Sunday June 20th

Day 62

This evening after our writing and listening hours, I want to walk - long and far, out of my head and plunge into the spitting rain and whipping wind, which yesterday I thought were ruinous. Today I think they could be cleansing.

We take a broad scented path, newly mown, through a meadow of long grasses, pink mallow flowers, tender blue harebells and thistle pompoms. It leads us into a wood and we climb higher and higher up through scrub oak, olive and chestnut, the shale slippery under foot, past clumps of purple nodding foxgloves. We are following the route of a rushing river below us which we glimpse, tantalising, through the branches. At the top, looking out across the deep wooded valley, the sun bursts through and white clouds race ahead of the grey across a short lived blue sky.

On the way back we dip under the low branches of a wild cherry tree and steal some berries. They are small and soft, only just sweet, staining my fingers wine red - joining the blue ink mark on my middle finger. From my leaking pen.