The rhubarb and willow never go thirsty, slaked as they are with bath-water. Under the elm tree we soak in a cast-iron tub, in a Belfast sink on the veranda we brush our teeth, and at the end of the garden a fine compost toilet looks after itself.

But with washing-up water, the thing is to fling; fling it across the track in a wild shining arc, accompanied by a hearty yell of ‘gardyloo!’

‘Gardyloo!’ they once cried on the filthy streets of Scotland as they hurled slops from the upstairs windows; a corruption of the French Garde a l’eau – Beware of the water indeed.  There is no danger to anyone passing the yellow caravan of being showered in slops, because there is no danger of anyone passing the yellow caravan. For days at a time, the track is gloriously untrod.

GardylooRob thinks that he does not shout Gardyloo when I am not at home. But when he’s not there, I feel uneasy not to – the silence is reproachful. So I shout it with meek apology – because it does feel a little strange – as if you’ve taken a comical tumble and no-one is there to see you, laughing and embarrassed, on the ground.

The blackbirds enjoy the little grains of rice. Track puddles gleam a little longer here, reflecting the bluebells. Nevertheless we have one very flat run-over-by-a-visitor fork, and are missing several teaspoons.

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