Easy

It's easy, waking up in the morning and watching the house martens swoop by the window, drawing wide circles in the air and returning to roost in the eaves.

It's easy, padding downstairs to the breakfast room to enjoy a deliciously greasy fry-up and a croissant.

It's easy, walking down the road to the start of the forest trail, with the baby sitting in a sling on my back.

It's easy, sitting in the garden at teatime lavishly applying clotted cream to a crumbly scone.

It's easy, leaning back on a cast iron chair, with a cup of tea and a book, breathing in the cool mountain air carrying the faint scent dewy forest ferns and mosses.

It's easy, watching Stardust as he purses his lips into a tiny pink rosebud, tasting the scone's buttery goodness.

It's easy, watching Stardust laughing with delight and spraying crumbs into his lap, my lap, MDH's lap and all over the verenda.

It's so easy.