Easter Monday

"Latvians are like Hobbits," explained the Swede between cigarettes, "they love anything that grows." We were sitting in the garden of his mother-in-law's country cottage, passing round beer from a two-litre bottle while the women were inside making a meal out of smoked chicken, painted hard boiled eggs and potatoes flavoured with dill. Around our feet the crocuses and snowdrops were out and tulip leaves curled and twisted upwards. By the wood pile, birch tree sap dripped slowly into a recycled water container, attached to the trunk by plastic pipe. It looked like gloy glue, and tasted only very slightly better.