Early this morning the wonderful brother arrived to drive our mum to London (thereby saving me another return trip) where he planned to get her computer working and mend some furniture. Yesterday she finished the book she'd brought with her and, of the very few books I have in this house, she chose this. It was on the patio table after she'd left, with a few petals fallen from her peonies as I took them to the compost. The house feels rather hollow without her. She has transformed the garden and I am happy beyond words that she has lived with me here for a bit.

This book is among the few I have with me because when I got back from my trip to Spain, a year ago tomorrow, all I really wanted to do was to walk back there. I couldn't; my soul-searching five weeks had made me know for sure that I wanted to move and it was time to start making that happen. So I thought I'd do a vicarious walk with Laurie Lee instead, but the work of getting to where I am now (one month exactly in my new home) has left almost no time for reading. 

That time will come.