V visited me on Saturday, to take a photo of me for her series of women in their domestic spaces. She took it in the castle cafe garden, which was heaving with bloom in the sunshine: cornflower, geraniums, Californian lilacs, columbines, comfrey, bush vetch, elderflower, dog roses, ribwort plantain. In the field beside the cafe, a calf suckled on its mother in the broad shade of two stately horse chestnuts. This cafe, this garden, is more home to me than our gloomy quarters above the pub. I come here to get away from the husband's to-do list, and the mother-in-law's long and pointed silences, where I can read and write without feeling guilty, without any pressing claims on my person.

The last time V and I had seen each other was at our friend's house in the beginning of May, just outside of Athenry. I like visiting other people's domestic spaces, for I am curious about how a person might express themselves, consciously or not, through these spaces. Our friend lives in an charming old Georgian house, surrounded by grassy fields; inside, there are carefully curated bookshelves, mysterious paintings, pretty glassware, and rugs everywhere, in patterns that remind me of bird's eye views of walled gardens. There is so much to look at here, and all of it conveys our friend's intricate, beauty-seeking personality. Someone, it might be said, who has not compromised her way of being.

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