in another part of England where canals, bottle kilns and urban dereliction are the norm. The bustling railway town busy in parts. A stay in a listed character of a railway cottage. The charm of such features of history in the sliding sash windows. The nearby town clock tower with its flag billowing in the summer breeze, whilst I worked in a garden ... A task in tend outside, not done in years ...
The unusual sound of the crunch of summer leaves dry, out at the front of these cottages, every time someone walked by. The clatter of the letterbox. The gurgling pipes. The drip, drip of the very first night until the gutters were cleared. The rains then fell silent whenever the heavens opened and they could flow freely again.
The feel of the fresh whining and whizzing air blowing through the open window of a car. The road journeys in abundance again ... The slow down lines of bump bump bump ... The bouncy bumps and the curve of other slow down solutions on the roads ...
The going up and down and bend in the curves of the road. The delights in travel as though I was a child again. The echoes under a bridge. The giggles in the simplest of silliness. The infectious fun making the most miserable moments bring back a smile ...
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| In the echo ... |
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