Some reflection
I've not been doing any blogging, because I'm sucking up every iota of time with Steve that I can. We're apart tonight, though, because one of his best friends invited him to a concert by one of Steve's favorite musicians, Jean Michel Jarre. So I thought I'd share with you a bit of reflection.
Thursday was a beautiful day here in northwest England. It started off rainy, but it soon gave way to a brilliant blue sky, bright sun, and warmish temperature. Thinking it was foolish to waste such a glorious day (especially since it had been very rainy here - though nothing like that suffered by friends and loved one back home in "sunny" Florida), I suggested Steve and I go for a walk. This being Steve's childhood home, and with me having no clear idea of where I wanted to go, I asked Steve to lead the way and we began our trek through his neighborhood.
It's an area I'm growing to know pretty well. I recognized the houses and other landmarks as we walked to one of the main thoroughfares and down a hill. We walked past the park I shared with you a few blogs ago and through a long section of tightly-packed terraced homes. On the other side was the old Methodist Church and a view of the River Ribble.
"Do you want to go this way?" Steve asked, pointing to a foot path winding off to the left just before the church, "Or that way?" He gestured to a similar path across the road. I had no preference and we headed down the left path. Well shaded by a canopy of trees, the asphalt path was still wet from the morning's rain. I walked carefully, adjusting my foot falls to miss puddles and muddy patches.
We walked by some allotments. An allotment is an area set aside by the local council for residents to garden. It's required by national law. One of these days, I need to investigate the history of that legislation. But basically, for an annual fee, residents are entitled to about a 20 foot by 30 foot section of land on which they can grow fruits and vegetables. I think it's an awesome concept.
A few more minutes on the path took us near one of the main motorways and through a lovely neighborhood dating only to the 1980s. We picked up another footpath in the neighborhood and within a few feet, we were in the woods. A stream, swollen by the recent rain, burbled to our left. Chestnut trees towered above us. The breeze shushed through the leaves and was punctuated by a variety of bird calls. The birds that live here obviously do not have any cousins in Florida, because the songs were like nothing I hear at home. I listened to them, trying to come up with a verbal description of the patterns. Rhythmic da dit da dit da dits were followed by high-pitched trills. Simple high notes repeated themselves in series of threes and fours. Others simply tweeted. When we reached a partial clearing, the birds spotted us and the sounds changed from happy to threatened. Rasping calls alerted every bird around danger approached. When we kept walking, the bird call slowly returned to normal.
As we walked through this beautiful setting, two things occured to me almost simultaneously. One was a sense of marvel at how an area so natural and virtually untouched lay mere minutes from a thriving neighborhood. The other was the realization that I was truly happy to be in such a setting. The latter was almost a bit profound, because although I live in the sticks, I've always appreciated city living. I miss the conveniences of cable internet, pizza delivery, and the ability to pop to the store when you need something. I've always assumed that I was more of a city girl (or at least a suburban girl) than a country girl. But the way I felt as I walked down that wooded path, with dappled sunlight dancing through the rustling leaves, told me otherwise. And that, in turn, made me wonder if that's why history appeals to me as much as it does. And why modern history irritates me as much as it does.
I asked Steve to go for a walk, because I wanted to be out in the fresh air and open spaces. Funny how I ended up deep inside my head, instead.
Thursday was a beautiful day here in northwest England. It started off rainy, but it soon gave way to a brilliant blue sky, bright sun, and warmish temperature. Thinking it was foolish to waste such a glorious day (especially since it had been very rainy here - though nothing like that suffered by friends and loved one back home in "sunny" Florida), I suggested Steve and I go for a walk. This being Steve's childhood home, and with me having no clear idea of where I wanted to go, I asked Steve to lead the way and we began our trek through his neighborhood.
It's an area I'm growing to know pretty well. I recognized the houses and other landmarks as we walked to one of the main thoroughfares and down a hill. We walked past the park I shared with you a few blogs ago and through a long section of tightly-packed terraced homes. On the other side was the old Methodist Church and a view of the River Ribble.
"Do you want to go this way?" Steve asked, pointing to a foot path winding off to the left just before the church, "Or that way?" He gestured to a similar path across the road. I had no preference and we headed down the left path. Well shaded by a canopy of trees, the asphalt path was still wet from the morning's rain. I walked carefully, adjusting my foot falls to miss puddles and muddy patches.
We walked by some allotments. An allotment is an area set aside by the local council for residents to garden. It's required by national law. One of these days, I need to investigate the history of that legislation. But basically, for an annual fee, residents are entitled to about a 20 foot by 30 foot section of land on which they can grow fruits and vegetables. I think it's an awesome concept.
A few more minutes on the path took us near one of the main motorways and through a lovely neighborhood dating only to the 1980s. We picked up another footpath in the neighborhood and within a few feet, we were in the woods. A stream, swollen by the recent rain, burbled to our left. Chestnut trees towered above us. The breeze shushed through the leaves and was punctuated by a variety of bird calls. The birds that live here obviously do not have any cousins in Florida, because the songs were like nothing I hear at home. I listened to them, trying to come up with a verbal description of the patterns. Rhythmic da dit da dit da dits were followed by high-pitched trills. Simple high notes repeated themselves in series of threes and fours. Others simply tweeted. When we reached a partial clearing, the birds spotted us and the sounds changed from happy to threatened. Rasping calls alerted every bird around danger approached. When we kept walking, the bird call slowly returned to normal.
As we walked through this beautiful setting, two things occured to me almost simultaneously. One was a sense of marvel at how an area so natural and virtually untouched lay mere minutes from a thriving neighborhood. The other was the realization that I was truly happy to be in such a setting. The latter was almost a bit profound, because although I live in the sticks, I've always appreciated city living. I miss the conveniences of cable internet, pizza delivery, and the ability to pop to the store when you need something. I've always assumed that I was more of a city girl (or at least a suburban girl) than a country girl. But the way I felt as I walked down that wooded path, with dappled sunlight dancing through the rustling leaves, told me otherwise. And that, in turn, made me wonder if that's why history appeals to me as much as it does. And why modern history irritates me as much as it does.
I asked Steve to go for a walk, because I wanted to be out in the fresh air and open spaces. Funny how I ended up deep inside my head, instead.
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