Early today the mother-in-law left for Dublin. The house has been oddly serene since her departure. I'm not worrying about whether or not I have put something in the wrong place or said something inappropriate. I don't feel as if my activity is being noted and assessed and judged wanting. I brought the dog upstairs early and I poured myself a glass of wine at five PM, as if I was an adult.

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The husband and I had almond croissants and coffee on the grounds of the castle cafe. He noted the weeds, coming up here and there; I said, well, to you they may look like weeds. In the field beside the castle, the cattle were gone; mown, no longer high with docket and buttercups. Ravens wreathed the castle ruins, where in between the old stones, herb robert, wall rue, pennywort, maidenhair spleenwort, and hart's tongue grew.

While waiting for our coffee, I took a photo of these marbled pink roses, full-blown with bushy yellow filaments and anthers hidden in their soft wildly-coloured petals. Rosa mundi, an old heirloom rose native to Europe, a cultivar from the apothecary's rose, which was grown in medieval gardens and probably brought over by returning Crusaders. Hardy, with a spicy scent.

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The husband wants to book a flight to somewhere warm, Italy or Spain. I have no desire to leave. I have no yearning for other climates and atmospheres. I prefer this small town now. The familiar faces. The predictably unpredictable weather. I want my life to be boring right now, just for a wee while.

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