Across a narrow, decorative, stone path, beyond the patio rail, Anna's long rose garden sat, scented and blooming, in the golden summer light. The rose garden required a lot of work but the rewards were overwhelming. Well ordered, with a profusion of peach, and gold, and blood red blooms, velvety to the touch. It was always a stunning vision: a pleasure to the eye, and a virtual pond of perfume for the nose to swim in. Both he and Anna, his wife, loved to wallow in its sensory pleasures day or night as they enjoyed the garden on balmy summer evenings.

        He could see that the large sun patio, that dominated the centre of the garden, had been power-hosed. The soot-black stains from the winter rains and the growths of lichen were gone now. The patio sat sparkling white and inviting in the lazy summer heat. An army of ants marched across it carrying all sorts of minuscule piece of garden debris as gifts to their queen. The sun-beds and the large patio umbrella hadn't been erected yet but he could hear Anna rummaging around in the garden shed where the sun-beds, lived with all the other garden equipment, in the winter. Anna would soon have the beds laid out and he'd be able to get out and enjoy the summer heat and inspect the rest of the garden. The large patio was surrounded by flowerbeds of marigolds, red and maroon, and purple-blue Argentium and had, like the small patio, sets of glazed pots planted up with deep blue Lobelia and Begonia. A summer seat of ironwood sat forlorn at one side. Behind it a trellis gave some privacy from neighbours eyes. The trellis, still in need of a coat of paint this season, was covered with climbing roses of red and yellow, which vied for space with purple clematis and large spikes of maroon Hollyhocks. The perfume was intense in the evening.

A blackbird raced around the beds looking for its breakfast. It raced across the patio and suddenly stopped to jab angrily at the ground, then glaring, as if angry at something, cocked his head to one side then tore off in another direction to loudly scold another bird for trespassing on its patch. Sparrows squabbled over the sand baths that they constructed in the rose garden and the patio border. Screeching at each other like noisy school children, only to fly off with a piercing warning when Anna poked her head around the shed door to see what all the commotion was about. Bob could see that the border shrubbery, which ran the full length of the garden boundary, was in full bloom. It was still in the early morning shade of the Rowan and Silver Birch trees in the next door garden. Rich golden flowers, Day Lilies, caught his eye as, looking like bright yellow stars, in the dappled sunlight; they nodded to the breeze, as to a passing acquaintance. The large Flower of the Forest was already starting to show some scarlet leaves on its top-knot, an indisputable sign that, already, some of the plants were aware that autumn was just around the corner. Nearer to the window, in the deepest shade of the border, Bob admired the fat clumps of Hostas, with their blue and yellow-white striped leafs, or yellow and green striped leafs, or green and white striped leafs, they all threw large purple-flowered spears to the sky like Olympians. Bob could see, from where he sat in his wheelchair, that Anna's war on the slug population was going well: the Hostas' leaves were all intact. The slugs loved them, so Anna's beer traps were working well. The image of drunken slugs holding a midnight orgy in the garden made him laugh.

        He watched as Anna walked down the garden path to the low ranch fence at the bottom of the garden. She tipped a trug of cuttings over the fence onto a waste heap behind the fence. Anna smiled her great beaming 'happy to see you' smile when she saw him through the window. She mouthed a “good morning,” and indicated for him to look at the fence. The wild rose that they had removed from the garden, three years before and that they'd planted behind the fence, was a mass of magenta flowers,
Brilliant in the sun, it was creeping over the fence again as if it missed the garden and wanted to get back into it. Bob nodded as Anna indicated that she would have to trim it back again. Beyond the fence and the rose, Bob knew, there was a narrow path then the ground fell away rapidly. Twelve feet below the path there was a stream that gurgled away all day. Unlike a Victorian child it could be heard and not seen from the garden. It was welcome non-the-less, Bob thought, there was something quite calming about the sound of running water in the garden. Every now and then welcome visitors, frogs, or toads, from the stream would appear in the garden. They could be found under the Hostas' leaves. Anna hated them and Bob laughed, to himself, as he remembered her reaction to the frog she'd suddenly come across last year, Anna had screamed and ran into the house. It gave them a chance to have a cuddle until Anna's heart stopped racing. The frog was unimpressed.

The two fields beyond the garden and the stream were completely different from one another. The field to the left ran uphill from the stream, its skirt and feet were in a bog whilst its head was high in the air. It wore a fence, like a crown on its head, to stop anyone falling onto the railway that ran through a cutting that had been forced through the hill. The other field lay at the same level as the stream. It was as permanently boggy and often had water lying about it in the rainier months. Bob could remember several winters when ponds had formed and wading birds had taken up residence for several months. Both Bob and Anna loved that field and its wildness, hawks quartered it searching for a meal. Foxes fouled in it and chased each other through it. Birds nested in it. Cats hunted in it. Children walked their dogs in it. Drunks collapsed in it, when using it as a right of way (sway) from the pub behind the dark green trees at its border. The field had been allowed to lie fallow for several years and was quickly reverting to its natural habitat. The fence that marked the boundary between the two fields also marked the end of the range that the fallow deer (no pun intended) ran. In the winter months of fogs and frosts and snows the deer often came timidly to that fence and eyed, enviously, any plants they could see in the garden. The far boundary of the low field was marked by the hard straight edge of the railway line as it shot out of the cutting. The railway had been built on an embankment, twelve feet above the boggy field, and headed south to London. The scene came to an abrupt end beyond the railway line, in the summer months; a dark green frieze of trees blocked any further view down the valley. Enticing patches of colour suggested that there was life beyond the trees but Bob felt he'd explored enough this morning and he turned to put the kettle on as Anna came through the door saying, “the garden's looking great today. Fancy just lying out and having a lazy day at home?”