Memories Ancient and Modern.

I made a blog post once about the woman who never was. She was the one with whom I had a nearly-but-not-quite affair over a very long period. She was the one who skilfully kept me at arms length, but only just. She was the one who said ‘If I’d been at home when you called that Christmas and you’d asked me to go away with you, I would have done,’ but not until about two years later when the moment had passed and the status quo was safely resumed. Looking back now, I’m so glad she wasn’t at home.

But I found a picture of her tonight and considered posting it. It’s the only one I have, and was ironically taken by her husband. I decided against it because it seemed indiscreet. I have no way of knowing who might read this blog and might recognise her, and that could prejudice her reputation. The risk of posting it wouldn’t be mine, you see, but hers, and that’s the best reason to back out.

*  *  *

So you may, instead, peruse another one of my photographs. This is a picture of the knot garden at Little Moreton Hall in Cheshire, England. Knot gardens are not uncommon in old English houses, although why they call them knot gardens I’m not entirely sure because they don’t look much like knots to me. But they do.

Little Moreton Hall is one of Britain’s best known Tudor houses, having been built over a long period stretching from the late 15^th to the late 16^th century (which by an odd coincidence just about defines the Tudor period. And did I ever mention that the Tudor period is the one with which I feel most comfortable? There are times when I could almost swear I remember it.) The man mowing the knot garden – and presumably trying not to unravel it in the process – is a later addition.