Sunday

Out for a very decent traditional Sunday lunch at the Lion Inn at Timberscombe; plain but well-cooked, followed by a short excursion into the surrounding countryside. The dogs, already walked, stayed at home today; sometimes we like to eat without an avid audience eyeing our every mouthful.

The primroses are over, save in shady spots; instead, Queen Anne's Lace and Red Campion are everywhere; the hedgerows are a froth of pink and white.

We pootle gently; Exmoor is very beautiful today in its fresh Spring greenery.

Sometimes we stop; we look in at St Mary's church above Luxborough; we take photographs.

 A very muddy man on a trail bike stops; he and his companions have been hopelessly lost for miles, winding in and out, up and down, round and round, through the little lanes. We share a map, and he and his group roar off; later we spot them lost again, peering confusedly at the sat-navs that struggle to cope with the twists and turns, farm tracks and dead ends that lie in wait for the unwary.

Then home for a few hours of gardening, weeding, planting, planning where to put the gated arch that will keep an enthusiastic labrador off the flower beds. The garden is full of stinky Herb Robert, which I regard as the enemy; it thrives down here, so my ruthless pulling-out won't endanger it in the slightest. I am delighted to find that one of its other names is Death Come Quickly....

Sensing my strange reluctance to weed for hours (or getting fed up, perhaps, with my lack of focus and over-keenness to look way beyond the task in hand to the dream garden that may evolve in years to come?), the Companion releases me, and I go indoors to bake a chocolate cake instead.

By evening those plants that have been released from pots look like they are already
stretching their legs and extending their toes, grateful for real soil and freedom to grow.

The chocolate cake, on the other hand, is a less grateful affair; it looks, smells and tastes good (and so it should, given the ingredients) but it sinks in the middle and is oddly dry and powdery. One for cream or chocolate sauce, I think.

Never my favourite day of the week, after the bleakness and rigours of a convent boarding school, I'm finding that Sundays are really rather pleasant these days.

Hours of battling with Death Come Quickly excepted, of course.