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Walking through Plodda woods, Catherine and I find timber stacks where trees have been newly harvested. The ground's badly churned, and tree debris lies all around. Among the litter are wedges cut from the base of the trees by the chainsaw – crescents of freshly cut timber beautifully patterned, with a bright orange core. Dobs, as Dave the woodman called them.

We stagger back to the car with a couple in our arms – they're a fair weight – with the idea of varnishing them to preserve the colour. They'll look handsome and ornamental somewhere. (But in the end we don't.)

On our way back to Comar Lodge, we stop at the cemetery at Fasnakyle. A tall, thin elderly man, slightly stooped, is brushing leaves from a grave under the trees. We think he's a gardener at first but it's Old Duncan tidying his wife's grave. He doffs his cap to Catherine and she's charmed by the courtesy.