Prize Prig

I went to bed full of excitement, dreaming of the pain au chocolate I was planning to have for breakfast. I know this sounds sad, but I have eschewed sweet and fattening foods for several weeks now as I'm determined to lose my flabby middle. I haven't craved them, but I was really looking forward to this Sunday morning treat. And it didn't disappoint. That's the thing about treats. Because they are not everyday things but special, there is much more appreciation of them, more meaning attached. Anyone can guzzle chocolate all day. But the feel and taste of it on your tongue after a long time is unsurpassable.

I've been running a book on my dahlias to see whether the ones I dug up in the autumn after the first frosts, then dried and cleaned before and cossetting in the garage would outperform those I left in the ground. Given the terrible winter I would have put money on the indoor ones, except I'm not a betting man. But blow me if the five large pink ones I left in the perennial bed haven't all sprouted, much faster than the lifted ones and with 100% success. So far I'm still waiting for one Bishop of Llandaff and two Bishop of Yorks. That's decided me for future years. It's a big messy hassle taking up the tubers when the pre-winter ground is muddy, wet and cold, but it looks like it's not necessary. I'll make my mind up when I see the relative quality of the blooms, but it's looking good. One less job of putting the garden to bed for the long drab months.

Every year a large group of young people pass my house on a marathon trek as part of their Duke of Edinburgh Award. I believe they walk from Bardsey, or maybe it's Blaxhall, presumably staying at youth hostels. Four years running I've been here and watched them straggle past. But how my heart has gone out to them. The first year they slogged along in desperate weather, rainwater dripping down their faces and inside their hoods which were being battered by the rain, heavy rucksacks weighing them down. For the next two years the weather was scorching, positively Saharan, and they dragged themselves along under a relentless sun, stripped down to T-shirts with sweaters and jackets tied around their waists. On these occasions their puce faces dripped sweat. And blow me if this year's group didn't choose Wednesday to do the hike, and we don't need to be reminded of what a horrible day that was. I really feel for them, gutsy kids that they are. I'm hoping for more temperate weather next year, a warm, breezy day perhaps when their suffering can be limited to foot blisters and aching backs. And I can just watch them with pleasure.