The breakfast time sky formed a ceiling of childish blue before sliding to the ground like a spread sheet of gold as rich as one might see on the finest morning on a French campsite.
Passing midday and smothered in laziness, we drove into that little North of England city, parked free on a central cobbled square, walked down a cobbled street passing a range of genuinely historic buildings and into a restaurant where, being half of all the customers, we chose a table next to the big front window. The (optional cheeseless) pizza tasted as good as any pizza anywhere.
Much of the afternoon passed hammock-bound in our back garden, hiding from the sun in the summerhouse (it doubles as our only dining room), other-worlded in headphones, mp3 player shuffling for summery playlists.
Evening slid into a rusty sunset with a limey green afterglow, a hint of dew, the dance of bats, a drift of honeysuckle and a near-golden half moon.
Tomorrow's forecast is fine, so fine that, based on the experience of recent years, these two days will probably be our whole summer.
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