It’s always exciting to come back from a long trip and discover that the garden has gone slightly feral and, in our absence, has continued to grow more wildly and extravagantly than if we were here tending to it.

The fish died last night, which is rather ironic given that he had survived three weeks without us, all alone in his bowl in the gloom with no-one to disturb his silent vigil.

You may not know it nor feel it but there is a wry sadness here that lingers like mist in the valley.