Sweet pea sprig on an inner forearm

The post van couldn't get over the pass again this week, so the seed packet you asked for is still sitting in Mr Probert's shed at Pen-y-bwlch, wrapped in the feed-sack paper he uses for everything. I walked up for it on Thursday with the dog and the wind pushing from behind like it wanted me gone. He's kept the sweet peas on the south wall where the slate holds the heat, and the pods he saved last August have split the way you like, papery and grey, the seeds rattling inside like dice.

Mind how you sow them. Soak them overnight in a saucer of tap water, not the rain butt, because the rain butt has gone green since the frost. Put them two to a pot, pinch out the tops when they reach the third leaf, and don't let them dry at the roots once the tendrils start grabbing at the string. Mr Probert swears by a bit of old brick in the bottom of the trough for drainage. He also swears the blooms smell best at dusk. I told him that was nonsense until I stood by the wall at half past eight, could barely see a thing, and could still smell them plainly.

The ones you sent me for the wedding did come up in the end, though not where you planted them. Three stems that wouldn't stay put, so I tied them to Mam's old clothes prop and let them lean. When I cut them I thought of you holding a sprig at the top of the lane, and how you said the stem should always bend toward the light, never away from the pass where the weather comes from. I'll post these on Monday, weather permitting.

Write back and tell me the buds are coming. Your loving sister, Meg