Home ...

One of my favourite poets (not the most fave - that's R.S.Thomas) is Philip Larkin, and a short poem that is always popping into my head begins is called  Home is so sad; the title is also the first line. It examines how your home waits for you when you've left it for any reason - including "that vase". This rather dreary photo is a view, I suppose, of the place I've called home for the past 46 years, and apart from the fact that it does indeed look sad under the quiet grey skies of today it has very little to do with the poem. In fact, I've used that poem perfectly gratuitously as a peg for the opening of this post. Ah well.

Truth to tell (why do we invert that?)  I wasn't feeling at all sad or dreary today when I took this; it's a steep  climb up that narrow path you can just see beyond the stringy pampas grass and I was feeling satisfied that although the effort had made me unfeasibly hot ( I was wearing quite a hefty puffa jacket) I wasn't peching for long. There's a great view from up here, though it doesn't make for much of a picture, and there's this virtuous feeling of calories  expended. It was midday, and I could look forward to a late lunch (only bread and cheese, but ...) and an afternoon of doing rather little unless I started thinking about a sermon (I did a little light thinking later ...). 

Simple pleasures. But not sad, Philip L - I think you perhaps needed to get out on your bike some more.