The north side of the house is our favourite. It has a terrace, with a small table and bistro chairs. Then comes the grass, sloping down towards the edge of the terrain. We play a wobbly crocket on it with our young guests.
The valley lies beyond. Nothing spectacular. Undulating fields, on which we follow the track of the cows, some apple trees, and a cluster of houses in a copse at the far end.
Above it the sky. The ever-changing sky. It surprises us daily with the drama it has in store for us. Grey clouds with strips of pale blue. Woolly balloons of white against the deepest blue. Dark sheets of evening skies beyond which a firy orange-red glow peeps through. It is always shifting, never the same.
No, I’m not posting a photograph of some of these spectacular sights, though I have in the past. For a photograph could never do justice to the intensity of the moment. The cool air caressing one’s cheek, the pigeons cooing in the distant trees, the smell of wet grass.
And the house behind, where the clock chimes, the kettle buzzes for tea, and footsteps are heard on the tiles.
That is the total experience.