My feet are not a pretty sight. I have a pronounced bunion (/bˈʌnɪən/) on the right and a littler one on the left. They sort of crept up on me when I noticed a kind of hump on adjacent toes. ”Oh, that’s a hammer toe,” said my friendly physician, who sent me off to an orthopaedic surgeon, who sent me off for X-rays and who eventually moulded my feet in plaster of Paris for custom orthotics that I have worn ever since.

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Back on track; who would blog on May Day?

Still enjoying reminiscing about the glorious trip early in the month, and still haven't written it up. Truth be told, I probably never will, but never say never. Absolute highlight on the last day of the month was a tiny water feature on the terrace. It has a lot of settling in to do, including I hope a dwarf waterlily, but for now the burbling of the solar-powered fountain is music to my ears. Eat your heart out, Charlie Dimmock.

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It’s hard for me to admit that I can’t make something in the kitchen, but I have had to come to terms with the fact that I am simply incapable of making a straightforward galette sarrasin. I adore buckwheat in bread and as kasha and, when someone else makes them, as buckwheat pancakes, but I simply cannot get the hang of them.

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This time of year, approximately speaking, is ripe for investigating food and cultures, as in the episode Celebrating Passover and Easter. With Passover just behind and Easter just ahead, I’m happy to resurrect some more ancient posts.

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My own personal Wayback Machine recently reminded me that as the first Covid lockdown got under way I was forced to address some prominent myths about sourbread baking being promulgated.

All well and good. A columnist for hire must occasionally promulgate timely myths if they are to earn a cru...

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