13. April 6th.

The sunshine is truly cheering. So much stronger. While the plums are losing their blossom, taking on a slightly shabby, dirty look, the pears and sweet cherries have more than enough. The apples are biding their time and I'm thinking how handsome these trees are, so good to see full sized, big headed fruit trees. None of those dwarfed, domestic, patio types dare show up around here.

Big black bees are busy coupling and zooming and the general insect racket is a pleasing background music. The kestrels give a repeat performance every so often, mating high in the pear tree, with chattering, rising cries.

Yesterday I watched the female hen harrier quartering and hooking low over the meadows, so near and silent. I could see her white banded rump and gingery striped breast. Usually it`s the ghost grey male, black wing tips bent back, hunting in that almost skating, gliding flight. Later on I can hear their courtship and exchange calls, higher, towards the forest..

Sylvie thinks I'm out too early, sowing and planting. She doesn’t trust this spring, she says. She nevertheless hands me six seed potatoes to plant. . Unnamed, she is proud to say they have been in the family for years and years. Small, white tubers for an early crop. I shall put them in today, I say. As I am out there, I hear the first cuckoo.

Later that night I go out onto the roof to look at Orion hanging over the hill, and the moon sliver slung between it and the mountain. The tawny owls are hooting and the bats are flicking past the alley lamp.