Full Flow: Dahlias, Sprinting, and the Rhythm of Mid-June

 🌼 Dahlia ‘Veronne’s Obsidian’ — Early Season Powerhouse

Single-flowered dahlia ‘Veronne’s Obsidian’ glowing in full sun, petals deep maroon with a golden centre, buzzing with bees.

Dahlia ‘Veronne’s Obsidian’ is a compact, single-flowered variety that grows to around 60–80 cm tall. The petals are dark — nearly black — with a golden central disc, set against moody, dusky foliage. It starts flowering in June and keeps going until the first frost.

A bumblebee feeds at the golden centre of a nearly black, star-shaped Dahlia ‘Veronne’s Obsidian’ flower, petals curling with deep texture against a soft green background.

It’s one of the first dahlias to get moving, and unlike the fluffier doubles, its simple, open form makes it easy for pollinators to access. It loves full sun, fertile soil, and a sheltered position. Good in borders — excellent in containers or anywhere you want reliable early colour.

I’ve grown it for years. It’s my favourite dahlia — not because it’s the most dramatic, but because it’s the most dependable. Vigorous, balanced, easy to divide. I started with three tubers. Now I have seven plants, all thriving.

Placement changes everything. In the main border, where it sees less direct heat, it’s still bulking up. Lots of promise, but no flowers yet. But up against the bright south-facing wall, the plants are already in full flow. That wall traps heat and throws back light — it gives them a head start of several weeks. The difference is stark. Flowers open cleanly, hold well, and stay busy with bees all day long.

Right now, mid-June, this is the most floriferous plant in the garden. Nothing else is giving this much colour or feeding pollinators so actively — well, apart from the Catmints. If you can give it full sun and a warm, sheltered spot, it will do more than most plants do all summer.

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☀️ Sun Returned — Movement Followed

The sun came back today, and with it, a simple urge — go outside, move the body, reset. I drove to a nearby sports ground and stepped onto the grass, ready for my own kind of training session.

I began with slow jogging — not running, not even really jogging as most would see it, but something in between. It’s a low-impact style developed in Japan, popularised by Professor Hiroaki Tanaka, where you move gently, landing softly, keeping effort minimal. You aim to jog at a pace where conversation is still easy — for me, that means about 4–6 km/h. It looks casual but builds endurance in a sustainable way.

I did three slow, steady laps around the field. Then I shifted gears.

Four short sprints — all out, 100 percent effort. The kind that make your heart thump like a bass drum in your ribs. I’ve always fancied myself a sprinter. My legs and hips have real power. Explosiveness is natural to me. Though with my ongoing shoulder injury, I couldn’t quite hit top speed. Still, it felt good to push.

Once my heart rate came back to something manageable, I picked up the slow jogging again — but in reverse. Jogging backwards shifts everything: muscles, balance, focus. At the narrow ends of the field, I pivoted into sideways running, changing direction each time to stay balanced.

Eventually, satisfied and sweat-slicked, I brought it all down with static stretching. I’ve always been a big fan of stretching and yoga-style movement. Back in 2008, I picked up a copy of Stretching Anatomy by Arnold Nelson and Jouko Kokkonen. I still have it — barely holding together, the pages loose, the corners curled. But I use it regularly. It’s a quiet companion to all the louder parts of my training.

I sat in the grass, stretched through the hips and hamstrings, then headed home. Still buzzing, I kept going — 12 kg kettlebell swings, then explosive step-ups. Full effort, focused form.

To finish, I turned to music. Seven minutes of Joris Voorn’s Goodbye Fly.

That track hits something primal in me. Of all the things I do — running, lifting, sprinting — nothing spikes my heart rate and adrenaline like dancing. It’s pure output. No thought, just movement.

⏳ Fasting, Food, and Fuel

Just two hours from completing another 24-hour fast. I didn’t plan it — that’s the point. When your eating habits naturally leave 16 to 18 hours of the day food-free, extending it to 24 isn’t a feat. It’s a rhythm. You look at the clock and realise you're nearly there.

I’ll break the fast with a protein-rich dinner, balanced with some carbs. Fish will be the main. Then oven fries. But the part I really look forward to — the part I can’t seem to stop craving week after week — is the combination of fries smothered with chilli red kidney beans. Simple, filling, outrageously good. The fish and the beans together deliver a strong hit of protein, the fries satisfy the starch craving, and the whole thing feels earned.

I’ve also started adding extra virgin olive oil to every meal — not just any olive oil, but high-phenolic EVOO. These phenolic compounds are natural antioxidants found in premium cold-pressed oils, known for their anti-inflammatory and heart-protective properties. The better the oil, the stronger the peppery bite at the back of the throat — that’s the sign.

I usually go with a tablespoon and a half per meal. Today I’ll drizzle some over the fish once it’s cooked, but most of it will go straight into the chilli. It lifts the dish completely. The richness, the heat, the smooth fat against the earthy beans — it’s become essential.

🐦 Secret Alliance — Grass, Mulch, and Blackbirds

A close-up of a low fence line, the bare ground beneath it covered with grass clippings, bordered by neat green lawn and wild grasses swaying in sunlight.

I use mulch all around the garden — mostly fine mulched chips, a bit like composted bark. But mulch doesn’t need to be fancy. Wood, stones, seaweed, compost, straw, pine needles, grass clippings — it all works. It just depends on where and why.

One area I focus on is beneath the fence line. That narrow strip of bare soil is prime real estate for weeds, and difficult to manage with tools. So I turned to what I have in abundance — grass. Every time I mow, I collect the clippings and pile them into that hard-to-reach zone. Once they begin to break down, I add more, sometimes layering in pine needles too.

After starting this routine a few years back, I began to notice something odd. The mulch wasn’t staying put. Grass clippings were tossed all over the place. At first I blamed the wind. Then I saw the culprits: blackbirds. They’d become regular visitors, rooting through the mulch like it was a breakfast buffet.

And that’s when I realised we had an unspoken agreement. The mulch created a daytime hiding place for slugs and snails. But by turning it over in search of insects, the blackbirds were also picking off the pests that would otherwise devour my seedlings. These birds had become part of the system — my natural pest control.

Some mornings I walk the path beside the fence and find broken snail shells scattered like breadcrumbs. It’s oddly satisfying. No chemicals, no traps, no nematodes. Just a small alliance at work.

If only I could convince them to leave the strawberries alone. But I suppose a few stolen fruits is a fair price for their service.

Illustration of a blackbird perched on the rim of a garden container, pecking a ripe red strawberry from a lush plant. The background shows a soft, creamy off-white house wall in warm daylight.