Sunday afternoon, 27th April: a woodpecker drumming rather persistently on a dead tree-trunk in the woods nearby; a handful of blackbirds singing across the valley; a solitary intent blue butterfly; the late Ibrahim Ferrer singing “Dos gardenias para ti;” a half-decent barbecue wafting by; a glass of chilled Australian chardonnay; a flurry of pink cherry blossoms, some deliciously warm sun; and this fluffy blue sky. Not the time for work, nor the Joan Didion I'm supposed to be reading...While elsewhere in Cornwall there are orioles, hoopoes and bee-eaters - stragglers...
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