Blogging is a funny thing. Do it and it is compulsive: the writing, the comments, the reading of other blogs. Stop, even if only for a few days, and it is oddly hard to start again. What on earth have I got to say?
Not much really.
We had a visit from some lovely friends who live in Canada. They insisted that the thing they wanted to do most in the world was to help us weed and manure our rhubarb bed. I know, I told you they were lovely.
The children began to gather for Ian's birthday and the house was suddenly full of them and a puppy and a toddler. The sun shone. The cakes were iced. Food was planned and prepared. My sister and her family arrived and tents went up in the field and still the sun shone. Family and old friends poured in from near and far and the sun poured in too. Dogs poddled about happily, the oldest stuck to my father's side, the next one playing football with older children, the puppy happily eating raspberries and windfall apples. There was much food eaten, games played, the toddler swung backwards and forwards for as long as anyone would push him. A great tide of warmth and friendship washed through the house and garden.
None of my carefully planned cutting garden, all orange and gold, was in flower and I can't say I cared a bit.
And now everyone has gone and the cat is sleeping quietly and the rain is trickling down the window and the whole weekend has a golden light around it.
Lucky or what?