Nothing much went wrong this weekend, which was a refreshing change, so together with the sunshine, warmth, bike rides, flowers, bees, butterflies, birdsong, frogs and the prospect of many hundreds of tadpoles in the pond, it was all pretty good.
It is ending well too. Until a minute or two ago, I was sitting by the pond lit by shafts of cool bright moonlight in the stillness of the garden.
The garden was all mysterious dark shapes and silhouettes except for the warm glow of the lights through the half-open kitchen door. It was like looking into someone else’s house because the night view is so unfamiliar.
It looked cosy. On the far wall, cookbooks on shelves with little music player between them, a pew with cushions and orchids arching their exotic blooms over the windowsill.
Outside in the garden I was alone, listening to the chorus of frogs singing in the pond, looking at the stars in the clear dark sky and wondering at the almost-impossible brightness of the full moon.
Coming from the east into the light of the moon I could just make out the lights and the ghostly jetstream of the Paris to Dublin Ryanair Boeing 737 flying at 38,000 feet. Half an hour to landing.