It has been a busy time. The goats are ever-present, but in addition we are beginning the harvest.
The fields are small, having been carved out of the forest, and they do not all ripen quite at once, having been planted one at a time, but still there has been much to do—and I begin to despair of getting the hang of it. Jack would be laughing at me now if he were here, the way he used to laugh at me during games at school, for harvesting the grain is quite like a game: there is a technique to it, and a rhythm, and where everyone else ends with a neat bundle of stalks I end up with the stalks scattered everywhere. By the end of Mardi I was reduced to carrying drinking water to the harvesters