bliss

Marvellously, rather brilliantly in fact, Minks has discovered that the little hut they're staying in has a wireless internet connection, borrowed, no doubt, from the house next door. No need now for complicated modem connections and much moaning over the hogging of the one and only telephone line.

It's grey again today, after promise of brilliant sunshine, and so armed with trusty red iPod, with Outkast, Amy Winehouse, Cat Stevens, The Waterboys, Grieg and Hildegard Von Bingen, I set out to survey this wondrous isle, this magical place. And sure enough, buoyed by the music, the flotilla of greenness showed itself, the oak and clover, wheat and raspberries, and I was quite transported to another time and place. There is something ancient here, something mossy and mysterious and waiting to give up its secrets. Inexplicably I practically hopped from leg to leg, swinging my arms furiously and occasionally twirling after making sure I wasn't being watched because if I appeared loony before, the dancing in circles would be the final straw. Layers of truth peeled away with each forward step.

Every morning I wake up in Los Angeles, it is with a sense of dread and yet here, each morning, with the sun spreading itself out over the sea and the little islands, the patter of seagulls on the roof above us, the clinking of the masts, just makes me glad to be alive. We are in skinny little single beds, pulled tight together so that there is a little wooden dip to fall down in the middle. We leave the curtains slightly open so that the light pours in from about a quarter to four. Outside, the ridiculous rain-green of the leaves -- ash, rowan, oak, cherry, silver birch and acid yellow of the moss which creeps up each greypink rock. Strawberries nest in each crevace, tiny fraises du bois, miniscule and red and bursting with strawberry flavor. It really is rather blissful.

Off to the Bla Brygge for lunch - mussels -- yum!