Captive owls and ducks outside, copper sinks, brass ladles and Japanese lacquer cabinets inside at Saltram House near Plymouth where we spent the longest day of the year.
I was slaying memories of the last time we came here in January when I was lost to myself in a black hole of rage and righteousness - marching along the river path round the perimeter of the grounds - longing to be in the middle of the winter gardens instead.
So now I've picked some different memories - a half finished picnic on a bench looking out over the estuary...gathering wild garlic leaves on their last gasp of life, wilting in the shade of an avenue of beech trees....an expensive pot of coffee drunk out of elegant tea cups, and a slice of Bakewell lime tart sitting under a towering oak tree.....not going for a walk -long or short - and not minding about it.
Driving home I have a thought that twists my stomach. Buried within the longest day is the beginning of the end of summer....endings hang around me like net curtains at an open window, always ready to blow in my face, brush away my present moment, if I'm not careful. And I wonder how many longest days I have left. Not an answerable question and one I don't usually think of.
But it takes me to another question....as my days and years are finite what if I was squandering them, carelessly, these one I have left, these ones I take for granted? What if I was missing them - these hours and these years, rushing on to the next thing and the next, holding my breath till it's over and then what? Missing my own life for the sake of taking a breath.
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