Casa Rosales

Casa Rosales

Friday, 30 September 2011

{this moment}

A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savour and remember.  :: Idea from :SouleMama:   If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.

Thursday, 29 September 2011

All the fun of the fair?

We went to the fair last week - three times - and yes, I cheered and waved at the children as they whizzed past on whizzy things or crashed into each other in dodgem cars. I even went on a ride myself - in a spinning teacup - and screamed as the world blurred, my stomach churned and the music blasted.

FR did really well to capture us, we were going REALLY fast!!

Throwing coins onto boxes of turron - you win if the coin stays put.

I ate candy floss and the turron that Romy won. (Not all of it! We shared it.)

However, being honest, the fiestas in Alcala la Real this week were uninspiring. There were very few rides and the stalls were all the same; either throw three darts into three different rings or burst three balloons with three darts (so if you miss with the first one, there's just no incentive to continue) and the prizes were truly dreadful. The noise level was absolutely deafening; the prices were sky-high for food that was full of sugar, salt and fat; designer fakes were on sale everywhere. It didn't live up to my expectations.

There, I've said it. I didn't enjoy the ferias this time at all. Each time we went, I returned feeling my soul had suffered a little more damage. I go thinking that I love fairs and whilst this was obviously a disappointing one, it felt worse than that - in some way, this fair was damaging. And I should have learned after the first visit.. like my eldest son.

Because Mateo sussed it all out on the first evening, when he went with his friends. He gave it a good go - staying out for three hours. He spent just 20 centimos (like 20p) - arriving home at 11.00, full of enthusiasm only for the kebab he'd bought on the way home, which he had clearly really enjoyed. As for the fair, he didn't visit it again despite our encouragement. Why did we feel we had to encourage him to go again? Well, because that is what everyone else was doing. I have to admire Mateo's clarity of mind despite being only 13 and of an age when most youngsters do what most other youngsters do. He felt no obligation to go just because it was there once he'd established that there was nothing there to interest him.

I think things have changed since the fairgrounds of my own youth - or am I just seeing things through time's rose-coloured spectacles? Weren't they full of stalls where you could win a goldfish in a bag; where real coconuts could be won at the shies; where rubber ducks bobbed around watery canals, smiling and resisting the hook; and didn't the rides include gorgeous galloping-horse merry-go-rounds, helterskelters, big dippers, waltzers and ghost trains - and of course, dodgems which are one of the sole survivors that seemed familiar. Yes, they were noisy; yes, there was the all-pervading smell of hot dogs, onions and candy floss(even then full of fat, sugar and salt) and there was always music but not so loud it was painful, relentlessly reducing people to yelling or being totally subdued. Was it better then I wonder - or I kidding myself?

Fairgrounds have always been about show and amusement and fun. Passing through a place to temporarily lighten the load and the purses of the more permanent inhabitants, providing a glimpse of a 'romantic', bohemian life. Nowadays, a brisk and efficient team arrives a few days prior to the opening of the fair and sets about with power tools, rigging, poles and wires; great modern trucks pull up and disgorge their contents which are quickly converted into rides or stalls. And when the music starts, it drowns out all conversation and forces the heart to beat at an unnatural speed.  This modern fairground does not bring much that is genuinely good with it.

And it makes me think back a few months to the Etnosur Fiestas, when our children so enjoyed the simple wooden games that they played in the main square and how different was the atmosphere then, with happy smiling people on the streets, talking to each other and sharing in the fun that was going on around them.  I know which we will remember most in years to come. But I do regret the decline of the fair and hope that this time was just a particularly poor show and not one to measure future fairs to come. Because, next time, without being a stick-in-the mud, when the fair next comes to town, if it doesn't set me alight on the first visit, I will take a leaf out of Mateo's book and not go back again to find out why.

Are there are any wonderful fairs happening anywhere in the world? What makes them good? I really would like to know.

Sunday, 25 September 2011

Sunday morning.

After last night's noisy fiestas - when the streets were packed and the music went on and on and on...this morning has dawned quiet, calm and beautiful. My photograph can't capture the sense of peace that exists on our little street or the feeling of pure tranquility I have as I sit on the roof terrace with my coffee and look up towards La Mota. The crane - still, silent today - merely serves as a perch for tens of pigeons that from time to time, take off in unison and fly around in an unfathomable pattern before settling back again.

And is it wickedly selfish to be enjoying this all the more because I am the only one in my family who is up (apart from Darwin) and I've had a whole hour to myself, soaking in the morning sun and chilling out in a mindless and satisfied sort of way? I think not.

