We garden, make a bonfire, sit on the terrace beside the cottage and soak up the warmth.
I open up the shutters of the house and throw wide the French windows of the lounge to let sun-filled air seep into its dark, dank interior.
Yesterday afternoon, engrossed in making a flower bed behind the pool house Eric built last spring, digging out the dandelions and couch grass tucked between the stems of the hydrangeas I planted in the autumn, I hear their distant cry. Way to the south, too far and too high to see clearly, I can just make out a hint of smoke grey moving against the grey-blue sky - cranes!
Wave after wave of them over two hours. Moving north and east in the late afternoon sun.
And then, finally, one group comes out of the west, high above our fields. They find a thermal and for ten minutes we watch their ballet, as, calling to each other, they wheel and turn, climbing higher and higher on the warm air before heading away towards the north again.