The sun shines through the larch and the long grass. The woodpecker calls. A hare loops through the meadow. Henri is here to convalesce in her summerhouse home from home. We are a couple of kilometres from where she spent her childhood holidays. Close to where her mother lived her last years. Here, we grow and garden at a different speed. Any planting is mostly of trees: two larch once only a metre tall now tower over the oak; there are groups of shimmering silver birch, assorted pines and fir. There is an old-school apple tree, a few currant bushes, mainly there for the birds and to make her mother’s favourite blackcurrant jam. The sea air smells of salt and flowers. There are assorted roses and a lilac hedge, thriving now, covered in bloom after some heavy pruning last year. Here, we spend our days outside, working, walking and talking. Occasional weeding and reading. Henri mows. I chop wood for winter and add to the wild flowers at the edges. I have staked out a patch towards the back of the plot. There are swaying ox-eye daisies, conflowers, plus a scant scattering of calendula and nasturtiums (of course). Many other native varieties. This isn’t a garden as much as meadow left to its own devices for much of the year. Perhaps an occasional midsummer trim like a reluctant teenage haircut. The June sun rises about 4.30am and sets around 10pm and I follow pretty close to the same timetable. The surrounding birds call me awake through the wide open windows. Later, I will sit obsessing with the Merlin identifier app, tracking competitive song. There are echoes here of my Devon childhood. My foster father reclaiming fields. Summers spent outside in the croft, climbing elm trees. Cricket with my brother, Christopher. Seemingly endless summer days. But tell me, what gardens conjure memories where you are?