Country garden

Not, not mine this time - all this vainglorious boasting is too reminiscent of certain politicians at this time - but the garden of the Old Schoolhouse at Inverchaolain this afternoon. Long ago, we knew the person who lived there (it had not long ceased to function as a school at the time) and visited on a few occasions, most memorably when we turned up for dinner and found we were to eat in the garden. It was not a warm evening, despite the clear sky ...

But I digress. Perhaps these poppies are more reminiscent of another war than the one we were commemorating today. But it struck both me and Mr PB how linked we were to a war that seemed aeons ago - Mr PB was a baby by the time of D Day, and I wasn't even thought of, but we suddenly felt that these ninety-something-year-olds were not that far away from us in lifetime circles, and as I watched I recall not really understanding much at all about the War. 

In other news, I wrote a new poem about this morning's ceremonies...