Another week, another day out. We know how to live. Today’s visit was to Orford, mainly for a visit to Pinney’s Smokery. I’m vegetarian, he’s carnivore to the bone (but happy to join me in a veggie meal). Pinney’s smoke whatever they can get hold of – ham, bacon, cheese, garlic, butter. Yes, I do know that smoked and processed food is generally linked to poor health outcomes. Frankly, if you avoid every EVERY tempting (badforyou) food and drink, you might not live for ever but it will feel like it (and not in a good way).

Last time we visited Orford was last summer, again for smoked ham – the time before that, was in 2019, to visit the castle. It’s fascinating. Built in the middle of the 12th century by Henry II of England, it’s surprisingly modern in that it has primitive indoor lavatories for selected honored guests. As I lived in a house up to 1976 that had its only lavatory outside in the garden and the bath hung up on a hook on the garden wall, I’m impressed. Not that my family would be allowed to let our lavatorial produce dribble out through gaps in the brickwork and down our ‘castle’ walls and be washed off in the rain.

The castle is closed till next Monday. We can wait. We had a panini at the Black Shed and enjoyed a breezy, cool and slightly dribbly day, chatted to the locals and went home.

Our wedding anniversary today, and the cherry tree we planted for our 25th is out in blossom as it does every early May. Fabulous, frothy, pink blossoms. His choice. The cherry tree we planted for our 30th (my choice) has white double blossoms, but is a lot less enthusiastic and is always finished by the end of April. We planted quince trees for our 35th, and had a weekend learning to make a bow from a length of green ash for our 40th. The funniest anniversary so far was the week we spent in Guernsey for our 21st. The hotel put a bottle of champagne in our room, and I went back to thank the Reception staff for it. They looked horrified. I forgot that I’d taken a good square thump on the face in the Karate session two nights before, and was sporting a fresh black eye. It didn’t seem worth going back to explain that it wasn’t his fault, but we did tone down any disagreements that week for the hotel staff’s peace of mind.

Today, we took the day off from working in the garden, and I took the day off from writing. I got drawn into the Nano challenge of writing all April and need a break to sort the stories out and edit them. I was writing with three others, all encouraging each other to keep going. Two of the others are in print already and were writing stories with a market in mind – I just had an idea I wanted to put on paper.

Life is starting to open up again here in England, and we’re getting out almost as we used to – been out for a breakfast at our favourite local (sitting outside in a freezing wind, and grateful for the chance to be there), plotting a few days away later this year and nipping out to buy tile cement and paint to keep our projects here going. All the normal things we took for granted two years ago.

It’s a hopeful time of year, and we’re looking forward to what’s coming next. After six months of lockdown, that’s a new sensation and we’re still getting used to it.

My mother used to tell me that her mother was from southern Wales, and her father was from the Irish border. It always intrigued me, this idea of an Irish Catholic marrying a Chapel girl from the outskirts of Swansea. His family had emigrated from Ireland in the early 1900’s, when my grandfather was a toddler, and there was a lot of drama in there – both families disapproved, and religion was apparently a real battleground in my mother’s youth. The only thing my mother and grandmother would say about the place where his family were from was that my grandfather would never speak of his Irish background, as there was prejudice against the Irish in London in the early part of the 1900’s, and that his family always claimed to be from London whenever they were asked.

When I spotted a competition to write a play that was only open to those of the Irish diaspora – or those whose parents or grandparents were displaced from Ireland – I thought I would give it a go. The stories I’d heard from my mother would have to be toned down, as nobody would ever believe them in fiction, but they were a great start.

No, actually, the great start was to be able to prove that I was the grand-daughter of an Irish exile. I started digging into the census records, marriage records, birth and christening records. I found my ancestors, all right. To be sure, he claimed to be born in London. Because he was. So was his father, and his mother, and his grandfather all born in and around Southwark. I think I got as far as her “Welsh” parents (born in Southwark) before giving up on the idea that I had this colourful Celtic heritage.

I was left with this feeling that my mother had a great skill in telling the stories, stories that were almost Irish in their depth and colour. If she was here today, I’d raise a glass of the dark stuff to her. I’d pour it over her head for telling fibs to a gullible child.

Happy St Patrick’s Day to everyone out there who is – or thinks they is – Irish.

Today’s been spent getting on with the kitchen. It needs it. My husband’s been re-setting the larder door on its hinges and putting architrave around the frame – now the door is in place and the latch is back on, he’s moved on to continuing the job of tiling the kitchen wall.

He hasn’t done any tiling since his hips began to give him serious trouble, in summer 2019. He was digging around in the tiling cement and he asked; “Are we allowed to go out to a DIY place and get some fresh tiling cement?”

On the face of it, yes we are – the builders merchants are all still open as “essential businesses” – but equally, no we aren’t, as we are only allowed to go out for essential shopping trips, medical appointments, exercise under strict rules or to care for a vulnerable person. It’s been frustrating. We have spare time and want to keep occupied but we can’t, without breaking the rules.

It seems completely crazy that we have to ask a builders’ merchant a few miles away to post us the nails or paint or tiling supplies we need to make good use of our time – that we worry about driving three miles to a local supermarket in case we’re stopped by the police for not having gone to a food shop two miles away instead. We’ve learned today that a Suffolk hardware store that has been in business for 200 years has closed. Walking around that shop was a delight, and we’ll miss our trips there. I’m sure the current lockdown dealt them the final blow.

In better news, I have repaired the statue that I broke by dropping it on a stone floor and touched up the paint (the floor survived, thanks for asking). And this morning I heard that a story I submitted to a competition is through to the shortlist. Fingers crossed.