The editor of a national newspaper for visual art emailed me about an exhibition review I had written for her, which I had banged out in the castle cafe garden last weekend, submitting it the morning before our flight to Faro. She said "it reads extremely well - we both really enjoyed it."

Imagine my relief. I had procrastinated all week, still woozy from the aftereffects of the steroids I had taken in hospital, and with dread I'd open my laptop and, well, just stare at the view of two horse chestnuts in the adjoining field. Or text friends looking for distraction. Or post a flick of the view on Instagram.

On one of the mornings that weekend, the cafe owner came out to chat and pull a few weeds. She wondered about the name of a plant in the garden, so I began taking photos of plants and identifying them with an app. Marsh-mallow, California lilac, wild sunflower or elf dock, common mugwort, aconite, sticky willy, hedge woundwort, hemp agrimony, ribwort plantain, false goatsbeard.

All wonderfully arcane names, a hedgewitch's herbal, which I later added to my list in the back of my diary, the wee garden I tend, a modest stake in the world.

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