Just not British, is it?

This weather, with such high temperatures, is just not British, (and I love it!) Last Saturday a poetry zoom meeting had been planned for our book group, but one after another members called off. With restrictions easing they were sloping away to various spots, to rural Wales with no WiFi and similar excuses not to open their poetry books.  But with weather almost certain to be warm and dry, six of us met, socially distanced on the lawn, and it was lovely. 

I made, for the first time, sushi for starters. They were good fun to make, even though they came out a bit wonky. Having invested in a little mat and many sheets of seaweed I shall hope to improve over time!

Everyone was armed with two or three poems. The temperature was lovely and we sat well into the dark. Lanterns were lit, but the light that they threw was so feeble that it was difficult to read and the torchlight from our phones came in handy! It is a treat in this country to be able to sit comfortably and eat out of doors, the sort of experience that we usually only get when abroad on holiday.

One of my poetry choices.

The most memorable summer that I spent abroad was after completing five years as an art student. There were three art, one architect, and one medical student, all intent on having a perfectly idle summer in France before starting work in the autumn - apart from Rolf, the eternal student, who was to continue his studies at the Sorbonne. 

Rolf in Seguret.

We stayed in an abandoned farmhouse in a deserted valley and spent mellow evenings together, sitting long into the night, telling stories, singing and talking about our plans for the future, an early example of Louis Macniece's circle of talk and laughter. There was much laughter, aided by wine bought at the local market. We picked large yellow plums in the deserted orchard and cleared the water storage of 

weeds so that we could swim. I bought two ducklings at the market to swim in the cleared water. (Left with the village postman when I returned to England. He ate one of them for his Christmas dinner!)

Eckhart, the architect, was happy throughout the day rebuilding the walls.

It was idyllic!

Etching made from my duckling drawings, copyright R. Murphy.