Last night it drizzled slightly, but the air was warm and it was still light when I went to bed at half past ten. This morning I climbed up through the bracken and ferns at the back of the house to check on the burn, the small stream from where we get our water. The peaty brown water trickled thinly across the rocks; there's hardly been any rain here all winter, H. told me, and they've been taking water from the big river to water the crops. If it doesn't rain soon, we'll be completely out of water.

This afternoon, after a few hours' writing and having taken the washing in, I walked along the shore to find a place to swim. I passed two cars parked in the lay-by along from the house, their doors open and their occupants standing with large binoculars and a telescope looking back at the house.

I stopped and said hello. The three men ignored me but after a long pause, the woman said hello back. I asked if the sea eagles were around- they nest in the tree behind our house- and they didn't reply. I asked again and one of the men said, coldly, not turning from his binoculars,

"Yes."

They started to talk amongst themselves. I stood there for half a minute then said, "Good luck" and went off.

I tramped down to the shore, across mossy humps and through the brambles and irises, and found a rocky shelf slightly protected from the wind. I was still amazed and irritated by the rudeness of the twitchers, who were camped out in my front yard, when I stripped naked and plunged into the water. I hope they could see me and would be put out too. Perhaps they would think I was a seal.

My mind is starting to unknot; now I can hear the silence as loud as anything. It is raucous and it rings in my ears where normally thoughts and over-thinking are the loudest things of all.