In the heatwaves, which seemingly are becoming more and more frequent, I worry for nature. I worry especially for the animals.

I put out plant trays filled with water as drinkers, perching little rocks in them that will allow animals, birds and insects to drink safely.

I’ll leave them out all summer now, so that the animals and birds get used to them and I hope, feel safe enough to drink there, including my new, local leveret.

This week it’s been so hot that I’ve had the curtains drawn in the day to escape the heat. But sitting indoors all day, in near-darkness does no good for the mind. By Thursday I feel quite melancholy. An unease I can’t explain.

The only time I spend any amount of time outdoors is after 9pm, when it finally gets cool enough to walk the dogs and take a rejuvenating swim in the river. Meaning that this week I’ve seen sunsets, and I’ve seen the moon more than I’ve seen daylight.

On Saturday the temperature dropped to 29°C.

I was so fed up with being stuck indoors during the day that I headed out without the dogs to explore the river and paddle a little.

I was met with a confetti of butterflies (or at least, that’s what I believe the collective noun for butterflies should be), and the beauty of the crystal-clear river in sunlight.

Finally, by Sunday, blessed relief, the temperature dropped to 22°C. Relieved, I got up early to enjoy a cool walk with the dogs.

‘Willow trees dipped their bare branches into pond water like girls testing the temperature with their toes’ - A Year of Pleasures by Elizabeth Berg

I loved this line from the book I started this week. It perfectly captures what the picture below shows - when long trailing willow branches gently caress the surface of a lazily flowing river.

It didn’t work. But I do remember ticking off the butterflies in the book as I spotted them.

Many years later, I’m sad to say I only remember the name of one of the butterflies in the book, and it was the one of the cover. The Peacock butterfly.

To this day Peacock butterflies are my absolute favourite. They’re not as common as the other butterflies I tend to see around where I live, so when I do see their vivid colours, it’s a real treat.

This week I spotted one that had got stuck in the house, trying to find her way to freedom through a closed window. I gently placed my hand next to her and she slowly climbed aboard.

She sat on my hand for a a few seconds - long enough to grab my camera, perhaps she was gathering herself fluttering on the gentle breeze out of the open door to freedom.

What a beauty she was.

The Heat this week has at times been unbearable, reaching 38°C.

At that temperature, with no aircon (I hate the sterile fake-ness of aircon so I will resist it as long as possible) there’s little I could do other than close the curtains in the day to keep the sun out of the rooms. This made for a series of depressing days indoors in the darkness.

I’ve been walking the dogs at 10pm just to avoid the heat, so I’ve missed a lot of the action this week.

But on Saturday the temperature dropped to 29°C and feeling frustrated at being cooped up indoors with the curtains closed all week, I left the dogs spread eagled on the cold, tiled kitchen floor and took myself on a walk to the river for a cool down.

What I noticed along the way, was that while I’d been holding up indoors this week, hundreds of butterflies and dragon flies had emerged. All different colours, all different sizes, zooming and fluttering busily around wild flower meadows.

Butterflies fluttered ahead of me all the way along the footpath, looking like confetti at a wedding.

When I reached the river, I waded straight in for a cool down and was welcomed by lots if different dragon flies.

Some small and metallic, with what looks like 4 wings. And some big, chunky, mean-looking dragonflies, zooming about like particularly agile helicopters. I didn’t get any pictures of the bigger dragon flies - they’re far too fast and I didn’t see them landing at all, always busy, always on a mission.

Due to my shameful lack of butterfly and dragonfly knowledge, Google image search has been my go to for identifying these beauties, so please forgive any inaccuracies.

After a wander through the wild flower meadows, swaying with long grasses which are currently shifting from green to golden and alive with butterflies, I reached the crystal clear river.

Wading slowly through the cool, shallow water I spotted these dragon flies.

Most evenings now, since early June, I’ve seen her hopping silently up the track that runs past my house, as the light turns golden and the sun is close to setting.

I first noticed her when she boldly hoped onto my front lawn one evening.

As small as a rabbit, but on closer inspection clearly a young hare, or leveret - with her long back legs and long, curved, black-rimmed ears. The black markings on her ears have something of a graceful winged eye-liner look about them.

She foraged amongst the grass alongside two pigeons. They ignored each other, clearly feeling safe in each other’s company.

Since then I’ve seen her most evenings. Sometimes she’ll sit for a moment and duck under the gate into the meadow, other times she’ll hop slowly up the track - I watch her as she makes her way all the way to the top of the hill.

Currently, we’re experiencing a heat wave. Today, and yesterday, the temperature reached 38C - a concerning manifestation of climate change that makes me worry for all of the animals, but particularly this beautiful leveret.

At 10:30pm last night I was topping up the drinking trays I’ve left out for the birds and other wildlife on my front lawn, when I heard a scuttle. I saw two hares dash for cover. I must have spooked her, but I noticed she wasn’t alone. I can’t tell if she might have been with her mother, or a sibling.

