The serenity of the occasion was disturbed only once, by a
pair of cyclists come to sightsee, and who were probably foreign since they
smiled but didn’t speak. And while I was there I made two discoveries.
The first was that the sloping area of ground beyond the
north wall gives way to a wide ledge which would normally be all but impassable
in the summer months, being choked with undergrowth that would require the assistance
of a machete to negotiate. This early in the year, however, there are but a few
straggly branches of rhododendron and sundry roots to trip me up, and only one
of them did. And the reward for making the trek among the old trees occupying
this fledgling wilderness was a high view of the river and the landscape
beyond. Fortunately, the cyclists didn’t follow me.
The other was in the church itself (where the cyclists did
follow me.) Standing diffidently in a stone base at the far western end of the
nave is part of a Saxon cross, about three feet tall and apparently one of two
that were discovered when the north wall was being underpinned. The accompanying
notice said that it had been dated to around 900AD. I’d never known it was
there before, and it was odd to trace the carving with my fingers, knowing that
it had been made by a Saxon hand over a thousand years ago. I did have to
question the date, however. If my reading of history is correct, where I live
now would have been part of Danelaw in 900. Would they have been making Saxon crosses
in Danelaw? I don’t know; it’s something I’d like to ask a historian.
* * *
Signs of spring were evident in other places, too. The
embankment beneath the Stone House no longer has a daffodil in bloom, it has an
army of them (well, something between a platoon and a company at least.) And
there are crocuses springing up in yellow and purple livery in many a garden.
And my lawn has its first daisies. And I saw both a butterfly and a bumblebee. And – best of all, though slightly worrying –
I confirmed this evening that my friend the bat has, indeed, woken from his
winter sleep. He was hunting over the garden at twilight, apparently in fine
fettle. I just hope that winter isn’t preparing a sting to bring us down to
earth, and the bat into a hasty re-hibernation.
* * *
I’m still keeping the fireside warm at night, though, and
tonight I discovered that Charles Smithson Esq – the hero of The French Lieutenant’s Woman –
continues to resemble a younger version of me. So noticing of the right sort of
young lady, and so respectful of their finer feelings.
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