Time slides past, as time does. In this no man's land of will it-won't it summer, the weeks seem to merge into one. Formless. The dahlias aren't growing like they should, and although the sweet peas are finally showing a bit of leg, I remain doubtful about whether I will get a meaningful seed crop. Even the beetroot have been nibbled. I have lost track as to whether I should be sowing biennials or next year's annuals.

I have stopped waiting for summer, and having started to hold my breath for autumn instead.

My study window looks over the kitchen garden. A mixed blessing. Many days, I am distracted by the pigeons fighting in the apple tree (maybe it was them that nibbled the beetroot, they certainly stripped the jostaberries bare in an afternoon), by the dappling light on the studio roof, or the remarkable tangle of the David Austin roses. However, I have increasingly been distracted by how messy it all looks. Not messy in a gloriously abundant cottage garden of biodiversity and meadowy vistas, just a bit… frothy.

What with the weather, and the slug-related despair, and the focus on the cottage renovation, and going back to work full-time, nature has taken hold and blurred all the edges. I have forgotten the lesson so often learning, which is that good gardens (as opposed to glorious meadows or wild vistas, which are perfect as they are) need bones.

By bones, I mean the structure that makes everything hang together, although extra points if you can manipulate negative space in a garden too. I mean pathways and vistas and sight lines. I mean paths that cut a swathe, or meander enticingly out of sight. I mean hedges that delineate and ever so slightly conceal. I mean, if you have the luxury, then I mean water.

Malus Farm is now on the countdown to the receipt of the new design plans from Kristy Ramage (promised first drafts on the 19th of this month) and so I confess, I am not suddenly digging rills, or installing new hard landscaping. Not yet anyway. However, the single most satisfying gardening job at this time of year is what I call 'hedges and edges'. I love froth, but froth needs to be contained, and this week, I trimmed all the beech and the yew topiary, and we cleared the paths that were starting to disappear under flopping hazel and enthusiastically growing ornamental quince.

I can't tell you the difference it has made. Yes, the yew is intentionally wonky. You know I adore asymmetry and organic lop-sidedness.

Ok, so I did some work on my (currently quite soft) bones, and then I spent the day seeing how they can really be done. Bear in mind that, at the heart of Malus Farm is a wonky little thatched cottage, so we don't really suit big, sweeping allées and very formal topiary (yes, I am still working on my excuses for the wonky yew) but one place that very much does suit it is Caisson House.

A preview video here, although I was trying to multi-task making a video and learning how to watercolour (so ably taught by Jackie Mills, huge thank you to her), so I am incredibly grateful for Amanda Honey inviting me back to show you round properly.