The blueberries I bought yesterday are called ‘snowchaser’.
We talk of Cis often. Some of her ashes lie on the council rockery that looks out to sea, just up from the crazy golf. He tells me she loved that spot, parked up, sitting in the car staring across the water to Aberdovey. Lovely, she would’ve said, lovely.
The man from the RSPB said that it is the birds with the biggest eyes that begin singing first. The blackbirds and song thrushes, then a little later when dawn is fully breaking, come the robins and blue tits. I walked out with my recorder the other day, just to capture it all. Was it loud enough? And of course, their song is never without human interruption – cars, carousing students, alarms and my footsteps. Then there is the sea. I have yet to listen back. A treat for later, possibly.
It stills me that first walking out, that first intake of morning air. Perfect. And the birdsong. It feels like it is just for me.
We watched Saving Mr Banks last night. A little schmaltzy, as is to be expected with anything Disney, and yet, comforting and pleasing. Ms Thompson is exemplary, as is Tom Hanks. It is enough to be in such good hands. He has never seen Mary Poppins. Funny that. The songs are in my DNA, though much of the film left me unmoved as a child. I needed comfort last night.
Sitting in a café in Oswestry I look through the window at another window. There is a butterfly trapped inside fluttering at the glass.
Sunday morning and the sky is a perfect blue. On the radio they talk of wisdom. Like love to be felt not understood?