Good to be home

Ten degrees at 11am. Raining. The clouds mingle promiscuously with the woodsmoke from Carmine's chimneys, and the downstairs lavatory stinks.

In the week that we've been away, the grass has grown knee-high, the azaleas have blossomed and the rhubarb has shot up two primaeval-looking flowers. The woods are 80 per cent green now, and in the garden Gertrude Jekyll is shivering on the brink of blooming.

The wild boar have decimated Franco's orchard in their search for dinner.

And the Mama cat is super-thin, having just now dropped this year's spring litter.

Despite everything, it's good to be home.