Don’t even ask me to explain why today feels like the first weekend of summer – it just does. The sun is hot, the sky is blue, the bees are buzzing – everything is conspiring to shout “summer” as loudly as possible.
Daisy is sitting on her nest of eggs: 8 or 9 of them.
The strawberries, warm from the sun, taste of the very essence of June: sweet juice dribbling down my chin as I bite into them. Peas are growing tall up the fence. The big fat leaves of pole beans are unfurling slowly in the heat. Potatoes are growing high. Inch-high corn seedlings belie the height they will reach in August. Walking through the park, birds sing raucously; frogs skitter into the water with a giant “plop” as we approach. And nothing, but nothing can approach the scent of the wild roses. If I could distil that aroma in to a perfume, I would never be without it. When I press my nose to the velvety petals and inhale deeply, my head spins. I am giddy with the drug of that sweet, sweet odour.
After a long walk, Abby takes up her favourite position in the sun on my south-facing deck, pattering inside now and then to slurp cool water. It’s a good life.
Tomorrow we hike the ridge staring at Cathedral Grove and climbing to the top of Mount Wesley before descending the ridge far on the other side. In the sun and warmth, it promises to be as perfect a day as it’s possible to get.