And it gave me this small moment of joy. Pure longing, right there in the middle of a heatwave.

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The other day I found myself standing in the garden in the middle of a heatwave, genuinely thinking about where the Christmas tree should go this year. In July. Not that I’m that surprised, I love the ‘ber months. But I guess it wasn’t really about the tree. It was more about wanting to feel cosy and cocooned again. With all the excitement of a season still ahead of me.

July to me, feels like the very middle of it all. The heat in England has been lingering for weeks now, long enough that it’s stopped feeling like a novelty. The excitement of early summer has faded too. No roses exploding, no flower beds overflowing.

I’ll be honest with you, this July in the English countryside is looking particularly tired. We haven’t had rain for the longest stretch. The grass is mostly dead, the plants are struggling, and the fields around us have lost that lush green they held so proudly back in spring. All of the colour seems to have quietly faded out of the landscape, like an old photograph left out in the sun.

Maybe that’s why my mind keeps circling back to the Christmas tree. Every weekend at the moment is taken up with social plans, lovely ones, but plans all the same, and somewhere in the middle of it all I can feel myself craving the quietness that winter brings. The season where nothing is expected of you after 4pm. The crisp air. Jumpers and candles and the permission to stay in. The comfort of it all.

Because the cottage in summer feels like its most bare form. Stripped of all the extravagant detail and charm and nostalgia, just waiting to be dressed again. What is the summer alternative to a Christmas tree, anyway? Every other season brings something into the house with it. Spring arrives with an abundance of cottage flowers, filling every jug and windowsill. Autumn brings the cosiness of blankets and hot water bottles, lit fires and comfort food. But summer keeps all of its charm outside. The rooms just have to wait their turn.

I don’t think I’m the only one who does this? Holds a little secret pocket of December in their head all through summer.

I don’t want to wish the summer away. I know come January I’ll be dreaming of these long light evenings. But I think July is the month where you’re allowed to hold both. To be here, in the heat and the long days and the full weekends, whilst also letting your mind wander forward to crisp mornings and early dusks. To enjoy the slow draw of summer’s end precisely because you know what’s coming next.

Do you find your mind drifting to the next season too? Or are you holding on to summer with both hands?

Stay awhile. ☕️

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I know, I know. The English countryside in July. It should be everything. And in so many ways it is. The hedgerows full and green, the evenings stretching on and on, that particular quality of warmth people wait all year for.

But I find the heat difficult. The dressing for it, the stickiness of it, the way it makes me miss the cold crisp air of early spring and autumn, the comfort of layers, the feeling of coming inside to something cosy.

And yet.

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June, to me, feels like the last quiet exhale before summer truly begins. It’s right on the cusp. The air feels like summer, but the busyness hasn’t quite caught up yet. Life feels like the days can start more quietly in June.

Outside, the roses are exploding and the flower beds are overflowing, pink and purple everywhere. What was once a ‘coffee in the kitchen every morning’ kind of routine turns into coffee in the garden, whilst watering the plants. Twenty minutes out there, before the day begins. Just me, the dog, the plants and my cup of coffee. No phone, no emails. Just the bees moving between the foxgloves and the birds swooping in for breakfast.

If you just stop for a moment and watch it all get on with the day, the busy but unhurried work of the bees and the butterflies, the birds and the bugs, it does something to your mind. Your mood. Because they just get on with it don’t they? And somehow, watching them, makes you feel like you can too. Whatever you have on that day. Even if it feels like a lot. It brings it all back to what matters. Life goes on. And you can too.

One of my favourite moments of the day in June, alongside mornings in the garden, is the late evenings. That moment just after golden hour. When the day has fully exhaled. When it’s past 9pm and outside the sky has turned that deep dark blue. Not quite night, just late evening. When you look up from whatever you’ve been doing and you notice it through the window and think - yes. Finally. Summer is here.

And that sky does something to you. Reminds you how the days feel so much longer now. Winter, although slow in its own way, can feel surprisingly rushed in the day to day. Trying to get everything done before dark, always chasing the light. You don’t get that in June. June has all of the time in the world in the evenings. You can take things slower. There’s time. Sitting inside with the curtains still open at 10pm is a small reminder of that.

Is it the mornings for you, or the evenings that feel like yours?

I hope June gives you both.

Stay awhile. ☕️

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An evening walk, one of our usual routes through the fields, at golden hour. We turned a corner and the path in front of us was covered in dandelions. Completely untouched. Just there, without interruption. The sky was that perfect milky blue colour you only get on a spring evening when there are no clouds. The light hitting just right. And our dog leaping along the path ahead of us.

It was one of those moments where every element just lined up perfectly, all on its own.

And I spent most of that moment trying to capture it.

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If May was a colour, to me it would look purple.

