Thursday: back to Paris tomorrow.

Woke this morning to dark cloud, then a steady drizzle and the Plain below us in misty rain shadow, the prospect of a lazy day listening to drops fall on the roof—lovely in places where rain is only occasional. Now it has stopped and we managed a walk towards the next village, without seeing a soul, though a few birds were singing. Now we close the house, move chairs inside, even the broken ones, admire the almond trees in pink or white blossom—no almond trees in Paris—try to get

masks for the train (sold out; the pharmacist laughed) or maybe a little bottle of hand sterilizer. Perhaps we should stay put—but I’m hoping to get to Scotland for StAnza, the poetry festival, next week. I’m training all the way—the plane was expensive, and I rather enjoy the idea of staring out the window at northern scenery for a few hours—and a stopover in London.

Friday 28 February

Sitting in the TGV station in Avignon, in a cafe, catching up on emai.