Tranquility

I don't like being pigeon-holed, but me spending Sunday afternoon with friends visiting open gardens in a Cotswolds village, to raise money for charity, must be more predictable than Manchester City winning at Wembley or the last-but-one Prime Minister being in the Sunday papers

We had time for three gardens; the first is ordinarily open commercially - almost 1.5 hectares of manicured perfection. After 45 minutes of relentless searching, I eventually found a weed. Elegantly designed hedges are trimmed with perfect edges, whose curves echo the lines of the iron structures that support the border plants. Some of these structures are overgrown with ivy that has been humorously trimmed to create windows on to the landscape behind. Spring bulbs have been cleared from the beds, to be replaced by unfamiliar, sensitive exotic species that have been over-wintered in a greenhouse - large Abutilons were a significant contributor. The gardener complained good-naturedly that the open day is early this year and task is not yet complete

The second was a much smaller cottage garden, designed by one of the leading members of the Arts and Crafts movement in the early 20th century. It features stone walls - even a stone-built garden room - and ponds. The plant management was much more cooperative - a compromise between what the owner wanted and what the plants wanted. There was an insect that flies like a dragon fly, but had a shorter, fatter body. I think it was a broad bodied chaser - genus Libellula - that I don't ever remember seeing before, and newts in the pond. It was a much easier garden to relax in

Finally, we followed signs to the allotments. Past a ruined building with a derelict garden filled with the most giant hogweed I have even seen - stems like tree-trunks. A rough, rutted track, almost dangerous to walk on. We came to a wild, abandoned place on the edge of the village. I have dug for some detail about the village: in 2010 it has a population of 288 - that has probably been eroded by second homes and Airbnb. There are six people who are trying to revitalise the abandoned allotment. It shows decades of neglect - overgrown with nettle and thistle, bramble as high as 3 metres, cleavers climbing gleefully up it. These pioneers are scrambling over one another like joyful children released from the classroom

The allotment could be as large as a hectare. It's salvation is something from which Sisyphus and Hercules combined would shrink. But, among the chaos, we could see fat strawberries swelling on the ground, gooseberries fighting for their corner, laden with juicy fruit, raspberty canes straining to rise above the mayhem, bearing berries at their tips. An area was cleared for tomato plants, looking thirsty but hanging on. Raising our eyes, the view across the marshland below, from which the river Evenlode rises, was spectacular. The place has a stillness and serenity absent from the tended spaces we had come from. I felt that, in or under every patch of briars and thorns, something was quietly waiting for us to leave, so it could get on with its life in this enclave

We both looked up at a bare branch together - a brown bird that did not quite fit the mould of a female blackbird. A quizzical look between us until it broke into song: a thrush - a rare enough sight these days - brazen enough to question our business there in its domain. Our hearts rose with its song, and I think it is this part of the afternoon I will remember longest

I like this anti-greenhouse - designed not to capture and amplify the sun's heat, but to shut it out and favour shade-loving plants. Even with our continuing north-easterlies, the sun is heating up the afternoons, and the contrast between inside and outside this cool, airy space was remarkable