It thawed. Two words covering quite a lot of ground. There was quite an exciting bit where melt-water kept adding itself unto the lake, beneath an armour-plating of ice, causing a build-up of compressed water which left the outlet pipe spurting like a pressure hose. The Northern Professor was driving into the highlands today to confer with someone in Dufftown and found himself driving up a series of water-cascades which would have gladdened the heart of a Renaissance Italian nobleman rather more than they gladdened his, at that particular moment. The ground is saturated, and the whole of the garden has the spongy texture of a peat bog. Deeply unappealing though all this is, opening the curtains in the morning and not finding that everything’s white is a great lift to the spirits. All my roses came this morning (except the cappucino one which they have run out of), and have been planted in large tubs. I don’t know if there’s anything beautiful we can do in the meantime with a portable rose garden; probably just coo over them and wait till next year.