Doing my research, I learn that siblings often disperse during the day but meet up in the same spot just before sunset to wait for their mother. I’m not sure if that’s the case, but yesterday’s sighting gives me hope that they’re doing ok in the heat. I hope they will feel safe enough to drink from my water trays.

I keep an eye out for her every evening now, desperately hoping she’s doing ok out there on her own, and willing her mother to appear to tell her; you’re doing great, honey.

The 21st of June is summer solstice. Confusingly it’s known as ‘midsummer’ but also the ‘beginning of summer’. I can understand both…

‘Midsummer’ reflects reaching the longest day in the year…

… while ‘beginning of summer’ reflects the pace of the season shifting from the fiercely productive growth and flowering stage, into the lazy-summer stage of ripen and mature.

It’s that time of the year when people love to say ‘we’re halfway through the year’, implying it’s time to get on with those ambitious goals set at the beginning of the year.

Often, summer is the time when calendars get busy. Weddings, barbecues, summer holidays, camping trips.

But if I’m to take a leaf out of nature’s book, and I cant see any better example, it’s time to rest. It’s time to slow down and reflect.

This summer solstice couldn’t have brought better weather, sunny and warm, with beautiful sunsets. We took took the opportunity to explore the Wye Valley and Forest of Dean.

This year solstice was perfect.

Not only was the weather perfect for walking, exploring and sunsets, it landed on a Sunday, meaning I experienced this key turning point in the year to it’s fullness.

But in nature, it’s a vital part of each yearly cycle. Yes, the flower might be gone but there is beauty in how that flower becomes fruit, nuts and seeds. And then how those fruits, nuts and seeds become new plants and flowers the following year.

Last week there were flowers everywhere. The stormy weather had offered the perfect balance of rain and sunshine to create a colourful canvas of wild flowers.

So this week I was surprised to notice how many of the spring flowers were already going to seed.

That’s the benefit of writing this nature diary - noticing the subtle shifts in nature, day-by-day, week by week. Nature doesn’t just turn from spring to summer, to autumn and winter. It’s busy every single day.

Take poppies for example, each individual flower often only blooms for a day or two before revealing a naked, pale green seed head which browns over time in the sun to create the seed for next year’s flower.

This week I’ve been making a mental note of the developing nuts, seeds and fruit I see so I can return in early autumn to forage for natures gifts.

As much as I’ve noticed the spring flowers transitioning to seed this week, it’s only mid-June, so of course the landscape is still lush and green. It feels at it’s most productive and glossy this month.

I set off without a coat again, despite the dark clouds overhead and intermittent showers all morning. But that leads me to wander into the woods for some shelter, where I’m met with the beautiful sight of fox gloves - appearing like spires amongst the undergrowth on the forest floor.

Truly a magical woodland flower that appears in clearings and any spot where they can reach a shaft of light. They provide bees with an abundance of pollen deep in the forest, and a beautiful sight for other visitors.

From a distance they look impressive, growing in clusters, injecting a rich, regal purple, contrasting against the dark, green woodland backdrop.

Up close they’re even more beautiful - folklore holds that the white spots inside each bell are marks left by fairies.

In old English weather lore they say ‘if there are thunderstorms in June, there will be a plump harvest’. I can believe it, and it’s perhaps one of the more reliable long-term, old English weather lore predictions.

The recent wet and stormy weather, punctuated with bursts of warm sunshine has resulted in a surge of growth. In places the grass is now chest-height and the footpaths have become overgrown with nettles.

As I venture out of the woods into the steady rain, I notice that every shade of green can be seen across the landscape.

From the pale, velvety green of a young hazelnuts - to the dark, rich green of pine trees - to the hunter green of dog rose leaves and brambles - to the lush green of fresh grass in the meadows; punctuated with yellow, pink and white wild flowers.

As the rain turns into a fine mist it settles in delicate drops on the bold yellow birdsfoot trefoil flowers.

I’ll tell you what’s not delicate though… Me, sliding onto my arse as I make my way home down the chalky hillside path.

Chalk becomes lethal in even the slightest bit of rain. The top two millimetres become loose and greasy, while the chalk underneath remains as hard as a rock, making the chalk path as slippery as ice, and as hard to land on.

I hobble home, soaked through and sore, but happy to have witnessed nature’s beauty without seeing another sole.

I get out for a quick walk in between showers and am welcomed by bright, hot sunshine and an abundance of dog roses that scatter hedgerows with white and pink petals.

It’s as if they’ve appeared out of nowhere, like polka dots in the hedgerows that weren’t there yesterday.

The dog rose flowers are fleeting so I remind myself to enjoy them while they last, and in the autumn I’ll return here to collect the rose hips, which I’ll use to make rose hip tea and rose hip skin oil.

Rose hips are known to contain high levels of vitamin C and anti-inflammatory properties making them high up on the foragers agenda come October.

I also spot blackberry blossom, lesser stitchwort, forget me nots and pyramidal orchids dotted amongst the grass meadows surrounding the woods.

