One is up and out before breakfast, again, though it hardly seems repetitious to be trawling hedges for dark fruits. This time a horsefly bites. The wasps are presumably well fed: calm and slow. Two of the cut fields are ploughed over. The ground is neither damp nor dusty. Being turned it has a soft give, like ample Earth Mother curves. At the corner of the field, the straightness of the hedge, a glimpse of telegraph poles, the bare earth, the clumps of stalk turned upside down: it's odd, I think, to have all these signs of human life and feel so far from civilization. I remember having a sensible job and the joy of looking out of a window, how the rain sounded on the fabric of my leopard print umbrella when I took a lunch break stroll. If anything, those stinted years were the best training to be here and appreciate this scene.
At home, a bath is waiting. The Rayburn has smouldered all night making this hot water. On the stove is a brand new Bialetti Venus 10 cup espresso pot. After a bath, sat steamy clean and smiling, there is breakfast to be revelled over at the pallet table.
It's not luck, exactly, that has landed us here: other people might sit and think of the mould in the bedroom wall, the shower that's broken, the awkwardness of traffic on the single lane, the wind's habit of putting hair in your mouth as you try to eat.
Perhaps my words ramble: they are on holiday too: we love the new espresso pot: we have the mindset to love what adds to a life and discard the detractions.
Hubble-bubble on the stove: wry smile: tips of honeyed yoghurt in a freshly washed fringe.