Peace, perfect peace.
Sunday morning as it should be.

Thursday, 22 September 2011

{this moment}

A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savour and remember.  :: Idea from :SouleMama:   If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.

Monday, 19 September 2011

A pain in the...

Late Saturday night, after we'd NOT gone to a lovely Aqua Park for the day for Ruy's birthday (cos the website didn't announce it was closed from 4th September until 16th September...but never mind)...start again.

On Saturday, we spent an unexpectedly lazy and rather quiet day celebrating Ruy's 10th birthday after our original plans had been scuppered changed at the eleventh hour. Ruy was very sanguine about not going to the water park as he had secretly preferred to spend the day playing with his birthday presents. Romy was a bit unimpressed with the turn of events and several times during the day she said 'This is just like an ordinary day.' But in fact, we had a lovely, ordinary sort of day.

Instead of the planned sandwiches and cake in the sunshine, we indulged in big juicy steaks and chips (and cake) and later on had ice cream... and then pizza bread... and then popcorn... and then FR had something involving cheese and anchovies...

And at about 5 in the morning, I was awoken with gusts of warm air in my ear (with what at first I thought might have been a rather uninviting attempt to impress me) but which I soon realised was a display of discomfort. There was a lot of groaning, moaning, writhing, panting... the list goes on but I'll spare you further details. FR was in pain and not bearing it well at all. I was unsympathetic to say the least especially as he seemed to think I was somehow making it worse - apparently, I was giving off heat and then wasn't quick enough to put him a blanket on when he felt cold. I duly fetched a glass of water - which was the wrong temperature/colour/flavour or something - but I didn't really see what else I could be expected to do as I knew, of course, that it was just trapped wind and after cheese and anchovies, self-inflicted and only to be expected.

Trapped wind can, I know, be very painful. But it's not life-threatening; it passes; it doesn't deserve special attention at 5.30 in the morning and it shouldn't nearly wake up the whole neighbourhood. So I told him to lie on his left side and pull his knees up to his chest - good wind expelling position - and he'd soon feel better. And I went back to sleep in a huff.

He didn't feel better. I was much nicer to him in the morning and brought him peppermint tea and tried to massage his tummy which he didn't appreciate at all. Then for an hour or so, he slept deeply and woke up saying he felt a bit better but the pain was still there.

The pain hadn't moved since the early hours. Clearly this was not wind. I suggested we went up to the emergency clinic but no - he wanted to wait a bit longer to see if things improved.

By mid-afternoon, I was pretty sure what the problem was and knew he needed to see a doctor and I managed to get him into the car and up to the health centre. Fifteen minutes later and he was carted off in an ambulance to a hospital in Granada with suspected appendicitis. 'Are they going to remove his intestines?' asked Romy when I came back alone.

No - they'll probably leave most of his intestines alone but today, they are removing his appendix.

This morning, Romy was heard to tell someone at school that her papa had gone to hospital and they were going to remove his testes. (I must remember to tell her that it's the dog who will have that operation, not her father.)

Poor FR - I'll have to tell him this when it no longer hurts for him to laugh. Get well soon, my love.

Saturday, 17 September 2011

Rainbows, Parsley and Ruy

After the drama of 9th September 2001, where all our attentions were focused on what was happening in the United States, I think I forgot that I was due to have a baby. We spent days pined to the television watching the awful images over and again as the disbelief turned to something else - not understanding but something more stark - realisation.

As I think back now, it was an otherwise very pleasant period. My mother-in-law had come to stay for a fortnight. I had denied her the opportunity when Mateo was born, preferring to be on my own to deal with a new baby as I simply wasn't sure how I was going to feel and needed to find out alone. I don't regret my decision but I knew how difficult Amelia had found it and so I was very keen to make up for what must have seemed to her very strange and stubborn behaviour. She arrived on the 6th September and was due to go on the 19th - the intention being to have a week before the baby was due and a week after the birth. However, the days came and the days - and the Twin Towers - went and no baby arrived. Mateo and his abuela spent hours wandering around near our home, picking blackberries and enjoying the Indian summer weather. We visited Bretton Hall Park in Yorkshire, which we love and so did Amelia and I remember feeling very well indeed.

Amelia was due to leave on Wednesday morning and on the Sunday - still no signs of baby - we went to my parents in Knutsford for a meal. It was a lovely and very special time - which I know both our mothers will remember for the non-stop conversation they had, (though my mum doesn't speak Spanish and Amelia doesn't speak English).

