There is something truly glorious about the quiet middle of the evening, during the summer months, in an English garden. The heat which stifled you during the day has gone and there remains just greenery bathed in a golden sunlight which is almost clichéd.
You are transported to another time when words like glorious were still redolent and, as the sun leisurely takes a place on the horizon, you can’t help but be infected by its calming influence. Your head is awash with predictable metaphors and even the weeds and compost bin look vaguely charming. The jobs which might normally worry you seem manageable but better left for tomorrow. You can sigh gently until the bottom of your lungs are bare. In your contented exhale go all your worries and you breathe in the scents of summer; the fresh hose water on the path, the rosemary and tomato plants. Birds and children chatter nearby.
In this moment you are always alone. The sweet solitude is an essential part of the experience – any small talk or comradery would shatter the fragile moment. This is a blissful pause.