A lovely Sunday in Perth County, after a cold, wet Saturday.

As I type, I’m sitting on the porch. With a beer. The truest Canadian way to mark the dear ol’ Queen’s birthday. (Victoria, that is.)

Tomorrow will be noisy, with firecrackers that sound like far-away small arms fire that is nevertheless closer than I like. But right now all I hear is the hooting of mourning doves and the grandchildren of Neil-across-the-street helling around on scooters.

The house is thick with cat hair (again) and the kitchen floor badly needs washing. The flower beds still need clearing of the winter’s debris. But I do not care. Right now, it is sufficient that the evening air is like velvet and the scent of lilac drifts on the breeze.