With precious little growth of any kind.
It’s been harsh on farmers, who have run out of fodder. On everyone. as fuel bills have hit the roof. On the poor wee birds who have nothing to eat.
This heavy 1960s galvanised guttering turns up. With cold-numb hands it is stripped back, re-painted, then mounted.
Not the most elegant in the world – but this make-shift down-pipe –
serves to channel roof water into a large tank and away from the french drains and cottage foundations.
Much too dry (Ireland?) to plant potatoes – so the woodwork gets a lick of paint.
As do interior doors get treated with wax. The hunt begins for a stove of cast iron, but due to an elongated winter, this proves difficult to find.
One contents oneself with wandering the roads, inspecting old Lime Kilns.
To think that Lime was the crux of agriculture and building both. To think on the mighty fires that burned within here.
No smoke yet from our cottage chimney.
But on the first warm day, and for the first time in a very long number of years, seed potatoes are set.