Notes from a small holding on the edge of the moor: the hedge, the wall, the hens, the weather, and whatever else needed doing that week.
First swift over the barn on the fourth, screaming round the gable where the old nest boxes are.
Second for the onions, nothing for the beans, and a first for the loaf, which surprised me more than anyone.
The starter is reliable now.
The bottom of the field is always three degrees colder than the top on a still night, because cold air drains downhill and pools where the hedge stops it.
Missed the signs and the big hive threw a swarm on the hottest day of the month.
The stack felled last winter has dried to under twenty percent on the meter, which is what the stove wants.