Sunday: hangovering. Croissants and coffee in the castle cafe garden, reading Brian Dillon on the photographer William Eggleston. Walk with the husband and Sam in the woods, where it is quiet, shadowy, and ever green; yesterday I encountered another wood-lover, the silver-washed fritillary (Irish: fritleán geal), which is large and delightfully furry, with black-spotted orange wings. While away the rest of the afternoon in bed, reading passages from Tove Jansson’s The Summer Book. Sausage sambos for dinner: fried tomatoes and sausages squished between two slices of bread well buttered and doused in brown sauce. Open the bar, and watch the end of a hurling semi-final. Back to bed, reading a historical romance novel while the rain falls. The clouds: darksome here, white and gold there, as if I live in a marvelous Turner painting.




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