I’faith I have spent a goodly amount of time writing today, but I was able to make my way out into the gardens at last. So much to be done. The apple blossoms send down kisses upon my brow every time I come neare, it seems. I looke that it will be an abundant harvest indeed, and the honeybees are buzzing louder in the orchard than they do in the skeeps themselves. The tulips and the jonquils are pushing up round the limestone retaining wall at the rear of the cottage, while the turtle doves coo softly inquiring into my comings and goings.

Beltane was a delightful celebration, and both man and maid danced ’round the Maypole with red and white ribbons, symbolic of the Rites of spring, red for the blood of the female, white for the seed of the male, ‘secret and source’ of all life. The drums and the flutes beat well into the night, and during the entire time I was sought out by those who wished a blessing or spell for their unions, be they lovers or farmers. Ah, when one is the Village Wytch, even inside a place so small and remote as the Caribe, the Olde Ways die hard. It was not until later, after the sun had gone down and a mist came across the land that I received a knock upon the cottage door. I should have known with the coming of the mist, so would a visitor come as well. The broom had fallen earlier in the day of its own accord,which is an assurance that company is coming. I coulde say that I took time to scry about it in the black Wytch’s mirror that hangs opposite the fireplace to determine who it might be that woulde come, but I did not bother. Somehow that mist fortold all to well what I knewe.