‘Ah, it smells just perfect out here,’ Babymother said, stepping out yesterday morning. ‘Dampness and bracken and woodsmoke.’ Well, what can I say, she’s from London where summers smell of traffic fumes and fried food and anxiety. And at least she missed the holy trinity of rural scents I got on the ride out for the paper today: poorly dried waterproofs, slurry and something very very dead in a hedgerow somewhere.
That said, the huge bronze fennel currently dominating the front door has started flowering so now when we step outside it’s like standing beside a giant liquorice allsort. On balance, I think we win.