Sunday 21st January
There is a length of garden twine around my neck and my gardening gloves are tucked under my left arm pit. My snips and secateurs are poking out of my gilet pockets and my feet are freezing.
Margot sits on the gîte kitchen window sill, her head on one side, watching me intently. I am weaving the stems of the Wollaton Old Hall rose, t…
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