A few minutes solitude has revived me.

We sank further and further into the mud and we had to keep going forwards. To top it all the bluebells were past their best snd by the end of the walk we were all covered in mud as if we had been for a trek in a jungle. We had to laugh.

When we asked the children if they would like to go to the bluebell wood next year they shouted out, “NO!” I’ll go agsin but next time in stout boots.

There are the animals to feed and water, two goats to milk and J will start to make another Wensleydale type cheese.

The photograph is of grandma’s parents who set sail from Odessa at the turn of the last century – escaping vicious antisemitism and pogroms and grinding poverty. In my book, “Jews Milk Goats”, I reprinted part of a letter written by grandma’s sister Jenny when she was 90 years old. I had asked her to tell me about her childhood and about her parents (pictured above).

Would my great grandparents have been shocked or resigned to what we are seeing and hearing on our televisions and radios or would they, as I do, just shrug and say that antisemitism is the oldest hatred that never disappears.?

Grandma and grandpa and dad lived in tenements in the East End of London and visited the bath house every week. They always had enough to eat but never enough for luxuries or holidays. At home (even when I was a child and they were then living in a modern flat with a bathroom) my grandparents often spoke in Yiddish although their English was perfect.

As a child I often implored grandma to “tell me about the old days”. Imagine my surprise and delight when my grandchildren asked the same of me. I hope that they will in turn be able to answer their own grandchildren, one day, but whether it is in England is anybody’s guess.

On bales of straw