The old washpool's billowing comfort of green stretches away from my office window and my gaze shelters there from the heat.

The lush oval flags of the defiant walnut shoots are rising from where I'd felled a tree. I see the spikes of the yucca in a mixed crown of alertness and limp defeat; the neglected muscat vine scarred by mildew, its grapes dripping into the mirror water where goldfish rise sporadically beside the tomato seedlings floating on a recycled polystyrene plugtray: and, above all, the shovel-sized leaves of the king fig that drapes its verdant rhythm across half the sky. It's hard to think straight with sweat on the brow and a foolish half of lager lingering in the bloodstream. But that's a feeble excuse. The wash pool holds my eye all year round. Through the gaps in the green I can see the lower vineyard, the holm oak that marks the south east boundary of Mother's Garden, and in the faded distance the moss-like firs on the sharp Sierra de Llaberia mountains. It is amazing I get any work done at all. To the left of the wash pool is a sort of patio and barbecue hemmed in by dry stone walls, where puppies have been raised, children play mud pies, and pot plants are tended.

It takes me three seconds to abandon the computer and be there, where the famous Kirby stare can erase minutes and hours if left undisturbed. So imagine the day an English treasure appeared right there. Joe-Joe the bug man exhaled in glee – "Dad, dad, dad!" – like the day he found his first stag beetle. I broke willingly from the computer screen to find him with cupped hands and wide eyes. He had coaxed a large caterpillar on to his palm – papilio machaon, the orange-spotted, green and black banded caterpillar of the swallowtail. It is such a rarity in England, confined in small numbers to only the Norfolk Broads, where boaters and walkers may be blessed with a brief dance of yellow and black by the nation's largest butterfly. That was some weeks ago. Joe Joe checked it regularly and it did not venture far at all. Then it was gone. Two days ago he called me out again. He was standing in the middle of the patio open-mouthed, as a swallowtail sailed about his head, and we revelled in wondering. It was there beside the barbecue, seven years ago, that a bright green lizard emerged one fiery day from the black recesses of the dry stone wall. It was about eight inches long, tail included, and he or she stayed around for weeks, feasting on bread and fruit we left out. We called it Lily. Frustratingly, it proved impossible to get close enough to study or photograph. It was a rare and protected ocellated lizard, we knew that much, and over the years we have seen several scurrying across the lanes. Just recently, amid the chaos of the tractor shed and wood store, I have been catching one in the corner of my eye, quite large; secretive but, as with Lily, not averse to living close to us.

The tractor shed is only a stone's throw from the holiday cottage garden and pool and all manner of creatures are drawn to the blue water which I strive to keep as chlorine-free as possible for all our sakes.

So here it is, more than a foot long with blue and green jewelled skin and luminous plates on the head. It was a he, by all accounts, as the blue colouring is more marked on the male, particularly during the breeding season which fits with the universal tendency for the blokes to be the show-offs.

Thank goodness it survived its dip and also obligingly stayed still long enough for guest Ginny to go and get her camera once she had fished him out. It is referred to as ocellated due to the eyelike colour spots on its body. This one was relatively small. They can grow to three feet long and can live for up to 25 years. People are not allowed to make lizard, garlic and tomato stew anymore as the species is protected, but when the skies are patrolled by hungry eagles life can be very precarious. Quite what the wildlife makes of this weird year's weather pattern of repeated thunderstorms and humidity I do not know, but there has been an abundance of golden orioles, whose call is forever on the air. The bee-eaters whistles seem tumultuous too. Best sighting of all has been my first woodchat shrike. Now I know where he likes to wait for his prey I wait for him.

I know for sure that the ladderback snake still resides beneath the brick channel that carries the water from the spring to our main water reservoir. It has shed its skin once more, leaving it in the same place as past years for the children to find, while another quite substantial one has made a home in the wall near the corral. My tomato canes are holding up under the weight. In April, before the torrent of May that was to make all things grow at twice the normal rate, I decided to harvest sturdy fresh canes from the forest of them that grows in a gully just beyond the lip of our land. It is not a particularly pleasant task.

I'm sure the dense maze is home for the shy wild boar who roam our farm and the valley under the cover of darkness. Something large has forced tunnels through the sturdy shoots that can grow at the rate of several centimetres a day. There are non-human paths everywhere up there, and after the rains the cloven hooves sink deep. They have not, to date, come to the vegetable patch this year, which is surprising given the rich pickings of tomatoes weighing in at up to a pound apiece.

As for our plenty, jams and chutneys crowd the storeroom shelves and you couldn't fit a wafer thin French bean in the freezer. Also, beside the door, 30 litres of crushed apple are, perchance, turning into cider. We have sought expert advice from the fruitful mind of Maggie's mum Beryl who has pickled, preserved, cured and fermented a great many things in a life that has included the wisdom of a waste-not-want-not farm kitchen. Chris, our friend and winemaker, lobbed in some advice too, so there are several people to share the blame.

As for the wine, one of the three barrels is bottled and the reviews have been reasonably favourable. We imbibed a thimbleful of the other barrels that are blends of carinyena, granache and cabernet sauvignon and can dare to believe they may be a hit with the holiday guests who will be lobbied heavily to invest in a bottle or five.

Winning a gold star in The Great Taste Awards is so significant for us and the neighbouring olive farmers and village mill we work with. Maybe, along with Delia's listing of our oil in her last cookbook, we are well and truly on our way now and the Mother's Garden brand will make its mark. The film company which has acquired the rights to my novel Count The Petals Of The Moon Daisy has secured funding to write the screenplay. Another adventure is about to begin.

Count The Petals Of The Moon Daisy is published by Pegasus. See www.mothersgarden.org.

No Going Back – Journey to Mother's Garden is published by Little Brown