Ground | Rainwater storage

Beneath everything lies what you don't see at first glance – yet what ultimately determines everything. Soil isn't "dirt," but a living organism: made of minerals, air, water, organic matter, and an invisible orchestra of bacteria, fungi, algae, protozoa, nematodes, and earthworms. Since planting, something has already shifted here. Where there was once barren land, roots are beginning to open up the soil: fine root hairs create pores, dead plant material becomes food, and the surface slowly loses its hard, forbidding dryness.

June rain is our silent test. It reveals whether the soil merely gets wet – or whether it can truly absorb, store, and release water . This is crucial in times of climate change and extreme weather: when rainfall becomes irregular (sometimes too little, sometimes suddenly too much), the soil structure determines whether water seeps into the ground and remains as a reserve – or runs off the surface and disappears. Mulch, cover crops, and mixed cropping act like a soft blanket: they protect against soil compaction, dampen heat, slow evaporation, and nourish soil life.

In the future, this effect will intensify: more humus means greater water retention capacity; more soil pores mean better aeration; more fungal networks mean more stable nutrient cycles. For truffles and their host trees, this is the foundation: a soil that is not only "fertile" but also rhythmic – one that receives rain, retains it, and releases it again during dry weeks, as if it were a slow, steady breath.

Root system | Herbs & wild herbs

The second layer of the garden begins where many gardens end: at ground level. Herbs and wildflowers aren't considered "weeds" here, but rather a system of protection, fragrance, and function. They fill in the gaps between plants, preventing wind and sun from drying everything out. They bring flowering periods into the spaces between, ensuring insects find not only the main blooms but also the flowers in between. And they root at vastly different depths: some like fine nets, others like tiny drills – together they form a living architecture that directs water and loosens the soil.

Here, too, the June rains act like a drawing pen: after a good week in June, it becomes clear which plants are springing up, where fragrances suddenly fill the air, and where the ground is "responding" with green. Herbs like thyme, sage, hyssop, or lemon balm can be just as much a part of the garden as wild herbs that appear on their own: they are often the first to indicate a microclimate and soil improvement. Their leaves shade the soil, their roots stabilize the topsoil, and their dead parts decompose into organic material that returns to the cycle.

Over the years, this creates a carpet that isn't manicured, but vibrant: sometimes higher, sometimes lower, sometimes blooming, sometimes secluded. And that's precisely what makes it valuable. Because in a climate that increasingly oscillates between extremes, this layer acts as a buffer. It absorbs rain, it holds dew, it breaks up heat – and it makes the area less vulnerable.

Flowering | Window of light

Flowering in our garden isn't a brief highlight, but a sequence – like a film composed of many shots. Mixed cropping means different species, different times, different forms of nectar and pollen. This creates a long flowering window that is not only beautiful but also ecologically crucial. Many pollinators don't have "a week of hunger," but rather a season in which food appears in waves. When flowering is staggered, a single area becomes a reliable source of food.

And then comes the June rain – not as a romantic effect, but as a biological turning point. It brings moisture back down into the soil precisely at the stage when fruit sets. It prevents plants from becoming stressed and promotes more even growth. You can see it in the leaves, but you can also feel it in the future fruit: less woody toughness, more juice, more aroma, more balance. The blossom then becomes not just a picture, but a decision: How much can the tree bear without being overwhelmed?

In the future, this window of opportunity will be even more of a response to climate change. When frost periods shift, when springs start too warm and then turn cold again, diversity is an insurance policy: not everything is at risk at once. Some species survive, others wait, and still others take over. Diversity means: the garden remains dynamic – instead of collapsing.

Humming | The audible yes

The buzzing is the acoustic expression of diversity. It doesn't arise simply because "a few flowers are there," but because the system sustains insects over time: food, water, shelter, nesting opportunities, and transitions. Wild bees need open patches of soil or cavities, bumblebees require long flowering periods, and hoverflies and beetles need structures and a certain degree of disorder. When all of this is present, the buzzing becomes denser—not loud, more like a fundamental tone.

In a year with abundant June rains, you often notice how the buzzing shifts: after rain, flowers are more prolific, the air is cooler, and activity is distributed differently throughout the day. Conversely, in dry summers, it becomes apparent which areas offer a buffer: mulch zones, partially shaded edges, and herbaceous islands. This is precisely what we learn: diversity is not just about "more species," but about more ways to thrive in challenging conditions.

Over time, the buzzing evolves into cooperation. Pollination becomes more stable, fruit set more reliable, and pest pressure often more balanced because there are more beneficial insects present. This doesn't mean "no problems," but it does mean fewer losses, less panic, and less intervention. The garden regulates itself more – and humans become liaisons rather than firefighters.

Wingbeat | Inhabited air

Above it all is the air – and it reveals whether an area is merely "managed" or whether it is reclaiming its natural state. Birds don't come for a single tree. They come when there are edges, hedges, perches, open areas, insects, seed heads, and small hiding places. They read the area like a map: Where can I land? Where can I find food? Where am I safe? When these answers are available, flapping wings becomes second nature.

With the insects come the insectivores: tits, swallows, robins, wrens – depending on the structures that develop. With ripening berries come others: thrushes, starlings. Over time, bats may also begin to glide through the area in the evenings, as it offers food and landmarks. And at the edges, in the twilight, sometimes those who are rarely seen move about: hedgehogs, weasels, amphibians in damp spots. Deer are also part of the community – sometimes as a source of conflict, sometimes as a silent indication that the area has become attractive again.

The June rains also play a role here: After rain, insect activity increases, worms move closer to the surface, the air becomes heavier, and scents carry further. It's as if the garden takes a moment to "breathe"—and this breath attracts life. In the future, as summers become hotter, shade will become more important, water features more important, and structure more important. Then, the fluttering of wings will not only be a sign of beauty, but of adaptation: The garden offers microclimates—and thus habitats for survival.

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