Sparkle

If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.

That's how it went today. The plan to go climbing this evening went awry about lunchtime, because I'd hurt my neck again, lifting an object. Good news is that it isn't as bad as it was, even as recently as Sunday.

The next plan was to rush home after finishing work; visit a beautiful garden; then rush home to give a massage. Instead, I dawdled home, bought a diary, then rushed off to the garden (more about that later). We rushed off from there, I got home and prepared for a massage client, who never arrived. Eventually I decided to email her and found that she'd cancelled. Bah! I needn't have rushed.

Back home, a product I'd ordered had arrived damaged. Cue the call to the call-centre:
"Your call is important to us .... inane music... please continue to hold... more music .... your call is important to us....
In the end, I decided to email a photo of the damage. and save myself a wee swearie.

So, another evening on the sofa with my damaged neck and no climbing. Supper from a vacuum pack. Bomble trying to eat off our plates. England vs Switzerland on the TV. I didn't even know that Switzerland played football. Reminder to self: must visit Switzerland, get over the gold-and-chocolate-mountain stereotypes.

However, back to the garden: it's the garden of Misarden House at Miserden (yes, there really is a spelling difference). We first visited there last year, about this time, and were struck by the careful colours of the planting; the far-reaching views; and the complete tranquillity of the setting. Since then, the village of Miserden has been used in the filming of the forthcoming Cider with Rosie on UK television. It's a tied village, in a sort of feudal arrangement with the equivalent of the Lord of the Manor, and the garden we visited today was the garden of the Big Hoose. I took some shots of the house, with blue sky and puffy clouds., but I prefer the fountain and rill, which were situated in a small garden created to celebrate the millennium.

I think I spotted the Laird, in his tweeds, black labrador at heel, crunching across the gravel and going through his front door. He lives alone in the huge house, but part of it has been made into apartments that are rented out.

Imagine waking up and going to wander barefoot in a cloud of colours, scents and verdant vistas, with no neighbours to speak of, just a couple of members of staff. I think I could cope with that. Bring me my white nightie and fluffy hair, and I'll be skipping through the dewrops at dawn...