Yr ochr arall (eto)

I gave up my book, worthy though it was, the interruption is welcome, if not lightly fanciful, ‘we won’t disturb you if we sit here?’ no, (and yes of course!) The three delightful ladies who lunch interrogate my lazing in the sun, already having gleaned our occupation from the staff, perhaps slightly quizzical at my choice of reading (still McIntosh from the train the other week) What do you find to preach about these days? Should you not be in your parish? Do you have a curate? Such questions lead me to believe they are country villiage folk, know a little of the living, but not enough to suggest a regular church going habit. The conversation turns to walking and birds and I am directed along a path towards the salt marsh. I find out rather quickly why all this land looks so barren from the other side, a firing range and it is active today! Amid gunshot I wander for a while trying to seperate Flint from Bagillt from Greenfield across the Dee with little success. The birds were busy, wild bees scrambling around an old fox hole and a Well, held sacred by someone at some point, but overgrown now. I return, the ladies of lesiure have gone so I return to my book.

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