3. Some Place, ..........Pyrenean Journal, February.

A grey green covering of lichen, like a burdening of blossom, emerges from the old trees as the snow patches diminish. The grass appearing seems too bright, too intense. A grey, Irish mist sort of day frames the fuzzy orb of the sun. In full light the little owl bobs up and down on the barn roof and makes a cross patch sort of cluck, chuck. Later next month the first swallows will sail in and my spirits will soar. I`m in the field, sinking the last posts into the sodden ground, each barrow load of cement mix aching my arms.
'You'd be better just burying those posts straight into the ground and tamping them in with the soil and stones.' Yes, Emile is peering over the nascent hedge. How does he manage to pop up with advice at every turn? Since the crowbar reaches what appear to be the roots of the mountain at a 15cm. depth, I feel I can't do this.The sun is trying but the wind, amongst other things, defeats, so I plead cold hands and sulk indoors