At the beginning of the first lockdown, I bought a hammock. It just about fits in my paved backyard between the raised beds, below the washing line. I can lie in it and look up at the sky, telephone wires chopping the blue into splinters, laundry flapping over my head. The first warm-enough day of the year, when I can finally lie back and take my swaying place among the plants again, is long-awaited. And here it is, at last. All around me are beginnings. The roses have new red fingers. Bleeding hearts raise their hands from the still-cold soil between the purple crocuses. Most gardeners would be eager to get started, but instead of greeting spring with busyness, I have made it my ritual to do the opposite. I lie still and listen first, before even thinking about work. It feels right, respectful. Here is a chance to hear the news – the world’s, the garden’s, my own. I close my eyes. The pigeon who likes to sit in the old shrub by the fence is cooing softly. I wait for the pause and the inevitable flap, flap, flap, when something startles her, and smile when I hear it. I can hear a robin, sweet as cordial, two gardens over, and the angry rattle of magpies. There is construction noise too, sudden and jarring, and traffic sounds like the sea. A buzz in my left ear tells me a bee has joined the rosemary. What does it all mean? The benefit of rest is that it gives you a chance to listen and understand. I let each sound come and go, out of my control, each thing in turn blissful or disturbing. I fall asleep, inevitably. A starling wakes me with a jolt from its usual spot on the chimney – my garden’s defiant arcade machine, shooting his whistling sparks and explosions. I laugh, relax, my heart hammering in surprise. Peace. Safety. The privilege of growth to come. There is nothing better than this, nothing more precious. Yes, that is the story here, I think.