Usual Saturday morning, church for coffee, red and white plastic gingham tables packed with folk, then he comes over to me and, in what was probably supposed to be a conspiratorial whisper, launches into "Can you come out tomorrow? I think I have found the bathhouse."
I dunno whether he has or not. There has to have been one; every Roman fort had its bathhouse; and he has been looking for it for years. I don't even care whether he has found it or not - I'm going out tomorrow!!!!!
I have been fretful enough with this snow, and had not been thinking of fieldwork. With this one we get a tiny, tiny window in the year, the days between the farmer ploughing and sowing. Last year that amounted to two weekends, one stunningly beautiful with the spring sunshine warm on the fields stretching all the way down to the Clyde, and the next where we could hardly stand against the wind.
With the snow this year, especially this week, I'm amazed that the farmer has started ploughing. Tomorrow will probably be hell, but I don't care. Early morning February communion, then into boots, waterproof breeks, three layers of clothes, and OUT.
Just, please, don't let it snow again tonight.........