With my first cup of coffee, I disappear into the garden, Macchia leading the way or close on my heels. I inspect the overnight growth. If you pay attention, it’s there. I admire the newest leaf, the latest flower, the swollen fruit on the climbing vines. My little 9x2m patch is in its prime. July. Summer.

I have to go inside – work calls. But in between my lessons, I pop outside to pull up some weeds. A library book taught me the difference between yarrow and Fat Hen. I prune, I deadhead, I stake and I trellis. I inspect the flea beetle infestation, hopefully not riddling my rocket with tiny holes. I squash a Cabbage White Caterpillar. I celebrate each ladybird. My skin browns as it never has in South Africa; the days are long, the sunshine seemingly unending. I buy a higher SPF. I collect an old enamelled bowl from my kitchen (it has come to me from my green-fingered Oma; it feels right that it is here). I slice at the marrows, I pinch the beans, I uproot a beet. I press the darkness of the bulging brinjals – getting there.

Evening comes. I gather my watering can and start carrying. One after the next after the next. 6.5 litres at a time. The UK is in drought. We’ve not seen rain in 28 days. Water restrictions have banned my hosepipe. Oh, the irony… How will you survive the terrible weather in the UK, they asked? I open the weather app, longing for the drops, now.

But, the watering can has done its work: we feast on green beans, tender and sweet, silky baby marrows and leeks drowning in olive oil. The lettuce we ate every day for weeks has since gone to seed; now every salad celebrates cucumbers. Beetroot and carrots colour in between the green lines. A collection of potatoes, those infamous volunteers, join a roast chicken on our table. Please can the dill play along, too? Now that the oppressive heat has abated ever so slightly?

At night I pour over my allotment book, picking up tips and learning what to grow when. It’s late. Stephen fell asleep an hour ago. I check the seed-selling website, again. What can I still sow? The seasons are topsy turvy; everything is back to front; the winter will be long. I worry about the coming winter. I research. I strategise.

My garden is my thesis; my canvas. It unfurls something to learn for me every day. It is relentless work, yet in a way that is slow, gentle, calming. It tells me to be patient, to look, to wait. To get on my hands and knees and to delight in the dirt under my fingernails. Tomorrow it begins again. I dream of the shades of poppy pink that will appear with my morning coffee.