We here in The Yorkshire Dales have forgotten what hot weather is like. We have had only isolated warm days over the last few years and to suddenly have a spell of hot weather is unheard of. The tar is melting on the lane and there are tar bubbles - as children we used to 'pop' them with our feet and get a rocket from mums when we arrived home and trailed tar into the house. I am half-watching the Tennis Championships and hear that the temperature on Centre Court is one hundred degrees.
All the doors and windows in the house are open to the elements and there is no cooking today - plenty of salad in the garden so we shall eat that.
Another side effect of the heatwave is that every rose in the garden has suddenly bloomed, after weeks in bud. Alexander Girault, my favourite rambler, has rocketed up, around the weather vane and along the calf house roof. Every year we cut him back to curb his enthusiasm, every year he makes his way along the roof again. I would let him go except he would leave the wall behind and it is the wall I wish to cover.
All the garden flowers are opening their faces to the sun - it is a joyous few days; something to do with the weather coming in from the Azores. Long may it continue. The farmer is walking with his group today and then when he comes home he intends to bale up our paddock of hay. Midgies permitting I shall go out and sit on a bale and watch him.
And the Greem Man watches over it all and tells us that we shall have to accept what comes.
If it is hot where you are - keep cool.