In the distance beyond the estate, full throated engines whine as they wind their way through the town. Overhead small private helicopters dissect the clouded sky. Along the street, gardens are quiet other than the soft pitter-pat of refreshing dust-dampening summer rain, and the persistent coo of wood pigeons. It's the last weekend in June, the Festival of Speed is in full flow at nearby Goodwood. A bus lumbers around the corner of our street, taking life a little slower that the festival goers on the main road. We will do the same, spending the weekend enjoying the slower, simple things.
Real butter, on crumpets for breakfast. A cup of tea, barefoot in the rain-fresh garden. Noticing how the leaves of the birch tree hang like triangular bunting, blown and tangled by the wind. Images created by a good book. Chuckling at a shared thought. Feeding the birds. Cheerful nasturtium flowers; a childhood favourite. Sun-ripened strawberries from the runner that escaped into the flower border and has happily grown wild between the buddleia and geraniums. Wrapping a gift. Sharing a meal. An evening walk in after-a-summer-shower-sunlight.