Dust, a Doomed Gazebo, and Two Flowers Worth Falling in Love With

 If anyone was still holding out hope for a proper British summer washout, I'm sorry to disappoint you — we're now three weeks without a drop of rain, and the allotment's gone the colour of a digestive biscuit. Everything's dry, dusty, and creaking a bit, myself included. Sam, Iris and I have basically given up doing anything remotely productive up the plot this week beyond watering and weeding, which sounds dull written down like that, but honestly, when it's this hot, just keeping everything alive counts as a proper achievement.

We've fallen into a routine now. Cans filled, hats on, and a sort of grim march up and down the rows before the sun gets its claws in properly. Iris has taken to humming while she waters, which I've decided means she's either perfectly content or has completely switched off and is thinking about something else entirely. Sam, meanwhile, weeds like it's personal, muttering at anything with the audacity to grow when it hasn't been invited. Between the pair of them and me, we've kept the plot ticking over, even if nothing's exactly thriving in this heat.

There is one bit of good news, though — the over-wintered onions are finally ready. We'll be pulling them later in the week, and I can't tell you how satisfying that is. These are the ones we got in the ground back in autumn, when it felt like a leap of faith more than a plan, and now here we are, months later, about to lift a proper crop while everything else sulks in the dry. There's something rather lovely about a vegetable that just quietly gets on with things through the worst of the winter and turns up trumps in a heatwave. We'll be plaiting some up to hang in the shed and using the rest fresh — nothing beats a home-grown onion in a cheese and onion sandwich.

The gazebo that finally gave up the ghost

Away from the allotment, things at home have been just as busy, if considerably more precarious. Sara and I have spent the week taking down our old gazebo in the back garden — a structure that's been standing, in one form or another, for about thirty years. Thirty years! It's seen more family barbecues, birthday teas, and "just five more minutes" conversations than I can possibly count, and it felt like taking down a bit of family history, if I'm honest.

What struck me most, pulling it apart plank by plank, was how patchy the whole thing had become. Some bits of timber were so rotten they crumbled the second I touched them — proper soft, damp, gone-to-mulch wood that had clearly been quietly falling apart for years without anyone noticing. And then right next to it, a post or a beam that was still rock solid, good as the day it went up. Thirty years of weather, and it had decided to be selective about which bits it ruined. Typical.

The reason for all this upheaval is that we're clearing the ground for a new greenhouse and my late father's old greenhouse, in fact, which we've been slowly relocating and restoring over the past couple of months. Before any of that could happen, though, I had a rather less glamorous job to do first: moving the electric switchboard that sits by the pond. It had to shift to make room, and let me tell you, rewiring anything near water is not how I wanted to spend an afternoon, but it's done now, safely, and the pond's none the worse for the experience. Small victories.

So that's where we are at home — a gazebo in a heap, a switchboard relocated, and  greenhouses almost compleatly finished.Just waiting on new glass for broken panes in the old one. Dad would have had something dry to say about all the fuss, I'm sure, but I think he'd have liked knowing his greenhouse was finally getting pride of place.

Dwarf Sunflowers — sunshine in miniature

Now, enough of me moaning about rot and rewiring — let's talk flowers, because even in this heat the garden's been showing off, and dwarf sunflowers deserve a proper mention this week.

If you've only ever grown the towering giants that end up leaning drunkenly over the fence by August, dwarf sunflowers are an absolute revelation. Varieties like 'Teddy Bear', 'Little Dorrit', or 'Suntastic Yellow' top out at anywhere from one to two feet, which means no staking, no worrying about them snapping in the first gust of wind, and no craning your neck to admire them. They're perfect for pots on a patio, the front of a border, or even a windowsill box if you're short on space — genuinely one of the friendliest flowers going for anyone who fancies a bit of colour without much fuss.

Growing them couldn't be simpler. Sow the seeds direct into the ground once the last frosts have passed, about half an inch deep, in a spot that gets plenty of sun — they're not called sunflowers for nothing. They're not fussy about soil, though a bit of compost worked in never hurts, and once they're up and growing, keep them watered regularly, especially in weather like we've had this month, as they'll sulk and droop dramatically if left too dry. A liquid feed every couple of weeks once buds start forming will keep the blooms coming thick and fast. Deadhead the spent flowers and you'll often coax out a second flush, which feels like getting something for nothing. They're brilliant for cutting too, sitting cheerfully in a jam jar on the kitchen windowsill, which is exactly where mine ends up most mornings.

Zinnias — the plot's cheeriest showgirls

And if dwarf sunflowers are sunshine in miniature, zinnias are the full fireworks display. Honestly, if I had to pick one flower to convert somebody to growing their own, it would be this one — they are ridiculously easy, ridiculously colourful, and they just do not stop flowering.

Zinnias come in almost every colour you could want bar true blue — hot pinks, deep reds, soft apricots, lime greens, and everything in between — with flower shapes ranging from neat little single daisies to great fat pompom doubles that look like something out of a florist's window. Sow them direct once the soil's warmed up nicely, or start them off in modules on a windowsill a few weeks earlier if you're impatient like me. They like a sunny, sheltered spot and don't ask for much beyond that — reasonable soil, a decent water when it's properly dry, and a pinch out of the growing tip when they're young to encourage a good bushy plant with plenty of flowering side-shoots.

The real secret with zinnias, and this is the bit that turns a good patch into a spectacular one, is picking the flowers. The more you cut, the more they come — it's practically designed to reward a bit of vase-filling greed. I've been cutting armfuls for the kitchen table most weeks, and the plants just shrug it off and produce more. They're wonderfully low-maintenance for something so showy, they attract bees and butterflies by the dozen, and they'll flower right through until the first proper frosts see them off. If you want maximum colour for minimum effort this year, you could do a lot worse.

So there we are — a dry plot, a demolished gazebo, an onion harvest on the horizon, and two flowers I think every garden could do with a little more of. It's been a funny old week, all told, somewhere between hard graft and pure sunshine, which I suppose is fairly true to form for us.

Anyone else been battling this dry spell, or had a go at growing zinnias or dwarf sunflowers this year? I'd love to hear how you're getting on.

Happy growing, everyone. See you on the plot.