have re-homed some roses. I never keep records so cannot say what they are, beyond one was bought at the Chelsea Flower Show a few years ago: deep-pinked orange, deeply fragrant; the other’s a lemony English shrub rose, name unknown but classic David Austin. They had outgrown their pots and were showing small signs of fatigue. So both are now homed in Kala’s border garden where they will have more room to expand. They have been replaced on the roof by two more David Austin, ordered online when garden centres and nurseries were still shut, and I was getting antsy. One is almost a straight swap: the Poet’s Wife – yellow, with, it says, a ‘strong fruity fragrance’ and large flower. The other is Roald Dahl, with a soft apricot bloom in ‘an informal group of petals’ and few thorns. A percentage from each sale goes to Dahl’s Marvellous Children’s Charity. Less fragrant than Poet’s Wife, the scent described as ‘medium, tea’, this joins the Bengal Crimson from Great Dixter with its prolific lolling flower. It took me a long while to come to roses on the roof terrace – see back to the concern about pots – but it would feel more empty without them. Early mornings and late evenings are scented as we step out through the French doors from our bedroom. Kala’s happy and so should our old roses be. Potted plants can’t perhaps compete with a garden, though I love to see the lily of the valley, the blue cranesbill geranium (midsommarblomster in Swedish) and geum popping through every year. My panic about being able to buy plants has subsided. The plot is about to burst into bloom with runs of calendula and clambering nasturtiums. And it’ll soon be time for the sweet pea. Happy summer solstice weekend everyone.