It rained all day yesterday – waves of driving droplets borne on strong gusts of chilly wind, ceasing for short periods and then whipping back through with a vengeance. It started early the previous evening and there was little respite for about 36 hours.

Of course, this was a good thing for a region parched and scorched by one of the cruellest droughts on record followed by the worst wildfires on record. It’s the kind of situation where everyone was probably saying, “this is good for the farmers/garden/dams” – which is true for all of these things.

So hanging around indoors for most of the day wasn’t a chore – it would be churlish to begrudge the farmers, gardens and dams their due. Instead, excitement and jubilation in the cottage as Daniela, after a couple of weeks’ brow-furrowing experimentation and emotional highs and lows, triumphed in the production of that definitive COVID home product: sourdough bread.

Now before you all jump in with your comments and advice, let me just interject that yes, we know that many, many people around the world have been churning out amazing sourdough loaves since the very first days of lockdown. There’s even been a thought-provoking article about it in that “enemy of privilege, pomposity and predictability”, the Economist.

In a nutshell, this article discourages the home baker from taking their craft to the next level by following their entrepreneurial bent and becoming a small-business proprietor. The chances of success are minute, they argue. Loving their work with that headline, by the way — quality wordplay, chaps! (And you can register to read that article for zero financial outlay if you want to know more.)

All well and good – but we’re not really at that stage; it’s just that there’s one of those little voices in the back of my head saying, ‘ . . . isn’t that what you’re trying to do with your precious freelance writing gig . . .?’ To which I say, get thee behind me Satan – that gig paid the bills for a couple of years. The Economist doesn’t know everything.

Now, I’ve been mulling over various side-splitting puns to do with dough, the mother, crumbs, etc. etc. but they all carry that rather joyless feeling of having been done before. They are, if you’ll forgive me, a tad stale. Which is no better than offering up half-baked fare. (That’s the sort of unleavened dross I was talking about — stop me before I get on a roll.)

Anyway, in this time of pestilence when the world is all discombobulated, there may well be opportunities that never existed before. We could regard our time in Braidwood as exile, but as you know, from day one we’ve been determined to embrace it and everything it offers.

So, although I don’t know a huge amount about the art of sourdough, I’m all for it. It’s delicious, contains no chemicals, doesn’t make you feel all bloated after your morning toast, and best of all, sparks the purest of joys in your spouse when it works out. What’s not to like?