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.
Setting the fire in the wood stove I position one split log of oak across the back of the grate, and one along each side. Until late las...
COUNTY by John Betjeman God save me from the Porkers, God save me from their sons, Their noisy tweedy sisters Who follow with their gun...
On Friday the cloud was low enough to hide Farleton Fell as I drove through the Yealands then as far as I could get down the track without...