Just looking over some past blogs. Didn’t realise I was such a miserable bastard. And there was I picturing myself as a rakish blade with wit to spare. Born in the wrong century. Should have been wandering around in sack cloth grubbing for scraps with the pigs.


Ah, for those days… For many years afterwards their happiness haunted me. Sometimes, listening to music, I drift back and nothing has changed. The long end of summer. Day after day of warm weather, voices calling as night came on and lighted windows pricked the darkness and, at day-break, the murmur of corn and the warm smell of fields ripe for harvest. And being young.

If I’d stayed there, would I have always been happy? No, I suppose not. People move away, grow older, die, and the bright belief that there will be another marvellous thing around each corner fades. it is now or never, we must snatch at happiness as it flies

A Month in the Country

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