Waking up to yet another cold dark morning when one might reasonably have expected the weather to be a trifle warmer and the sun to be at least visible, one cannot help but feel a little low. The monastery is always a good ten degrees cooler inside than out, summer and winter; but we had visitors yesterday so put the heating on, hang the expense, and I admit, I confess, I was almost cheerful for an hour or two. If we lived where the sun shines every day, and olives and peaches grow, I daresay I could be happy . . . for a while.

Light and warmth are so important to a sense of well-being, we forget that until the nineteenth century they were not readily available. Go into any house built before then, even the grandest, and you may be surprised how little natural light there is in the rooms; look at the fireplaces, look at the bedrooms, and think how miserable it would be going to bed by the light of a tallow candle, with no fire in the fireplace (our great-grandparents thought that having any heating in the bedroom, except in extremis, was a mark of moral degeneration). It was only in the latter part of the twentieth century that central heating became more usual in Britain, but when oil and gas were alike cheap, we embraced it with enthusiasm. Now we are learning to disentangle ourselves. Here we have disentangled ourselves more than most. Visitors to Hendred are warned that shirtsleeves will not suffice: a jumper (or two), a fleece, a scarf, a thermal jacket, and you may be comfortable, during the summer months at any rate.

Why this Saturday morning rant? No reason, really, except that when one is cold and melancholy it is a great relief to inflict one's misery on others. So, be warned, if someone you meet today is rather testy, it is not a sign of their imperfect conversion, not a mark of habitual sin or even an inveterately grumpy nature. It is the fault of the weather.