The grandson said the best part of our trip to see the old forest was the ferry. Forty years of trees and I was beaten by a boat, which I have mentioned to him more than once. Truth is I was a bit disappointed. Wanted him to see what I'd done there, though six is a poor age to appreciate decades of planting. Then he drew the ferry with the two of us on it and asked if I'd keep it. Aye, I said, of course. Felt rather foolish about my disappointment after that, but not entirely rid of it. The drawing's on the fridge. He's given me enormous arms and his own head is bigger than the wheelhouse. Fair likeness of the day.

Dry morning, enough wind to keep the allotment from feeling warm. I worked with the small fork rather than the spade and found a pace the knee would allow, kneeling pad shifted along a bit at a time. My hands were cold till the second row, then warm inside the gloves and quite willing. It's the getting up that's a performance now. Once upright I still feel strong across the shoulders, stronger than some folk expect when they see the stairs trouble. Came home puggled and sat while my partner made tea. Could feel the work in my arms when I lifted the mug. No particular complaint about that. The ground was better than when I arrived.

A man at the allotments called a crooked tree useless. Depends what he wanted it for, I said, and he looked surprised that there was any question. I spent enough years judging trees for the work they could give us, straightness and growth and the trouble of getting them out. Still do it without thinking. But this one had a good spread of branches over the path and nobody was asking it for a sawlog. Been turning that over since, not because I've suddenly gone soft on timber, but because I disliked hearing my own old judgement out of his mouth. My partner says I mostly disliked the man. There may be some truth in that as well.