My last column for Gardens Illustrated sits on the back page of this month’s issue. In it, I write about time, about how it makes sense to let go of something as Spring opens up and the ground starts to smell different. “Everything has its season, from sweet peas to sleep regressions,” I wrote. “Things come to an end and open up space for something new to unfold.”

I was up early with the baby on Sunday when I realised something had to change with savour, too. The format has stayed the same ever since it started: an essay dedicated to the delicious things in life on a Wednesday, a collection of tasty morsels on a Friday. It’s been nearly two years and while this space has grown and maintained that commitment to relishing life’s best, often overlooked things, I’ve been conscious of getting stuck. I need space for something new to unfold.

Savour started with an intention to give space to the things that are the very mess and matter of life but are too often overlooked. The shopping lists you find in the pocket of a charity shop cardigan or the conversation you have with someone in the Post Office queue. Light on a wall, the smell of winter pollen in the air. It’s space that’s crucial here: I am very conscious that I am taking it up in your inbox, in your day, in your brain. I want to be careful with that. I want to make sure it is worth it.

Increasingly, I’m feeling short of space. Substack has changed massively over the past couple of years and while it’s been fascinating to witness I’ve noticed a growing sense of overwhelm. There are so many demands on our attention. It’s difficult to savour when someone’s urging you to hurry up.

So I’m making some changes to create space. One of them is through savour sessions, a new series of events that will bring savour members together to talk and share and listen and learn and - crucially - savour. They will be both online and off, depending on what we’re doing, and they will be free to access if you’re a paying member. There have been Taste Talks before, but the whole baby-book-simultaneous-release thing rather got in the way. This time will be different: I can’t wait to share when I’m cooking up.

Savourites is now going to be fortnightly - once every two weeks, rather than once a week. Still on a Friday lunchtime, but just with more time for you to digest. It will get a revamp in the process; still dedicated to tasty morsels, but categorised to help you navigate through a little easier. I’m also going to be including leftovers, my selection from the archive, which made its debut last week. If you prefer a less frequent digest, let me know; I’ve toyed with making savourites monthly, too.

The weekly savour essays will continue to be sent out on Wednesdays at 1pm GMT. The majority of these will be behind the paywall, as has been the case since January - thank you for subscribing, you keep all this afloat when the waters are choppy. If you fancy upgrading your subscription, you can do so here.

I’ve made the savour homepage a little easier to navigate. If you currently pay for savour you have archive access, and I want to help you make the most of that. Along with leftovers, you can find posts you might have missed in the themed sections on the homepage. When I needed to write in the days after giving birth, I posted on savour - and you can read that under motherhood. Or perhaps you’re after book recommendations, or something to satisfy your hunger, or stories from being away from home. I’ve also grouped all the posts about A Haven for Stories, my annual writing retreat in Umbria; there are still a handful of places left for October’s retreat. History would attest that we sell out, so if you’re keen, do get involved; it’s a magical week.

Let’s see how it goes, shall we? So far this year has been about change. There’s been a lot of it, considering we’re barely three months in. I’ve ditched the 9-5 for the first time in my career, the baby’s gone into childcare, I’ve started therapy, I wrote half a book manuscript and launched a new podcast. I’ve often felt adrift in it all, a small ship trapped in tides that change without warning. When I struggle to understand why I’m feeling overwhelmed good friends remind me that I’m in flux, it’s going to feel weird. But that flux also has power: I don’t want to keep doing something that isn’t working any more. I want to tweak and edit and polish and have the courage to pause.

A couple weeks ago some men came and cut back the mature ivy that clads one of the borders of the garden. In its wake there are several feet of unpainted fence and what feels like a whole new flower bed. It’s been my favourite thing for the past couple of weeks, looking out at this patch of previously hidden ground and wondering what might grow there. Over the weekend I moved some things and planted others - a rose in front of an old mirror, a grass, three Melanoselinum decipiens, or Black Parsley, beautifully odd plants that transform the bed into something pleasingly strange. How good to have space, how good to open up, how good to make something new.