The meadows and forest floor feel like they’re at their most productive this time of year, but I know that will soon transition to the hot lazy days of summer where, what’s now green will turn golden.

I had to dry my hair and completely change my clothes when I got back from this walk.

I don’t mind.

The calming feeling of drying off and warming up after a wet walk, while nursing a hot cup of tea is so satisfying.

It brings a feeling of physical tiredness which is a welcome change from mental tiredness - as a result of looking at screens, sitting in meetings and responding to emails.

The dogs feel it too. Curled up in balls having the deepest of snoozes while they dry off.

I should know better. Getting soaked through is what happens when I intentionally choose to go out in stormy weather without a coat.

But it was a choice between getting too hot but staying dry, or being a pleasant temperature and risk getting wet. I chose the later hoping I’d get away with it during a dry spell. I didn’t get away with it.

But raindrops on roses (and oak leaves and Oxeye daisies) are some of my favourite things.

By deciding not to hide away from the rain I was rewarded with the sight of delicate raindrops sitting pretty on recently unfurled, crinkled dog rose petals and young oak leaves.

I also noticed how pleasing this colour combination is, of bold and bright yellow buttercups against the rich green of the clover.

This year I’ve seen so many more oxeye daisies than usual. They’re growing in abundance; in the field margins, in scrubby bits of land, and even in swathes, self-seeded in my front garden.

By the end of my walk the rain had cleared and I couldn’t resist taking a picture of this cute little cottage.

Nature has a blossom roll-call. From magnolia to gorse, wild apple to hawthorn blossom, each tree’s blossom arrives in its own time.

The exact timing is always at the mercy of the British weather, but here’s a rough guide to England’s blossom schedule: what to look out for, and when.

March blossom

By the time March rolls around, I’m longing for spring. As Dickens captured so perfectly in Great Expectations, the weather in March can appear sunny, but still feel bitter. But blossom gives us hope of warmer, longer days.

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.” - Great Expectations.

On those bright but bitter days, look for the first magnolia blossom beginning to unfurl, and the blackthorn bursting into fluffy pillows of white along country lanes and field margins - carrying with it the promise of sloes come autumn.

Gorse is another to seek out in March. Vast swathes of yellow brightening chalky hillsides, bold and optimistic against the remaining winter landscape.

April Blossom

By April a domino effect is well underway. Fruit blossom begins to appear, with plum, cherry and pear leading the way. With it being delicate and fleeting, it’s worth making a note of where you spot them and returning in late summer, when those same trees should offer up fruit for foraging. I love a seasonal plumb pudding or poached pear.

Pussy willow arrives around now too, with yellow pollen and silver buds as soft as rabbits’ ears.

By the end of April the songbirds are at their loudest, and hawthorn blossom begins to burst open along hedgerows and woodland edges. Hawthorn is my favourite blossom. It appears in great abundance. A sure sign summer is to follow.

May Blossom

As pillows of white cow parsley begin to line the lanes, May brings the final and perhaps most generous wave of blossom.

Apple blossom is one of the last to arrive, large, blowsy petals in pink and white, often appearing just as everything else is beginning to fade. Make a note of where you find it. Return in September and early October to gather apples for making warming cinnamon-spiced apple pies and strudels throughout the winter months.

The horse chestnut is another May highlight. Its candles of blossom rising in exotic pinks and creams above everything else, almost tropical when you take a look up close.

Bringing up the rear of blossom season is a favourite. Elder blossom - otherwise known as Elderflower. The most generous of all, because the flowers can be gathered and turned into elderflower cordial, fritters, and countless other things besides. Head into the hedgerows from late May into June and you’ll find armfuls of heavily scented elderflower heads, ready to be brought home.

It happens gradually and then all at once.

Hazel and beech leaves begin to unfurl, vivid green and translucent in the early spring light. The birds, so quiet through the dark months, find their voices again. Bees reappear.

Then one morning it happens. The woodland floor is blue as far as you can see, with yellow celandines and white wood anemones threading through the sea of blue, nature’s punctuation marks.

Bluebell season has arrived, and you have to catch it while it lasts. It’s beautiful, but fleeting.

A thick carpet of bluebells will always stop my in my tracks.

The purply-blue sea of colour. The sweet scent. It never quite looks real. And yet here it is, reliably, every spring.

The season is short. A few weeks at most, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. Perhaps that’s why it feels so precious.

I’ve been making the most of it this year, lunchtime escapes into the woods, early morning walks when the light falls low through the canopy and the birds are at their loudest.

Sometimes I sit for a while on the forest floor. Meditating in nature, surrounded by the scent, and sound of bird song.

It’s easy to forget, in a world that rarely pauses, that we need these moments. That slowing down isn’t something to earn or schedule, it’s something the natural world has quietly offered all along.

The forest, as a friend once wisely pointed out, is for-rest.

If bluebell season does one thing, it reminds me to be present. To slow down. To linger a while and enjoy the noticing.