We went to Boars Hill today with Dennis, setting out across the poet Matthew Arnold’s famous field, meandering through the woods with mud and mire underfoot, then down a ride by fields, a little stream to our right with a lion’s head pouring water from its stone mouth. There is no doubt that spring has arrived, though the cold, damp days of late have masked the fact. But I saw primroses and daffodils everywhere, along with the last of the snowdrops fading back and going brown.
We skirted the base of Jarn Mound. It’s some sort of folly built like a mini Silbury Hill with a moat at the bottom. From the top you can see over the crowns of the trees to the White Horse hills and beyond. There’s a plinth with a beautiful circular Tolkienesque map to show you where you are and what you can see from every one of the 360 degrees of viewpoint. People keep stealing the map. I’d be tempted to purloin it myself if I could work out how to prise it loose – though I hope I’m honest enough not to. Anyway, we didn’t go up there today, instead weaving among the moss covered green boulders and the yew trees in the wood below and back out along the road, past large, expensive houses with names like Birchfield (not a birch tree in sight!).
Still no news from the literary agent.