june What is one to say about June—the time of perfect young summer, the fulfillment of the promise of the earlier months, and with as yet no sign to remind one that its fresh young beauty will ever fade? — Gertrude Jekyll, Wood and Garden, 1899
W
e wake with the early light on June mornings, hoping for sunlight on the land. Tendrils of mist rise from the pond, where swallows are already spiralling low in search of food. On fine days we eat lunch on the terrace, inhaling the scents of the garden and listening to the buzz and twitter of hummingbirds among the flowers. Grass is growing long in the fields and clover is in bloom, a treat for the sheep who can hardly wait to get at it. We still shut them in overnight to keep them safe from coyotes, but now in the long warm evenings we have to lure them in before dusk by rattling a little grain in a bucket.
Our egg supply is dwindling, as many of the chickens are moulting and a few have gone broody. The Buff Orpingtons, big blowsy hens, are the worst for deciding to sit their eggs. They hog the nesting boxes like fat golden tea cozies. If they can scrape another hen’s eggs under their capacious breasts they’ll sit those too. When we turf them out of the henhouse, they squat on the ground grumbling and scurry back inside as soon as we turn our backs. The Barred Rocks, more cunning birds, try to find hiding places in the barn, squeezing themselves into narrow gaps between the hay bales. Although we have become very sharp at spotting a lone bird emerging for
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