeks away from the garden – at the Chelsea Flower Show (fantastic!) where I have had the privilege of a press pass for the last couple of years now, and then on my hols in the Isle of Wight.

More of Chelsea later if I get a moment… but what is it about going away even for a short amount of time that makes your garden suddenly decide it’s going to romp away and grow for England? Since I last looked at it, the Goliath poppies have burst into action, to say nothing of several self-seeded orientals – some are a beautiful clear orange, the first time that particular colour has turned up, and really unusual. My roses are blooming fit to bust (Dublin Bay – a scarlet climber – is particularly lovely), and several smaller shrubs have simply disappeared under the mass of vegetation that’s suddenly burgeoning from every corner.

Not that I’m complaining: June in my garden is fabulous, and the peak of the whole show. It’s so lovely to look out of your window and just stare, transfixed by something that’s in your own back garden. What a privilege.