Three tines

I wondered how you’d translate rotavator tines in Italian. It turns out they are called dente - teeth. I broke three today. Working some long-ago imported sandy topsoil that is full of rocks.

The local machine shop has a supply of spare tines specially for me. I’ve a few in the shed - lefters and righters.

The sun shone strong today. The pear blossom out, the cherry blossom about to burst. Such a hopeful time of year. And lorries travelled from Bergamo with their grim cargo of the dead for cremation in Florence.

I read long into the night - the FT, Guardian, Times, NYT and La Repubblica. This morning a fascinating insight from Wuhan on the efficacy of centralised quarantining- the getting of the infected, suspected and close contacted off the streets and into field hospitals and private hotel rooms with close medical support and timely intervention in worsening cases.

The cultivator is a tonic. They call it a motozappa in Italian- a motorised digging hoe (see yesterday). It’s noise and rumbustious nature empty my head. The pure pleasure of breaking ground takes over. With ear protectors on its a strangely silent world: I could be behind a horse, it’s tackle jangling, the plough demanding attention, the turned soil a blank slate, a promise of fecundity, a small victory of force against inertia, of hope against havoc.