by Max Akroyd

I’ve spent the last two days travelling between Brittany and the UK, collecting my older children for the school holiday.

The marathon haul on ferry and train gives the aching joints a rest and lots of time to reflect and plan, albeit a bit wearily after seeing the back end of the same towns from both directions. The transition from the rural calm of Finistère to the restless frenzy of the UK may sound a bit of a cliché, but is no less salutary for that. Sometimes, during sleepless nights in cheap hotels in Plymouth or Leeds, with the battle of Saturday Night raging outside, it’s tempting to think that civilisation is in a pretty parlous state… but then, in the bleary light of morning, you see so many people calmly getting on with their lives as best they can and hope is restored.

Still, good to be home. With just enough time and energy to collect the firewood, feed the animals and water the emerging seedlings. I pushed a few shallots back in that the birds had mistaken for something exciting. It seems like a month since I planted them.