29 December, 1910

Today I wrote in my journals that:

"...the sky is overcast and slight sleety drizzle is falling; the sun has made one or two attempts to break through but without success."

It seems to me that I could have written that sitting at my desk in London in December, just the same.

I used the word "hopefullest" which I fear is not in fact a word. I have, however, run out of words to describe the possibility of hope when in fact what I feel is despair. How much longer can this go on? The new year will soon be upon us and I had wanted to be settled into our new home on land by now so that we may begin our programme of depot-laying journeys during what remains of the summer.

I take comfort in my pipe and tobacco, and read.