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.
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