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.

There is a point, around the first week of January, that both the garden and my state of mind reach a plateau of drab mid-tones of browns and greys.

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.

Deep valleys studded with tough silver holm oaks and hardy heather, craggy low mountains and uncompromising granite outcrops, remote waterfalls, serpentine rushing rivers and hushed chestnut forests.