Sunday 4th April 2021

It turns out, not surprisingly, that red wine when you have gout is not a good idea.

I slept poorly as a result, which should surprise no one, least of all me.

And a combination of my poor left foot and right shoulder has meant I can only lie on one side in bed, which is not what I am used to, but maybe is another new normal.

Who knows?

Anyway, I do sleep, but feel like death warmed up, though coffee helps, as does two slices of toast smothered in nutella.

The day before, my friend Mark, found Early Purples out, I knew the location, it was a short walk from the pub. I say short, maybe half a mile, and the last bit down a slope, but I should be able to do it. The sun was expected to break through at ten, and at half nine my foot ached a little less and so I squeezed a shoe on my left foot, and for a time it seemed to hurt less.

Lets go, I said.

And I even drove, which in the end wasn't such a good idea, but then neither was going out walking laden with camera gear.

It is a simple drive up the M20 to Folkestone, then onto the motorway to Ashford, and back onto the old A20 before turning off. I guess because motorway driving means I didn't have to use the clutch much, so that the last part up the narrow lanes to the pub did, so that by the time we arrived at the village green, I was in some pain.

No matter, there's orchids to seek out and snap.

My usual saunter had been reduced to a shuffle, so that JOols pressed ahead to do some litter picking, while I told myself how stupid I was.

I didn't disagree.

Through the gate and across the field, the line of trees marking the edge of the wood seemed miles away, I shuffled on and reached it, then down into the wood where my gamy toe made contact with every stone and exposed tree root.

Jools went on to expore, and found no rosettes in flower: should she go down the side track?

Yes.

She goes and reports a flowering orchid some 100 steps along, in the meantime I had retraced my steps back up the path to the fork, and then down the sidetrack. And after going round two trees, there in a host of partially unopened bluebells was a single EPO spike with one and a half flowers open.

I don't care: the season has begun.

I struggle down to get shots, attach the ringflash to the new leans and hope the results will be good.

Then it was a case of getting back up the slope, across the field, then waiting at the gate as jools went to get the car to drive us home, and save me the walk back along the lane to the green.

I needed it.

I could not get comfortable, but suffered in silence and stupidity as we drove to Faversham, then back down the A2 to home.

We got back at one, and after a brew it was time to cook Sunday Easter lunch. Though every time I walked I seemed to find a new place to bang my toe against. I could barely move, and yet prepared the joint, put it in the oven, prepared the potatoes and veg and mixed the Yorkshire pudding, and it all came together at half three.

Jen arrived at three, I dish up and Jools pours the drinks, and no wine for me.

And it was good, the gravy also, made with the stock from the bones from the lamb last week and the juices from the joint.

Lovely.

But I am spent, Jools and Jen tidy up, while I watch yet more football, god as this involves no walking so no toes were stubbed.

I watch more football, Jools and Jen play Scrabble, using the net to suss out if their words were legit or not.

Being a Sunday, once the footabll ended, we have a brew, then it is time for #wildflowerhour once again, and by the time nine came round, I was pooped.