Our local pub garden is a cheerful place on a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hanging baskets are an outrageous mixture of colours, plants jostling for space and foaming down the walls. Wisteria threatens to engulf the building, burnt orange nasturtiums creep through iron railings and purple petunias blow against the barn doors. A row of old milk churns overflowing with lobelia, a delicious patchwork of blues and purples, separate the tables from parked cars. Sitting outside, drinking cider with MrM and listening to laughter coming through the open door, I can't think of anywhere in the world that I would rather be.