I’ve had a lovely first-day-of-Wimbledon, and must hurry back to watch Murray. I’m not as much further forward with that sock as I ought to be – but somewhat.

 

Helen has sent me pictures from our weekend in Perthshire. Me and the cats:

 

Me and Perdita in the commonty:

 

Me and a tree in the Den – the bosky bit between the house and the commonty:

 

That’s not just any old tree, either. It’s a poplar. Long ago, somewhere around 1970, my husband planted an acre or so with poplars. When we next got back, he found that deer had eaten almost all of them. Helen and I – where was everyone else? – were sent down there to rescue the few survivors. It was the Christmas holiday. It wasn’t just a matter off applying a spade or a fork. We had to disengage the roots from the freezing mud with frozen fingers. The experience has left a deep impression on both of us. She was probably 8 or 9. We rescued three or four trees and brought them home.

 

I don’t remember the next step. Maybe my husband planted them himself. But there they still are, and Helen and I are now rather proud of them.