Purple from the wisteria that covers every inch of these old brick walls. From the garden ground to the roof tiles. It really is an incredible sight and not one I ever dreamed of being lucky enough to have in our own home.

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Golden hour is my favourite time of day.

When the evenings draw longer and those extra hours of golden light start stretching back in. If we can get outside for a walk, just before the light hits, I know that the day has given me everything I need.

Evenings can be busy and chaotic, can’t they. Dinner to sort, chores to do, that never ending list of small tasks trying to squeeze themselves into the last few hours of the day. But sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself, is just say no. To all of it. Step outside, and let the quiet do its thing.

That’s what golden hour is for me. My manual pause. The one moment in the day that isn’t for anyone or anything else. No list, no productivity, no purpose other than just existing in it.

The air feels cooler, quieter. Just the breeze and the birds making their way home. And then the light shifts. That warm hazy gold spreads across the fields and the paths, the last of it touching the very tops of the trees before it disappears beyond the horizon. And my favourite detail, the one that feels like the very definition of spring tipping into summer, is when the light catches just right, and you can see the bugs buzzing around in the haze. Tiny, alive, golden. There’s something about it that makes me feel nostalgically homesick for a place I already am.

Nature’s way of saying, here you go. This is what it’s all been about. Now take it in before it goes…

The pup loves it too. Frolicking through the fields with the warmth of the sun on her back. The little chihuahua in her absolutely lives for days like these.

She gets home, settles down and seems so content. I think sometimes we forget how important the simple things are. But dogs don’t seem to do that. They’re always there. Waiting. Mostly patiently. Reminding us when it’s time to go. They’re clever little things aren’t they?

Stay awhile. ☕️

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I’m a little late with this one, but April felt too special to miss…

April will always be a special month here because it’s the month that I got married. And so much of the preparation for that day happened right here, in this cottage.

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Whenever anyone ever asks me what my favourite season is, my answer has always been autumn. Straight away. No hesitation. No doubt. There’s something about being wrapped up in layers, that fresh crisp air, the rich golden colours, and then back to cosy evenings in. It’s such a comforting time of year.

But with every spring that passes, it takes up more and more space in my heart.

Spring is quite literally the season of new life. Nature’s way of waking up. The countryside turns green again, gardens bloom, birds sing, lambs spring. And as much as I do love to stay home and be cosy, spring invites a more curious and adventurous side of me. To step outside, breathe it all in and start afresh.

Since living here at the cottage, I’ve noticed how attuned I’ve become to the seasons and the changing of them. I find myself noticing every new flower that appears in the garden and the order in which they arrive. I notice exactly when the hedges start to turn that beautiful fresh green colour. And every early spring I wait for those two weeks, when the magnolia tree outside the kitchen window blossoms and fills the outside of the house with pink frosting.

Spring has made me appreciate all of those smaller markers throughout the year. The first sign of snowdrops, bluebells flourishing in the woods, blossom on the trees. Suddenly there are a hundred little moments of joy dotted all through the year, rather than just the big ones.

Or maybe I’ve just reached the age where plants really excite me.

This spring I’ve found so much joy in the garden. Seeing the birds pottering around. The return of the butterflies and the bumblebees. My dog, how full of joy she is to finally spend more time outside. Basking in the sunshine. Watching that makes my soul happy.

Does spring feel this way for you too?

Stay awhile. ☕️

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My friends always say that an afternoon here resets their nervous system.

A cuppa on the sofa, long chats, the birds tweeting out in the garden. Nothing remarkable really, and yet somehow, every time it works.

I don’t think it’s the walls of the cottage. It’s the life inside of it. All of those mornings putting the kettle on, making endless cups of tea and coffee for ourselves and visitors. The little everyday rituals that seem so mundane until you look back and realise they were actually some of the most comforting moments of the day.

I’m a big re-watcher of my favourite shows. There’s just something about always knowing what’s going to happen. It calms you. Keeps you safe. That’s how life at the cottage feels to me. A re-run of my favourite comfort show, just in different seasons of life. The same rituals, the same routines, over and over again.

Because life is short, isn’t it. And the big moments are great. But it’s actually the small, everyday things that make us feel whole. The sun streaming through the window. The birds singing on a light spring evening. All of those little moments of joy that creep up on you and suddenly make everything feel like exactly enough.

Well, that’s how it feels here anyway. Maybe you know exactly what I mean?

This is behind the cottage door. A deeper look at life inside an 18th-century English cottage. What it feels like to slow down enough to notice the small things. The stories, the memories, the quiet moments in-between. Something to sit down with, a cup of tea in hand, and just be for a while.

If you’re here for the feeling, you’re in the right place.

The dog may make the occasional appearance. 🐾

Stay awhile. ☕️

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