I have been known, I know, to crow about how you can more or less forget garden exertions in winter. But since a couple of days before Christmas when the drear damp that had plagued us for weeks gave way to pale crispy blue, I have found myself resenting every moment I’m not raking up the soggy half-decayed leaves that are damaging my so-called lawns or grappling with the crouch grass that ran rampant across my garden beds all through autumn inundations. It feels like a liberation.
We’ve been walking too – not much I admit but in speedy mediumly ambitious spurts very locally. I love walks that don’t involve cars. Striding straight out the front door is so satisfying. As L contemplates the little illustrated walking guide to the Amalfi Coast he’s going to write for guests at Le Sirenuse, I’m thinking: perhaps I should do the same (in…
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