Cold, bright, cheerful spring days with the sqawk of seagulls, bleating from lambs and a multitude of metal wires clanging against masts around the harbour. A happy soundtrack.
In the shelter of the walled garden at Bangor Castle, we walk, our spirits lifted by the intensity of colour. We'd retreated there, far from a crowded gathering at Church - my lovely mum was overwhelmed by the noise and bustle of the full pews of friendly and familiar faces and the quiet of the garden with its gentle waterfall was needed.
I guess this is all part of journey onwards from intense grief. She's 80, and had known dad since she was 13 or 14 - a long time loving one person. I'm learning there's no single script for those who live on - we're all finding our own way. Spring bulbs and lambs help though. They're hopeful; just when everything is dark and gloomy and seems dead, new life, new growth emerges to startle and encourage us to keep going.
Back home, I lit a wood fire in the chiminea and sat with a hot drink, warm jumper and my much thumbed copy of John Seymour's book on self sufficiency and day dreamed - my way of escaping. I was hoping for wisdom on what to plant in the raised bed that will be built over the next few weeks - but lost myself in the mysteries of managing a small holding - which I don't possess, probably will never, but can still dream about....
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