I absolutely love the austere rolling moorland of North East Yorkshire which run almost down to the clifftops of the coast. The Lake District has an unrivalled beauty, especially in autumn, when the reds and golds of the trees are reflected in the still waters of Grasmere, Rydal and Derwentwater.

Up in the Dales, the combination of the works of nature and man come together in an entirely satisfactory way.

The limestone peeps through the thin soils as if revealing the skeleton of the landscape itself. The way the drystone walls run up the dalesides from the valley bottoms to the austere high ground, combine with the little villages, churches, stone barns and, close to my heart, little pubs to form a world class landscape.

Closer to home the stream rushing through Wycoller Dene with the little packhorse and clapper bridges is a place of real beauty. So, too, the deep cleft of Ogden Clough up on dear old Pendle, a magical place as the mist rolls in. Their beauty and character, owe much to the action of rain water. The results have been outstanding, but I have sadly hardly taken a look at them for 18 months. I have not even been to my favourite place on the planet, the Birch Hall Inn, near Goathland, this year.

The reason is quite simply the rotten weather. I enjoy countryside walks, hill walking, cycling and, of course, gardening, but the excess of wet weather we have endured this year and last year with localised flooding and the ground saturated has meant cancelled country shows, race meetings and frustrated many planned excursions to the Dales, Moors and Lakes. It seems to rain every time we sit in the conservatory and so last week we decided summer was not going to happen and so we took a no-frills flight to Malta.

Part of the appeal, were the words in the brochure ..."typically raining for 13 days a year". I was hooked. We managed that in the previous fortnight. Dragging suitcases through puddles in Manchester in the early hours, by lunchtime we were under blue skies by the pool with temperatures (in the shade) around 35 degrees centigrade, coating our lilly whites in factor 30 sun screen.

I felt slightly conscious of my snow white, lard enhanced physique as I took my place beside the bronzed beautiful sun worshippers around the pool but a couple of beers later and I was in my element. Sunshine, a few beers, alfresco dining, a dip in the pool. What more could you ask for?

Unfortunately, lazing around doesn't do for me, and after a day I had to go out exploring. The fortifications of the Grand Harbour are magnificent, and the inside of St John's Co-Cathedral is the most amazing building I have seen. Utterly stunning! Not really bothered with paintings, and in a place littered with hundreds of pieces of art, I was still astounded by the power and brilliance of Caravaggio's "The Beheading of St John the Baptist". A masterpiece. No photo can do it justice.

But I'm an out-of-doors sort of a chap, and so we tripped out into the neighbouring countryside. Apparently pleasant in spring, much of the island has the character of sun-baked barren rock. The soil seems arid and lifeless and incapable of supporting much life, in fact a rocky desert. Walking back from the temples of Hagar Qim which predate the pyramids by over 1,000 years, (the outside temperature recorded on the car instruments was 46 degrees centigrade) the dry scrubby ground appeared lifeless except for a number of Foxtail lilies. They are able to survive the arid blistering heat because of a bulb-like root which stores vital moisture for ... well, times like these.

On the market at Marsaxlokk they were selling bulbs, but apart from Freesia, nothing like those we know. They just don't get the rainfall and they cannot survive. Consequently, they never enjoy the delights of snowdrops, hyacinths, crocus, tulip and daffodil which give so much colour to the English landscape. As gardeners we should be planting these now to give us colour next spring. Such plants simply cannot survive Malta's heat which is their loss. In England they positively thrive.

Feeling much better after a very pleasant holiday, we flew out of Malta last Tuesday. Goodbye to the land of blue skies, Cisk lager, aubergines, magnificent churches and castles, seafood and pasta, but also to a sun-scorched landscape largely little better than desert. The clouds started at Luton, but as we came into land at Manchester the over whelming impression was not of dark satanic mills but of lush green vegetation.

It wasn't raining in Manchester but the skies were grey. At passport control, another passenger (a customer) quipped "Not got Rory with you today?" We were nearly home. Dropping the family off at home, I drove over to the boarding kennels near Newchurch-in-Pendle to collect Rory.
A shaft of sunlight was piercing the cloud illuminating the village like some message from God to beautiful effect. Commenting on the weather, the kennels' owner said "...we didn't do bad yesterday. It only rained twice!" Yes, back in a landscape forged by water rather than the sun. Back in England's green and pleasant (if still rather damp) land.