Getting back in the saddle

 

It's taken me a long time to get my lovely push bike (Marjorie) out and about. The day Andy surprised me with her was one of the happiest days of my life, to know that he loved me so much - as I loved him.

Since he died, even though she is my only form of transport  - and the nearest shop being two miles away - I haven't been able to face riding her, a unbearable reminder of what precious thing I have lost.

 

But this spring I felt able to get her out of the shed and dust her off. Brian-next-door pumped her tyres up for me and we have been having little adventures, finally exploring the gorgeous landscape around us.

We're never far from a view of the Shropshire Hills.

We even found an egg honesty box a few miles away. 

It's hard sometimes, to allow myself to enjoy all of this, knowing that Andy never got the chance to see that we made the right choice after all. How he would have loved it.

 

Shropshire is proving to be more uppy and downy than the Cotswolds, but Marjorie and I are learning to tackle the hills.

 

 It's nice to see my little cottage with its cream chimney stack, nestling in the landscape as we return home.

A day of grace

It was one of those really special summer days, with a kindly warmth and a cool, perfumed wind. The kind of day when you venture out of your cramped studio to get some milk and the day says -
'hello - where've you been? Let's go and have an adventure...'
'Oh I'd love to, but I can't, really, there's artwork to be done, e-mails to write, not to mention the garden and the hoovering'
'Ah yes, but how many days do you get like ME? There'll be enough cold, grey muddy winter days, when you'll look back on this as a day of grace - and smile at my memory, when I am long gone.'
So, like Moley from 'Wind in the Willows', I kicked up my heels, and set off on my old bike Hercules...

the open road

The farmers were literally making hay while the sun shone.

golden days

Swinbrooke is one of the prettiest villages in West Oxfordshire - a fairy town decked with flowers and threaded with chuckling streams.


Cycling through Swinbrook towards Burford - this is the village church, where the Mitfords are buried.

.
...and past the dear little old chapel nearby. It is humbler than its grand sister, but there is more a sense of peace and old sanctuary.

Burford was swarming with people admiring it's charms. After the obligatory 'potter' and window shop, I found a pub which, being off the main street had a deserted patio garden and a decent range of beer...time to sit down with my book and recuperate.

A pint of 'Henry' and Walker's finest.

And so the journey home. Back past the gentle Evenlode, past the cricket match, now in it's last desperate 'come on boys!' throes.

Evenlode river near Swinbrooke

I'd done about 14 miles now, by taking the 'scenic' route. The shadows were lengthening and the swifts diving low over the hayfields. The light was taking on the 'old gold' shade which seems to bathe everything in storybook atmosphere. The landscape was almost purring, like a warm, contented cat, sleepy with sunshine. It had been a wonderful day - but I was glad to get to the top of Swinbrooke Hill and head for home.