Dearest H,
We’re in the midst of what I think is the third (!) heatwave of the year so far. It’s sweltering, and we’re doing everything we can to keep our little house cool—windows closed and curtains drawn in the heat of the day, bedsheets hung over curtainless panes, then everything flung open again in the depths of night to coax in the faintest whisper of breeze. Not too open, though, or the cat will seize his chance to make a break for it!
The lush green of spring is fading to a parched, crispy brown. Lawns are shrivelling, and plants—so often spoilt for water—are wilting and withering. I worry this isn’t just a blip in the weather. This is what Britain feels like now in summer, and I fear in ten years it will be even harsher.
We’re popping down to the allotment as often as we can, dipping watering cans into the little stream that runs along the bottom of the site—aptly named “Hell Ditch”—to keep the tomatoes and Padrón peppers alive. The potato harvest is pretty meagre, but that’s no surprise; they’ve only seen rain about four times since we planted them. Still, those early morning visits are a treat: the quiet streets of the still-sleeping town, birdsong in the hedges, and a cool breeze that hides the heat waiting in the wings.
Next week is looking like it might be cooler, which is a relief. Rain seems too much to ask for—but we can hope.
Love,
Dad
Dale Walker 