It’s funny how life moves through different phases. After a few years filled with the hustle and bustle of resettling and renovating, this year appears to have been one of whispering tranquility. Or so it feels, on this sunny spring morning, as I take a moment to reflect on the year so far. The only sounds are birdsong and the luminous greenery outside the window almost hurts the eye. Some days I feel as if I’m living in a screensaver and it’s no wonder my memory is a tad blurry.

With no overseas trips to frame the year, it’s as if every week has been the same. And yet, of course, it hasn’t. For a start, there was an overseas trip in March but I just didn’t manage to progress beyond the check-in counter. Unbeknownst to me, my passport had been damaged by water on a crucial page so the airline company wouldn’t accept me on the flight. My very first trip to Bali was not to be, and the rather fabulous birthday party for a dear friend that we were going to would be missing two guests. It was surreal, having trundled into the terminal, hyped for a six hour flight, to then retrace my steps an hour later. The shortest holiday ever. And, of course, I published a travel memoir about France and Le Corbusier in May, and there was also a chapter in a beautiful new Thames & Hudson book on architect Alec Tzannes and the work that he and his firm have done. There have been other interesting developments to enjoy, too, that I will share at a later date so it’s not like nothing happened.

It’s just that life at Cloverdale has a curiously soothing rhythm, almost a tranquillizing effect. It’s guided by the vagaries of country living, such as finding cattle roaming through the flower beds (there goes the morning), dealing with branches blown down in a storm, and being alarmed by Fairy Wrens tapping at the window all the time. There are always projects to complete and this year’s big one was to put in a new septic system, which is possibly the least exciting way to spend a lot of money. The old septic tank was ancient and council regulations have evolved so that it wasn’t simply a matter of replacing the tank but also installing reed beds, transpiration trenches and new pipes. And that meant earthmovers, lots of gravel, and tons of mud. It’s good to know that it’s all done now and should serve the house for many years to come.

Once that was out of the way, we could address the garden again, having held off planting close to the house because of the impending upheaval. This is mostly the domain of my plantsman partner, Anthony, but I chip in with the design process. We’ve decided on curving flowerbeds in front of the house and a terrace for dinner or drinks on a summer evening (the romantic theory, at any rate). The guinea fowl have been enjoying taking dust baths in the bare earth, and elsewhere the roses and magnolia trees are powering away.

It took time to work out exactly what we wanted to do within the circle of Brazilian Fern trees (which we have mistakenly called Mexican Tree Ferns for years). A yin-yang shape was a contender for a while but then we plumped for a broken circle planted with miscanthus grass, the Japanese sort that looks so good when fully grown and the wind blows its plumed heads. Now we have to figure out what to put in the middle of that circle.

Neither of us is very keen on garden sculptures, or at least we have little experience of them. To me, garden features can be a step-too-far, especially when they’re too dominant, but the right thing in the right place can be lovely. It’ll take time for us to find what exactly that is but for now, a terracotta urn sits there as a prompt.

Both of us like the Arts and Crafts style of garden, like the famous ones at Sissinghurst and Hidcote, with their apparent informality and blend of texture and shape. Inspired by visits last year to gardens in both the real England and the New England area of Australia, I’ve even become interested in the idea of clipping, something I’d always thought a bit of a cliché.

But a clipped mound here and a trimmed tump there adds structure, especially in the winter months when less is flowering. Whether I will have the patience for it remains to be seen. As I write, we’re installing a series of rusted metal trellis panels, up which roses will scramble, and already it’s given the long flower borders a shot of gravitas that suits them.

Like life, the house is a work-in-progress. While we love so much of what we did in the renovation, there are still things to do. We are in dire need of more storage, for instance, not just for bedlinen and clothes but for books. I had hoped we might pare things right back when we moved here but old habits die hard and, frankly, life’s too short to be a minimalist. I can’t seem to stop buying books, although I check their size first because oversize coffee table books on architecture and gardens lose their appeal when you try to fit them on a shelf. You need a lectern to read some of them. But I like being able to track down information and images in my own collection without always having to resort to Google.

My furnishing tastes continue to evolve, too. Or devolve, perhaps. The Australian look du jour remains either ‘Hamptons’ (white sofas, bleached wood, ecru everything), or Mid-Century Modern (spindly legs and a pop of orange) but I find myself drooling over William Morris fabrics and imagine how to bring in more pattern and colour. My distant years at Designers Guild have left me with a yearning to mix shocking colour and industrial lighting with country antiques and Parisian passementerie. Eclecticism is something you rarely find in Australia but it’s certainly welcome at Cloverdale.

Of course, the oddity of life is that one is never quite content with what one’s got. Or maybe that’s a Colin Bisset thing. Much as I relish my country idyll in a timber farmhouse, sometimes I dream about living in a big glass box with concrete walls or in a shabby shack with a sandy path leading to a beach. Some people are hard to please. And yet, little by little, maybe I’m beginning to learn that, actually, I am content. That’s progress. There, I told you this place has a soothing rhythm.

How’s your year going?