It’s a long skinny country, this; not even an hour wide in places.
I’m on the edge, of it, south and east, where a paddock can be dusted with snow in the morning and the brightest of greens in the afternoon.
Rhododendrons are in bloom, vivid pink against the wet black of pavement. Garden tours are scheduled, though the lingering Winter isn’t ready to relinquish to Spring.
I shelter in the museums and galleries, old book shops and cafes.
Exhibits change, pieces brought out from storage to reignite the imaginations of those who look.
Titles cycle round, collectors filling in gaps and letting lesser editions go to a new home on another’s shelf.
Water boils, is infused with various leaves and made cloudy with milk. Cups are held carefully and blown across.
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