NINE o’clock sharp on a cold morning and I am absorbed in geometry. Angles and planes, perpendiculars and horizontals, sines and cosines.
A year ago my horse, in his keenness to sample cultivated ‘Constance Spry’, pushed over a section of the dry-stone wall that separates the paddock from the garden. My farmer’s fix to fill the resultant gap—two posts wham-banged in, a section of stock fence and a strand of barbed wire—has successfully prevented ingress into the herbaceous border by the equids and livestock that pass through the paddock. And, small bow of professionalism, it’s one up on the
