It rained during the night. Boughs bow in the colorless light, the flagstones and rock walls are damp and the lawn glows that brilliant, peculiarly English, green.
It is our last day at New Cottage and this is a lovely morning.
There is, as usual, too much left in the refrigerator of some things and not enough of others. We bought apples yesterday in Chipping Norton and ate two. The Worcester was sweet. The Bramley, big and green, was really acidic and juicy, better for cooking than eating. So I cooked the remaining Bramley in butter and a handful of demerara sugar cubes, cut up four of the greengage plums we bought at the Rectory Farm down the road, and squeezed a quarter of an orange over the pan. Oh and added a pinch of salt. I cooked everything together until the cubes melted and the apples were tender. I will make that a side dish to go with the last of the eggs, bacon and toast this morning.
It is very quiet.
My Dear One sleeps upstairs, or at least he rests, the duvet pulled up around his ears. Every now and then I pick up the faint rumble of a car passing, or even fainter, making the turn by the church, first approaching and then fading into the distance. I never heard the rain in the night. The thatch blankets the little bedroom under the eaves in silence so morning birdsong and occasional traffic sounds enter only through the tiny windows on opposite walls.
I must write yet more postcards.