I drove to Limerick for a hospital appointment and came home through Adare, which added an hour and solved nothing and was completely the right decision.

Bríd rang at half eleven and by the time we were done the light had changed and the bucket was still in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Five lanes I've walked so often I could do them in the dark – and once or twice, in November, I more or less did.

Tom came by with Bess around three, when the sun was still on the garden wall. Neither of us said much. It was enough.

Bríd got a blister outside Lispole and didn't mention it for three miles – I only found out at the top of the hill when she sat down without being asked.

West Cork is a long drive from here – nearly four hours – but I've made it several times over the years, and three places in particular I keep thinking about.

Bríd had been telling me to go to Westport for two years. I'd been resisting on no very good grounds.