The wood for the fireplace has arrived. Just in time, between spells of heavy rain. Now it is neatly stacked under the kitchen terrace. Out of the way, but within easy reach even if it snows. And there is a lot of it. Enough for the winter, or maybe two. Whole logs, bark and all. Dry oak. And that is the only thing that seems to be amiss. In my mind, oak is destined for better things: beams, boats, barrels, beds. Not firewood. Nor wisps of fragrant smoke, a faint memory already.