New York, London . . .
. . .Sticklepath! Beneath the mists rolling down from the moor we huddle by the gentle fire, the cold damp settling into the skin. Nature’s soothing balm. The night so quiet but for the stream running through at the bottom of the garden.
We understand that, out there, there are only so many shopping days until Christmas and in market towns across the country shoppers have been out in force. We saw them, clogging the streets, as we passed through on our way from London to Devon. Families, young and old. Recession? What recession?
Meanwhile, over in Ireland, the bailiff has come knocking on the door and we await the outcome of this bail-out, Portugal and Spain rumored to be next. Not for nothing have they been collectively known as being PIGS at the euro trough for more than some months now – Portugal, Ireland, Greece and Spain. Here in the UK, with excited talk of Christmas and a certain wedding, little is heard of the impending 2012 Olympics to be held in London. Put that on the bill! Generations to come will pay, and pay, for that later!
Here in our little house which has been sitting here on solid ground since the mid-18th century we live with the cold and the damp and the many imperfections that one day might not be so if we were to lavish money upon them. Does it matter that much to leave a house alone, to secure it from the elements?
Out there, up on the moor, over ancient granite stones and bracken, footsteps in time have been trodden in search of food and shelter. Here, we have it, and, how far we are from there is the simple distance of a thick wall. We count our blessings, for which we are truly grateful