Before breakfast a list of experiences edges on smugness. Two litres of blackberries, a wasp sting, an owl's feather, discovery of another cut-crop field, four spider apologies for web breaking, a short walk through a dance of brown butterflies, a revolting heap of badger poo and the attempt to wash a thousand sticky grass seeds from a spaniel's fur. Before breakfast.
Breakfast was outside with an audience of this year's fledgling sparrows. We ate steak and egg-fried rice. Lots of pepper.
This afternoon Boy and me are back in Britain's Ocean City where the sun and wind are tussling up and down the straight wide streets, chopping up the water in the urban ponds. Today we opt for a Park and Ride bus. It's like a tour. I point out several men of generous proportions, in shorts and Plymouth Argyle football shirts, eating pasties as they walk to Home Park. Given the variety of people also walking in their football paraphernalia, they are not representative of the average supporter, so I must have been susceptible to a media stereotype. I know this, but it doesn't spoil my enjoyment of what seems akin to being on safari and spotting a giraffe. I tell Boy it feels like we're on a city break vacation and he reminds me I am on holiday, albeit at home.
'India was amazing,' he muses, further down the holiday theme, 'but when I got back I realized Britain is amazing too.'
'Fresh eyes!' His mother delights! (She can't recall exactly the quote: the best thing about traveling is to get back home and see it all anew.)