After a magical weekend away, I have re-crossed the border bringing with me an unauthorised companion, a Welsh cold. Sniffles really, nothing to take to my bed for, in fact it is the kind of poorly that insists that you go outside in the fresh air and get on with it. Before too long, the grim wheezy morning, when all you wanted to do was crawl back under the duvet, is a distant snotty memory.
My prescription was to dig brambles, pull ivy and prune ancient roses in the intermittent rain. It seems to have worked.