Into the garden this morning, the sun is out, cloudless.
The air actually smelt faintly of hot cross buns this morning. There is nothing like the air of West Cork. I think if I was lying in a darkened hospital room and someone brought in a bottle I would recognise it immediately. It is indefinable; a slight salt tang, grass, the inevitable undertone of slurry, though I would know it immediately. It is especially lovely first thing and in the evening. The air of an Irish evening after rain or a warm day … the lovely thing about getting up early is the morning air.
Gardening jobs can be divided roughly into two classes:
i. hard work but enjoyable; and
ii. hard work but deadly, deadly dull.
I have just come in from carting barrow-loads of hay off the meadow which I would definitely define under category ii. If leave the mown grass it will mulch down and the goodness will improve the soil. If taken off, wildflowers, in theory, should flourish as they prefer poor soil.
Am giving myself a well-earned tea break now and to listen to the no-doubt ghastly plague news.
Hot off the press: Boris Johnson is in ICU.
If there is a God he is definitely an ironist.
Tea, news, a less-boring gardening job and then more barrowloads ….
Having reviewed my old notebooks recently I think I will start keeping one again. I thought this diary would take its place but actually there is nothing like the spontaneity of a book and pen.