The magic garden.

Taking a leaf from Proust this was a day which involved seeing with new eyes rather than seeking new landscapes.

Too darn hot for wasting effort, a day for conserving reserves. Too nice to remain indoors, however attractive the shade, it is the shade of brick walls.

To the allotment, the wild made tame, although probably somewhat wilder than others entirely appreciate. Thankfully it is the most wonderful secluded spot, tree lined and in places overgrown with lovely blackberry bushes. To large for most people to want to cultivate, defeating their horticultural imagination.

What the late frosts did not kill the rabbits have eaten and what they found inedible the lack of rain has withered. It is not a place of self-sufficiency but nor is it a temple of neuroisis, a chemical attack on all that is nature. The stuff is given the best chance of growing with the understanding Tesco provides it cheaper.

So on the basis I don't need the food I grow there as much as the wildlife does, they end up eating most of it.

The pond is overgrown, offering welcome shade to the fish i can see below the surface and the odd pair of frogs eyes breaking the surface. The whole area is teeming with frogs but they have more sense than to break cover. The other week when clearing the pond a newt was collected up. The pond in dimension is only a generous bath-tub but it is home to so much life and activity it is barely credible.

I find a shady spot to settle myself, the earth is baked and is radiating heat. The grey soil is uncomfortably hot to hold in my hand. The china blue sky has no clouds nor contrails, a real rarity.

Sometimes such skies seem close enough to touch, fragile enough to crack with a hammer. Not today though, it looks a long way away and has the depth of deep water, a sky you could fall into. I lay down, book reading was the chosen activity.

Plants are sucking up moisture from somewhere, there is a lot of growth and bees are busy. Hives are close by, liquid sunshine stored up for me. This surely is the season of flight, everything seems to be a buzz. Flies are going about their business, some land on my sweating hands. I don't know much about flies but I expect sweating hands are quite a treat so leave them be.

Behind me is quite a commotion. I am sharing a territory with a blackbird. If she minds she is not showing it as she scrabbles about the undergrowth for worms and grubs. I expect she hopes I will be turning the soil for her, but it is too hot for that. I am there 3 hours and we co-exist happily.

I cannot say the same of the wood pigeons. They were happy enough with my company but the boisterous wing-clapping and calling seemed more than was totally necessary. The barking from branches above my head meant the squirrel had accepted my presence enough to make a fus about it. He preened and cleaned himself between scampering branch to branch.

All was well with the world, although no doubts endless life and death struggles went on around me as I lazily read the pages of my book. A book about songlines and dreamtime in the fierce Australian heat. It seemed suitable as the sweat rolled down my still forearms.

Within moments of taking off my shoes and socks i could feel the sun working its heat into my feet. Had to be careful with them, they are very un-used to freedom and the idea of sunburnt feet does not appeal.

Over the years my family have sown and grown on this bit of land, as have nameless others for the 100 years this land has been allotment. Much has been developed around it and older maps show lost allotments as housing has encroached.

All in all a perfect little adventure on a small bit of land I know very well. The aborigines have a concept about the depth of land, that which is underneath. Today I added a little more depth to this bit of land and made myself part of its story.