How I love June. The hedgerows in the lanes are bursting with pale dog roses and the timeless sweet honeysuckle that seems to wind its way round the tough hawthorn, gorse and sloe branches before bursting its scented blossoms to the forefront of every vista; even competing with the moor.

I am really quite sad it is July tomorrow since this is the beginning of really high summer when everything starts to look faded and dusty. The trees have lost their fresh green innocence, foxgloves are beginning to run to seed and precocious brambles tear at clothing, questing dogs and the soft fleeces of straying sheep.

The honeysuckle luckily goes on and on until fairly late autumn when the last brave flowers mingle with sprays of bright red rose hips and bunches of luscious ripe blackberries.

All of this helps to create yet another unforgettable English scene that is lovingly captured for ever by so many amateur artists. Sometimes these simple wildflowers are even more captivating than formal garden flowers.

Every year though I am filled with dread when modern hedge cutting machines tramp the lanes, throwing broken split sticks and bits of chewed honeysuckle all over the road. I feel that somehow these beautiful plants, that fill the summer evenings with their ambrosial perfume, have been betrayed and disregarded. What a relief then to see the first tiny green buds appear in early spring ready to thrill me all over again.