‘What do you think, Ellie?’

Seven-year-old Ellie, who’s normally a chatterbox, has suddenly gone all shy on arrival and is clutching her mother’s hand.

‘It’s like being in a circus,’ she says, breaking into a grin. Unable to resist any longer, she lets go of Naomi’s hand to run across the garden. We follow her, stepping over the tent posts and lifting up the front flap. Inside, it’s not just a tent, but something far more impressive, with a proper floor, patterned rugs, and duvets and pillows.

And Harry, who’s already made himself at home on one of the rugs.

Ellie’s face lights up as soon as she sees him. They only met a few minutes ago when Harry greeted them at the gate, his tail wagging furiously – as if now that he’s discovered how great it feels, he can’t stop. Naomi grins and throws her arms around me in a hug.

‘I love this place!’

‘Really? I wasn’t sure . . . I know you’re such a city girl.’

‘Are you kidding me? All this space and fresh air! And the scenery on the way here on the train was amazing. It’s no wonder they call it God’s own country.’

I feel a sudden burst of pride. That’s how I feel when I’m walking Harry and I look out over the Dales, but hearing someone else say it about my new home gives me a real feeling of gratification

‘I mean, look at this garden.’ Naomi has already stepped outside the tent and is stomping around the garden in her Birkenstocks. ‘It’s about twenty times the size of my tiny one in London.’

‘And about twenty times more overgrown,’ I point out, my pride quickly vanishing and being replaced by embarrassment at the state of my patchy lawn and wild tangle of plants and trees. I’d imagined moving here and creating this beautiful cottage garden, but in truth I can barely keep a houseplant alive. ‘I haven’t got a clue where to start.’

‘I can help you while I’m here, if you want. It just needs a bit of a tidy-up. We can cut back some of those bushes and clear those brambles. You’ve got some real hidden gems sprouting . . . Look at those gorgeous clumps of primroses and crocuses under those crab apples trees.’ She flings her arms around, pointing at things and making the stacks of bangles on her wrist jingle. ‘That’s a camellia . . . those are rambling roses and jasmine – lucky you, their scent will be incredible when they bloom . . . This is a gorgeous honeysuckle.’

I listen to her in astonishment as she lists plants like an encyclopaedia. I knew Naomi had green fingers, but I didn’t realize she was this much of an expert.

‘Since when did you turn into Monty Don?’ I ask, and she laughs and points to the broken-down shed tucked away at the bottom of the garden.

‘What’s in there?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know,’ I confess.