Although there was no question yesterday morning that we would venture out to the ravine for our daily walk before breakfast, even at that time of the morning the heat was oppressive, the humidity close, albeit slight relief from a reliable little breeze. If there could be found any consolation in the prospect of the day becoming even hotter by afternoon, it was that Environment Canada had assured its listeners that rain was on the way; imminent even, the probability was that high.

We were happy enough that no rain fell while we were making our way through the forest trails with Jackie and Jillie. They seemed comfortable enough preceding us through the trails, happily picking up detritus and manipulating little twigs to chew on while they waited for us to catch up to them. There were, in fact, times when we felt like just lingering at certain spots where unaccountably, the air seemed cooler, fresher and the breeze more aggressive.

Our puppies showed no such inclination and in fact when you're in motion and steadily moving along the impulse to make the most of a cooling breeze and a momentarily-entered cool spot doesn't have quite the compelling attraction as it might have if we were inclined to dawdle, which we are not; neither we nor Jackie and Jillie.

Movement, after all, is part of the attraction for us to seek out the pathways drawing us into the forest. And curiosity about what we'll see there each time we venture forth keeps us on the move. And as usual there was plenty to draw our attention. At that time of the morning there's a luminous quality to the light and it is so bright that it's dazzling. Looking off into the distance through the foliage of the forest, clarity of vision kind of disappears and in its place there is an overall glow of bright light.

Yesterday, we came across wild bellflowers, a beautiful shade of pink tinged with the slightest bit of mauve -- or was it carmine? A single plant, showing off its lovely flowers crowding the top third of the stem. Beside it was another immature plant, almost ready to flower. But that was it, in the entire length and breadth of the ravine, just those two lone plants of a single type.

Contrast that with the yarrow that pops up everywhere among the bracken, between trees, on the forest floor, competing with Queen Anne's lace for attention, the two having their similarities at first glance, the yarrow slightly less impressive in the size of its flower panicles, but noteworthy nonetheless. References to yarrow in English country gardens of 19th century literature give it a romantic essence.

And the sunflowers, they too with their broad, straplike foliage that have been maturing for months, suddenly shooting up their flower stem and ripening the flower buds, are now opening to reveal their bright yellow flowerheads reaching to the sky, and the sun that is responsible for their eagerness to have and enjoy their seasonal show of entitled conceit.

By the time we've gone most of the way through our hour, hour-and-a-half-long circuit, we feel rather exercised, and no little bit warmer than when we started out on our day's hike. And that's when we re-acquaint ourselves with the sprinkling of Himalayan orchids that have appeared this summer where they never have claimed territory before in our memory. Their bright and beautiful insouciance more than rivals any cultivated flower stock; they are delicate and exquisite, ill-matched however, in size to the actual plant that carries them.

Then, on to home and our own garden which we like to pretend we're responsible for, when it is nature that generates all growing things. The California poppies are now in successive bloom. As annuals they behave in a sense like perennials, self-seeding themselves year after year. I cannot even recall how long ago it was I had scattered their seeds in one part of the garden, but ever since that first flowering they've taken the responsibility of ensuring their yearly summer return. No need to gather the dried heads to preserve the seeds for the following year; it is a job they've volunteered for on their own.

So, though we have no orchids in our cultivated garden, we do have several hibiscus shrubs. We're still awaiting the ripening of the flower buds of the bright pink hibiscus, but the one with the red blooms has been more than happy to accommodate our hunger for the sight of its huge, bright flowers, each one a wonder to behold.

Yes, the garden. The various beds and borders are now decades old, well matured. And our favourite plant, the hosta, is present in countless variations. Their shape, form, colour, size and floral stalks are so numerous, each delights us with their variegated presence, one type melding into the territory of the other. In fact, they present as the very picture of rampant vegetation making the most of the heat, the sun and rain.

That rain we were expecting yesterday? It failed to materialize, disappointingly.

But we didn't feel too badly that in expectation of rain throughout the day we hadn't bothered watering any part of the garden and had done just a few pots. Because we felt certain that, as the forecast had foretold, there would be any number of rain events, even thunderstorms during the night-time hours. That forecast too turned out a dud....