Scale

I woke at six this morning and went out to water the lettuces. As I filled my watering can from the outside tap, I carelessly let it overflow and water poured onto the pavers. I peered down. An ant was trapped on an island of dry stone, running round and round to find a way out. He would approach the meniscus, then bravely broach the wall of water, wade in for a few millimetres before turning back and trying some other spot. There was only one possible escape route. He ran along a tiny twig, first one way then the other. Both ends led to more water. Then he spotted a rose leaf a short jump from the twig. Across the narrow ford of liquid he plunged, reaching the safety of the leaf, where he would no doubt wait until the temporary flood subsided.

How important our own lives seem to us. How little we know of the rest of Nature.

Invasion of the Painted Ladies

The garden is under airborne attack. We are being invaded by dozens of Painted Lady butterflies. They are a tiny part of a huge north-moving swarm from North Africa which has landed on our shores in the past week or so.

Some of them are a little battered and storm-tossed, it is true. But it is wonderful to see them in such numbers as they weave and duck and dive amongst the spring flowers.

We don't spray. There are greenfly, slugs and snails but there are plenty of birds to eat them.

A garden without butterflies is no garden.

Musical magic

On Sunday we had a real treat. The young pianist Jessica Chan came up from London to give us a recital of Scarlatti, Mozart, Liszt, Debussy and Scriabin.

The Studio was packed - of course - and the audience listened in rapt silence to playing of maturity and mastery. Liszt's 'Rigoletto' paraphrase glittered and sparkled with cascades of diamond-dust. Debussy's first book of Images gave me the greatest pleasure. All the subtle shadings and chiaroscuro effects of this wonderful music were there, as if heard for the first time. The modernity of the sound was startling. So much that we composers take for granted in our musical vocabulary seems to have originated in Debussy's music. I believe his greatness is still not fully recognised.

Everything else worked like clockwork. The weather was early May at its best, gentle breezes fanning the warming earth. As I sat at the back, listening to the music, I heard a blackbird and a robin singing not far away.

Moments of magic that touch the soul.