Last weekend winter was never ending. The house felt draughtier than ever before. The north wind sent cold gusts of air down the chimney causing the smoke to swirl and curl in the fireplace.

Kneeling on the stony cold earth, I regret leaving bulb planting until the beginning of December. Neither my trowel nor my wrists feel up to the job.

Living in a house with its back in the forest creates a feeling of seclusion and protection.

In the moment, in the darkness I am not sure what has woken me. I lie still and alert, squinting as if this will help me hear more clearly.

Every Friday the main avenue in town becomes unrecognizable. Colourful stalls flank the streets and marketgoers fill the space with their hustle and bustle and vivacity.