Today was full of activity. We chopped wood, stripped it of bark, stacked it up, and dug out a flower bed.
It felt great to have energy for all of this so I decided to walk down to the shop for milk. Sam advised me against it given the length of the walk and the fact that we basically live at the top of a mountain.
I should have listened.
I got down to the little shop feeling great and joined the socially distant queue where I stood in the baking sun for ten minutes before my chance came. Thankfully I didn't forget anything and got out of there before the virus could catch me.
I was a little worried about the dog which had barked at me on the way down but it was good to see the gate had closed on my return and he couldn't terrorise me again.
This was at the base of the hill.
About 50m up the hill the sun was beating down so hot I regretted not buying a Fruju although it probably wouldn't have made it this far. Then after about an age I passed number 47 which I realised wasn't even half way up the now towering peak I saw before me.
It looked different from the top.
When I got to the mid point my lungs were heaving and my legs threatened to give way. I was tempted to call the rescue helicopter but I soldiered on, only stopping to press the cold milk bottle against my face.
I had already wiped it with a disinfectant wipe.
I made it through our gate with my arms held high as if I was crossing the ribbon on an Iron Man challenge.
Before promptly collapsing onto the grass and swearing never to do that again.
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