If you were to pass our cottage around breakfast time, you’d not hear the eight o’clock pips, but the gentle thump of rock or jazz, as we start the day on a bright note. 

The other morning, when Randy Newman began to sing “I think it’s going to rain today”, we looked hopefully at the sky. A Mediterranean blue bathed the village, cloud-free and promising heat. 

Wherever Newman had in mind, it wasn’t the Borders in what has been the sunniest April and May in almost a century. Other than a heavy downpour the other day, and a light splash some weeks earlier, it has been dry for months. 

Farmers are beginning to complain that rain and floods make the news, but drought is ignored.

Acres of crops are being lost or endangered, and even weather presenters reluctantly concede that a forecast of rain is not something to pout about.  I’ve never understood the assumption that everyone is joyous at orange and red weather charts, and miserable when clouds loom.

It’s like presuming all children are sad when the holidays end. Some love going back to school.

The first thing on our shopping list when purdah is fully lifted is a stone birdbath. Until then we are improvising, with bowls, and a jeely pan. No infinity pool for our visitors yet, just basic municipal facilities. Little wonder they’re turning up their beaks.

Possibly because of the lack of water, we had an unexpected arrival at the weekend. A neighbour alerted us to a young hedgehog, climbing the steps to our  front door. 

By the time I was on the scene, it had started on the long trek across Chesil Beach, a stretch of chunky gravel that leads under a gate to the back garden. Hearing voices, it stuck its head under a wheelie bin until danger had passed.

Alan put out a saucer of water, but whether it sipped we’ll never know. After leaving it alone for half an hour, we returned to find it gone.  There have been several daytime sightings of hedgehogs recently, to general delight.

Some weeks ago a neighbour found one that had fallen into an empty flowerpot overnight. She lifted it out and gave it water and cat food until it had recovered sufficiently to scurry off. 

I suspect it’s the same one that roams under our beech hedge after dusk, so large it sets off the security light. Under the beam, I sometimes see it snuffling among the roots.

In the morning you can always tell if it’s been on the prowl, because it leaves a trail of deposits, up the steps and onto the grassy slope, which it must find as testing as Stac Pollaidh. 

The hoglet that paid us a call was a decent size, but its bristles were not yet fully formed, allowing a glimpse of the rill of soft hair around its underneath, like the frill on a tutu.

Thanks to Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, hedgehogs feel like family friends.  But while they are cute, there is also a keen intelligence behind the pointed snout and sharp eyes.

We’ll be keeping a saucer of water out during this dry spell in case it passes by again and is feeling parched.   If I ever open an A&E for wildlife, I know of one creature that probably needs attention. A few days ago, in the noonday sun, I was strolling along a baked path, above a field, when I heard rustling.

There are always blackbirds and thrushes around here, making a noise ten times their size, but this crackling was at ankle level, among the grasses and weeds. 

I had barely registered a dark blur when my foot landed on something soft. There was a piercing squeak, but whatever I’d trodden on shot off under the fence. Vole? Mouse? Rat? Sometimes it’s better not to know. 

The heat has been so intense that sitting at a desk has been all but impossible. Working in the summer house at the top of the garden makes sense: with doors and windows wide open, a breeze keeps it cool enough to concentrate until mid afternoon, by which time it is like a sauna, except with a better view. 

On the hottest day of the year so far, ewes and their sturdy lambs stared at me while I read, on their way for a deeper patch of shade. On wires overhead, a brood of young starlings was learning to fly.

The parents gathered them, and appeared to offer instructions on take-off and landing before soaring away, chicks in tow. One with ruffled feathers seemed unable to summon the courage.

While its siblings filled the skies, it hopped left and right, one wing extended as it kept its balance, like a tightrope walker having a wobble Eventually it swooped down, into the next garden, rather than joining the others which by now were flying in formation. 

It is hard to concentrate on work when there’s a baby coal-tit dangling upside down in the crab apple tree, unconcerned at being watched. This old and gnarled tree has become the woodpeckers’ Pret A Manger.  One of them  – a greater spotted that arrives in a flash of scarlet and black – is easily spooked, darting off the second I look up. But there is an older, bigger bird that drives off the others, and seems fearless. It pecked at the peanuts as if hammering a nail. Like the bleating of sheep, it is a most peaceful soundtrack.

Sparrow fledglings have made the garden their own, turning it into a creche. Round and fluffy as dandelion clocks they bounce on the birch tree, learning to hold their grip, before diving back into the hedge for a breather. There are so many nests in there, it’s like a tenement. At moments of peak activity, it quivers and shakes as if it is about to erupt.

With days so warm, everyone has been living outdoors. You can smell barbecue coals, and hear the laughter of cautious reunions. The other afternoon, I answered the door to find a woman clutching three tubs of ice-cream. It was a delivery from a local farm for neighbours who weren’t answering the door. When I managed to locate them, she handed me a tub of vanilla as a thank you.  Summer just got sweeter.