Hoist the blinds, view from the window, on bared soil, crows as fat as seals rake up bugs. I note how we have woken to a world made of misted shades, to a subtle, evocative depth of field. Also, giggle: from where the pots are placed to catch the growing rays of sun, it seems that I use my car to grow basil.
Outside, I sit at the table Mr made, working on an illustration. Look up to a sky, and if love were a clear uncomplicated shade of blue, here it is. And then the kettle must be filled and heated: here are our guests, our first official new house guests, welcomed in with steaming tea and bowls of bolognaise.
When bowls are empty and bellies are full, we traipse the lanes, dropping berries into tubs, pointing out items of note to inquisitive sisters. This is a hazel nut; honeysuckle flowers can be eaten; this is the skull of a fox; a quarry is where stone is cut from.
They are like kittens, two different kittens. One that pounces upon an answer, plays with it, drops it, moves to the next pounce. One that sits quiet, absorbing information for later employ. Several hours, a couple of miles, two sessions of Dog recalling, 4 pounds 8 ounces of sun-flushed fruit later, we need another pot of tea. There’s barbeque smoke to prompt, to dry heat handcrafted burgers, to cram into bread buns; there’s sauces to array, spoons to summon, and paper plates. There is wine pre-chilled. Under the stars, there is acoustic guitar, the centre of our weekend. Mr H, for one night only, plays Bowie, unplugged. Mr, me, Mrs H, the inquisitive Little H sisters, we lean back to listen. The more we stare, the more stars are appearing; innumerable to the point of ridiculousness, joyful to the point of hilariousness.
Bleary morning comes; the kettle is refilled. I hear the wolfish wind sprint across cloud face. Indoors, the tall pan is fetched down from the cupboard top, and the Little H sisters learn of making jam, boiling up the blackberries so diligently mined from the lanes. When they leave, they leave with three pots of jam and four eggs from the Nextdoor Chickens.
Mr and I head for work. Daubs of black wrapped bales in the cut fields recalls the night sky.
Let all the children boogie, I think, and make jam.