I am much used to life of the villas. Fetching my fruits in the summer, clearing the snow in the winter, raking the leaves in autumn, and mowing the grass in spring-time. I have same eyes as the conifers all year round, the birches line up and wear their same shining silver armour all year round. I see the robin arrive in winter, I hear the calls of geese in late October, I see the ivory blossom renewed in spring, and the thirsty bees in summer. The solar pace of the villas, which has the seasons as its hours. Who does when it can do, and never demands too much or too little of itself. For here I but lack the tidal hours, to synchronise this full spectacle that might deliver the lunar hours to the rhythm of the villa.