Poor wee mole

Sunday gave us a chance to take stock. Various machines were started up and partitions built and barn floors scraped. The afternoon brought a gentle rain which calmed my galloping hayfever. I spent a while digging and barrowing the wood dust and old cow muck from one of the barns. Even though abandoned in the 1960s the smell of the cows was still just there.

It seemed so odd to be in such a quiet and beautiful corner of England - with Wales rolling away across the valley - and yet the world had changed beyond recognition.

Late on as we fossiked about in the farmyard we discovered a pavement of huge flag stones hidden under the turf. And later still Llew (Llewelyn)  from the neighbouring farm stopped off for a chat in the middle of topping a bit of his ground. At 73 he was hale and hearty with a quick wit and the shifting accent of the men of the Marches - one minute this side of the border and the next the other.

One of the cats brought in this poor old mole.