A gift horse landed on the post mat last tuesday. Three weeks in the remote western plains of Ireland, feeding plants, chickens, cats, a donkey, a baby goat, with time enough to write, wander, fill my lungs with rich green air and retreat. My promised payment = my body weight in flour. It's been a dusty month and no matter how wide I open the windows or how fast I bicycle, I am laying silently, with nausea, in hope, with thick dust-moth aftermath. Anticipation suppresses my appetite. 21 days in June for pure exploration - hold fast on all other endeavours.