Climb into the forest. Neolithic echoes. Stone tools. Shadows. The sense of another kingdom.

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Sleepless nights, the buzz of blossom, the miracle chorus.

Wondrous trees of life. Woodpeckers and protest songs. Loss and the ticking clock.

Mourning a great loss to satire, wild boar chaos and the dark arts of politics. Not a good day. Apologies in advance.

Head in the clouds, bewilderment in a darkening world, and the uplifting company of nature.

The song of the serin, trees that say welcome, and the worldly adventures of the peasant farmer for whom this was once home.

Twelfth night, a fox den, a map of the Mother's Garden farm in Catalonia, and a thank you.

Where do any of us stand? Take three in the weekly accounts of life on a Mediterranean mountain farm called Mother's Garden. By Martin Kirby