The sharp morning sun of late February is a real gift to a woman who loves complicated patterns.
We are staying with some friends in South East Cornwall , I have a cosy nook in which to write the blog.
What I dont have is any wifi currently but a short walk once I have written this will take me to an mast where I can ping this off out to the world.
Our sleep was somewhat disturbed by a South East Cornwall traditional past time. Boy racers charging around village lanes in cars at 4 in the morning at high speeds. Engine noise and headlights on whitewashed walls break up the nights sleeping pattern. The boys wind their windows down to whoop victoriously as they pass the cottage on their loop of dangerous pleasure. I worry for them and my head is filled with the music of T-Rex as concurrently I remember a crumpled mini desolately wrapped around a tree. The beautiful man of glam rock, Marc Bolan, splattered like a trifle onto his windscreen. Memory is a funny thing in the middle of the night. Testosterone funnier, but dangerous. There were no sounds of screeching brakes and crumpling metal. As a long term resident of South East Cornwall I know these manifestations of masculinity echo through the countryside night after night. These boys have skill and courage, just like me they have woken up again to a Cornish morning.
Unlike me they were not worried.