Roger McGough is on Cerys Matthews’ show this morning, as a working party put its collective back into work on the village green, tidying, clearing and sprucing.
Mr Brogue Boots and The Angel of the North are digging over verges and planting wild flower seeds along the village edges.
Up in the church, open for prayer but not yet for services and definitely not for singing, it’s unusually quiet for Palm Sunday. I sit in the corner, trying to work out from the graveyard map the final resting place of my multiple times great-grandfather, born in this village in 1640.
In the house, the tumble dryer is rumbling away, the dog is sleeping with her legs wrapped around a teddy bear. The drawer doctor, masked and socially distant, has just been in to fix one of the kitchen cupboards.
Outside, the yew tree branches are flailing around like the whomping willow in Harry Potter. The sky is grey, the green patio is screaming out for a good power washing and the newly-planted roses could do with some manure around them.
The sweet peas are in their pots, ready for their tips to be snipped out before being put into their permanent homes in a few weeks’ time in amongst the hazel twigs. And then at half-past two, we’ll pick up a Sunday roast from the pub.
The clocks went forward an hour this morning. British summer time is officially here.
Tomorrow sees the next bit of freedom on our road to recovery. We’re going to be allowed to have a total of six people – or two households – in our gardens. At last, at long last. Such freedoms have been out of reach for months.
And with these new freedoms comes better weather. Tuesday looks to be particularly promising, with temperatures of 20+ on the cards.
Ah, better weather. Most efficacious in every case.
That’s about it.
Love, Maddie x