In General

We watched the first swift as it whizzed up and down Shingle Street, zooming along the lane a millimetre from the ground, skimming hedges, swerving backwards and upwards through telephone wires, ever on the move like an out-of-control mechanical toy. They are always a source of wonder and admiration, these birds that live on the wing, eating, drinking and sleeping, even mating, whilst on the go and only pausing for long enough to nest. Their continuous movement can be exhausting to watch too, as you long for them to settle for a few seconds, catch their breath so you can relax.

Between short bouts of very chilly wind the sun came out and suddenly the garden was an inviting place again. I got all the bedding dry in around half an hour and then set to and planted a clematis beside each obelisk, and rows of sweet peas along all four sides. The colours are magenta and purple, and they are meant to be highly scented. I love sweet peas, though once they are out and you have to cut them every evening I go off them slightly. The same goes for dead-heading the 19 dahlias, but it's worth it for the length of the flowering season. Actually it'll be more than 19: several of the big pink ones will need to be divided before they go into the ground. I'm going to run out of space. And I never thought I'd say that! But this time they're staying put. They'll have to tough out the winter, hidden under piles of mulch and warm covers.

Sarah and Nick came for a drink this evening, and I thought we'd sit in the summerhouse which should have been toastie after the day's sun but wasn't. Instead we sat indoors with the heating on which is totally unacceptable for May 2nd. Three women together with a bottle of wine are always going to have a good laugh, and tonight was no exception. Matthew Hopkins came up, the old Witchfinder General who carried out his murderous work in this part of the country, and who Nick swears she has seen late at night on the back road to Woodbridge. She will never again drive that way in the dark. We all considered what we'd do if we got a puncture in a spooky place, and the unanimous answer was: just keep driving. The two of them happily accepted that, had they been alive in the mid-17th century, they'd have been burned or drowned as witches. Neither of them thought I would, despite my having plucked a hair out of my chin only last week. Anyway, Sarah and I have a date: on All Souls Eve we plan to drive the spooky route and see what happens. Nick has forbidden it. But at least one of us is a witch and will not be told.