No-one forgets there is a lockdown going on, but you could be forgiven for believing the Valley is a beyul cloaked in emerald, a sanctuary freshly washed with unseasonal downpours, the air unusually pristine and clement.
No-one forgets that the process of unlocking might be even more painful, but the distant white peaks are unveiled, every scrap of empty land is productive with cultivation, the birds clatter in the unaccustomed quiet.
No-one forgets the growing clamour of dissatisfied voices throughout the country, but the garden has exploded into a thousand shades of green, soaking up the showers and storms, and the voice of the river makes itself heard as the waters swell.
No-one forgets the tear-gas attacks as protesters politely request accountability from their leaders for pandemic preparations during the past ten weeks, but early morning mists swathe the hills and swarms of insects cloud the cobwebbed trees. Nature is settling into the hollow spaces of the lockdown, creeping like the purple convolvulus that has overtaken our neglected hedge.