We don’t have many evergreens in Ireland, and the smell is still something new to me nose. I like this forest and the crunch of the needles underfoot, the skittering noise of a kicked pinecone, and the chattering of squirrels. Greta’s walking on me right side, her breath steaming the air, and it’s a bracing winter morn—or near enough. It’ll be solstice before we know it. She grins at me and feels lovey enough to grab me hand and squeeze it. “Feeling better?” she asks. “A bit,” I have to admit. “Trees are always the cure for your modern bollocks.”
