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The summer break had been longer than usual because of the pandemic. It had started early in April and now, in August, things were beginning to drag. Even the weather was beginning to take a turn towards the autumnal, as if it too was tired of keeping up appearances. Waves of funereal black clouds swept from the sea bringing bouts of tremendous downpour. But even now, although most people were going about their business as if the pandemic had been dealt with, there was still a lingering suspicion that the virus was still lurking around the corner, waiting to bite back again. And with the winter months ahead, authorities seemed in two minds.

Margot and I had had our plans curtailed for a summer break in Lisbon - but we knew that it was unlikely that we’d get there way back in April when the pandemic began its first run at Europe. We’d booked the holiday at the tail end of the year and thankfully hadn’t lost much - the flights we’d got were cheap, and we hadn’t even got round to sorting accommodation. There was a sadness between us that we weren’t going on our customary break abroad - but we got over it. After all, we said to each other, there is a pandemic on, and some poor sods have died. We weren’t, we felt, in much of a position to complain about missing a little jaunt abroad in the sun for a few days. So we just kept on at it, enjoying the early spring sunshine and the long hours of daylight, watching sunsets in the garden and listening to the new soundtrack of nature that seemed reborn.