Sunday, 11 September 2011

July 1-3

At the beginning of July, some golden sunny days that saw us spending most of our time in the garden, enjoying the upsides: chief among these, at this time, is that C, no longer having to/choosing to worry about melanomas, can indulge for the first time in a long while her Leonine propensity for lying in the sun, toasting her bones and crisping her skin. One morning, we went swanning about Big Cred, ice cream espresso floats at Ashton's Coffee Lounge, and on the evening of the third went on an adventure to Morchard Bishop, where we sat and smoked in secluded seats in the ridgetop churchyard, headstones made palimpsest by time and lichens as the timeless, tree-moulded hills roll and fold.

morning mail

Lookit me, I'm Sven Nykvist!

Size 3

C was cutting a new country bunch from the garden almost every day
A cameo appearance from the author. Or at least his feet

That's the bedroom window top left. It's as old as the house, the landlord thinks, perhaps 17th century.

Morchard Bishop churchyard

Home in the late evening of July 3rd, what would have been my parent's 69th wedding anniversary - I wonder what would have been an appropriate gift? - and the sun is off the garden, which is shaded by the hawthorn and hazel hedge, but is still spilling over the parkland behind. C - or at least her ashes - are to be buried under the oak tree on the left.

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