August In Abbeydore: Drought, Dahlias and a Finished Roof by Liberty Nimmo - September 2026
I love August and, if I’m being honest, it can also make me feel a little morose. The evenings have become noticeably cooler after the fierce heat of June and July and the evening light is drawing in; the heavy dew on the ground in the mornings has also returned. We have long since crested the longest day. So now what? We desperately need rain, and yet, I want to cling on to these long summer days that August feels synonymous with.
Much of the garden feels well and truly spent. There is a distinct sense of being at the end of a thoroughly enjoyed party. The sweet peas have given their all, the sunflowers and tithonia too, and the wisteria even put on a charming second flowering at the beginning of the month. Some of the roses have flowered three times this year. There is a moment of pause after all the blooming, as the tired partygoers now prepare to hand over to the dahlias and asters. Thankfully, there’s still a good deal more to come. But I will miss the scent of the sweet peas.
And yet, there is another side to this exhaustion; the drought, the local fires and the smoke which has lingered in the valley for days, the fear of water running out for both livestock and humans. There are cracks in the earth, and the farmers are feeding their winter stores to their livestock. The berries are so early, the birds so hungry and thirsty that they are being eaten now, leaving them goodness knows what to eat for the winter. The elder and silver birch seem to have both suffered enormously; there are hedgerows with scorched, dead elder poking its head out and the silver birch trees have all entered autumn mode as if they have overridden the instruction manual on late summer. The only green visible for miles is that of the dock; how I admire its lengthy tap root – it seems completely undeterred by the weather of the past few months and is almost electric green against the backdrop of scorched grass.
The garden here has felt it too. Unsurprisingly, the flea beetle has gone to town on my brassicas, salads have bolted into pyramids with their pretty yellow flowers and the cavolo nero has stood stock still, unmoving, looking as though it’s been electrocuted. The tomatoes have been sensational, the cucumbers, aubergines and chillies have all produced fruit in abundance, and the chard has been undeterred by the dry conditions. The freezer is now full of aubergine parmigiana and the squash plants disappeared long ago in amongst the Michaelmas daisies. I suspect they may not be seen again.
Work on the studio has continued throughout the searing heat. Slowly, carefully and seemingly with one step forward and two backwards, a friend and I have completed the re-insulation of the roof, the repairs and the new roof itself. Just last week, we fixed the final corrugated steel sheets in their place. I don’t underestimate the value of this small achievement – four months ago I wasn’t sure which way round to hold a hammer, let alone how to set the blade for the circular saw or how to climb a ladder without feeling sick and getting stuck halfway. Nevertheless, I have felt a small pang of grief that the learning and work of these past few months are now over. Having only just acclimatised myself to working on the pitch of the roof and no longer needing to walk across the ridge like Charlie Chaplin, the roof is now complete and repairing the walls begins.
The summer does mean that time spent inside becomes extremely limited: somehow, decisions about cutlery and wallpaper and lamp shades or fabrics seem completely irrelevant throughout the balmy days of summer. These things pale into insignificance when one is cutting a hole in a roof for the stove pipe or greedily eating tomatoes before they get to the plate. But, with the arrival of the longer evenings, their moment is approaching too. Maybe ‘morose’ isn’t the right word for August after all, but I will soon need to find a replacement for my nightly garden patrol.
