Walking The Dog

Another season. Another picture of the never-sat-upon bench.  Not sat upon by me anyway.  What would I do were I to sit there?  Probably fret about not pruning, mowing, clipping, picking, weeding, trimming, burning, edging, feeding, watering, planting and writing/reading/blogging. Arguably, I could do the last three from the bench, but as I haven't sat on it, I don't know if the house internet stretches that far. Reading doesn't need the internet. I could sit and read. But I would need blinkers to hide the 'hello-we-thought-you'd-missed-us-so-we're-just-going-to-perform-a-little-seed-scattering-dance-in-the-breeze-for-you' weeds. And it would also require a plentiful supply of bribery for Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins, to stop them bothering me until I get up; I suspect they think I'm ill when I stop and need to check that I can still move and that the hand that feeds them hasn't popped her clogs. Or that some other cliche-ridden disas...

We do ruins well in this country. Preserved, cared for, discretely showed off, they become things of beauty and a tangible connection to the past that we can all share. Castle Acre Priory in Norfolk was a bit of a surprise on Tuesday, one of the hottest days of the year so far. A surprise because it was a 'that will do' place to break a journey - an opportunity to step out of an air-conditioned car into a hug of hot air and stretch our legs. This amounted to a stroll. Following the maze of shadows cast by the vast sprawling ruins.  What a place! Look up - always - when you visit anywhere. That's where you'll be amazed.  Walk around looking at your feet and all you'll see is grass. And grass is nowhere near as interesting as a communal toilet block for 24, built to straddle a stream where the monks could drop from a height straight into the flowing water. Effortless and silent - being monks, apart from the splash - sewage management. He...