It's probably just as well that I'm working tomorrow: when I'm busy in the garden I have no brake, no ability to say "enough is enough" and stop. I'm not overdoing it exactly, no hoeing or digging has happened, but I have worked my way around the large lower bed on my bottom and weeded with a trowel. It's much easier on the body to do it this way, slower but less taxing. Yet even so I ache a bit this evening, so a break from the job will be good. As soon as I get home though I'll be back out there. I love it! Sometimes I can't believe I'm lucky enough to live here, and when I take a short rest and look around me it seems like the most perfect place on earth. I get my energy from the countryside and the garden, my peace of mind. When it's warm and quiet, as it was this evening, with no wind and just the song of a blackbird to serenade me, I feel very close to a state of ecstasy. I laugh at myself in such moments, but it's no exaggeration.
Every time I get up and move around the garden, Hugo follows me. He drags himself to his feet, walks beside me, and when he is sure I'm going to be stationary for a while he plops himself down. It's touching, but quite unnecessary. "I'm just putting these weeds in the bin," I tell him. "I'll be right back. You stay there." And he gives me a look, whippet-face, and lies back resignedly. But the next time I stir he's up again, plodding along beside me. I'd love to know what he's thinking. But here he is in Cambridge, sunning himself on a shelf barely wider than himself, content to be by the water and to watch what's going on. I know I shouldn't boast, but is he beautiful or what?
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