Monday, 22 August 2011


 We have once again made our way back to the cottage, and it has proved to be a very wet day. Therefore, we have stayed indoors and put up new roller blinds and moved paintings about. I do not want to admit that autumn has come already.

We shared a meal of moussaka. 

Would you care for a slice of roll cake? It's raspberry. 

 Mother sets the table. Father stokes the fire.

I put on my yellow makcintosh and went for a walk in the rain. There are many great beauties in this world, and they are always admired, always praised for their exquisite form, their vastness, their vistas of burning hues. But a great many beauties--bursts of red pomes in the mountain ash, a rain-wet hare that darts across the road--are ignored or forgotten altogether, trod underfoot because one does not think to look down to see them.

Tread softly. Stars about.

Enid Blyton once wrote that the droplets which cling to the middle of lupines are very tiny mirrors the fairies used to fluff their hair.
The high woods of the North make me expect trolls behind boulders.  

In my journeys, I struck upon a family of mushrooms that invited me for tea. I took their picture to thank them for their efforts.

Some mushrooms are shy, like this tiny button that hovered like a jellyfish in emerald seaweed.

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