On our way home on the motorway (M62) over the Yorkshire Pennines we drove past the Red Rose of Lancashire and the White Rose of Yorkshire and almost literally on the border, we left bright sunshine behind us and faced a wall of dark clouds and showers ahead of us. Travelling from west to east also meant the sun was behind us and at where the two 'weathers' merged, there was the brightest, biggest and most impressive rainbow I have ever seen and we seemed to go right through it! The effect was stunning and I remember thinking it was a 'sign' - a sign that my baby was coming... and we should call him/her Rainbow. (I hadn't been drinking but I was feeling very calmed and possibly a bit too relaxed.)

That evening, Amelia was clearly beginning to worry that she might have to go home before she saw another Rainbow or have to cancel her flight, so she made me a 'special' omelette. It contained quite a lot of parsley which she knew, from growing up in a small Spanish village, helped to induce birth. Well, it might have been coincidence but just two hours later, things began to happen and by 7.30am the next day, we didn't have a Rainbow but having Ruy was like finding the pot of gold at the rainbow's end.

Happy 10th  Birthday, Ruy. Here he is this morning, with his necklace of sweets, which Cesar makes for them all every birthday - and a giant Chupa Chups which I found yesterday and couldn't resist buying for him!

Wednesday, 14 September 2011

Fruits of my labour

Been busy, busy, busy these past few days. We'd already stopped on our way back from a lovely day out in Valdepenas de Jaen and picked several bags of green figs, which I turned into our favourite fig and orange jam with walnuts. And there's only one jar of that is so delicious.

And on a walk in the countryside, we found a tree of plums - (a plum tree) - which were too sour to eat so I made a sweet and sour sauce to eat with pork. That's sitting for a month to develop its flavour.

Then we had the rain of tomatoes and pepinos (cucumber) from all sides - our landlord, our next door neighbour and our ex-next-piso neighbour all showering their fruits upon us. So we salsa'd and passata'd and tzatziki'd and gazpacho'd and chopped and ate and froze our welcome and unexpected bounty.

Then two weeks ago, Greet, a Dutch lady who has joined my Spanish conversation class, brought me a big bag of gorgeous purple figs - glut from her many trees. We ate a lot of them almost straight from the bag- then we ate some more with honey or mixed with greek yogurt and when we'd had our fill, I froze several handy bags and with the rest I made a spicy fig jam.

And we're already part way down that jar.

And last week, Carol, also a conversation class member, brought me bags of pears - so many that she actually apologised. I shared them with several other people who fancied a couple of kilos but still had to make two trips to get them all home.

This week I have been mostly peeling pears.

And I found this wonderful recipe for Belgian Pears which is basically sugar, white wine vinegar and pears but the chemical mix and the combination of the ingredients is pure magic! They are out-of-this-world delicious and I know they are not going to last long...

Our new shelves are now bearing the weight of all this wonderful - almost free - food. It is almost (but not quite) as good as making chocolates.....

I am so very grateful for all generosity of everyone around here. I shall be handing out a few of these jars as tangible thanks and that feels good!

Sunday, 11 September 2011

This day, 10 years ago

Almost three thousand people died, thousands more injured, millions shocked beyond words.
More than one hundred babies lost fathers they'd never see on this day.
It's the day my second son was due to be born.

Out of shock, I think, he waited another week before he emerged into a world that had changed.

11th September 2001.
A day etched on minds for one big reason and many, many smaller ones.

Saturday, 10 September 2011

Exploring Jaén- la Sierra de Cazorla

Yesterday, being the last of the school holidays, we decided to go on our last summer day out. I voted against the beach and surprisingly won. I have wanted to go and see the sierras and natural park of Jaen since we arrived here but it's quite a drive from here in Alcala and the sea has always had a stronger pull.

We set off in reasonably good time - for us - managing to get away before 11 o'clock. Usually, only a tight deadline, such as catching a ferry, can get us up and moving at unearthly hours. Even Darwin doesn't stir til after 9am when he's been woken by the breadvan, which beeps its horn loudly to catch the attention of our elderly neighbours. (As if they'd forget that it came every day at 9.15.)

After we'd been on the road for half an hour, the awful fact that I'd left my camera at home hit me. Such a pang - I thought we'd have to turn round and go back, but fortunately, Mateo had picked his up and whilst it's not in the same category as my own, it was far better than nothing and meant we could stay on the road.

It was hot - another very hot day after the drop in temperatures last week that had us pulling on long trousers and adding blankets to our beds - even with the air conditioning in the car, the sun was quite merciless and I did fret a little that the beach might have been a better option under the circumstances. And then Ruy began to feel travel sick...

We encouraged his bravery until we arrived at Quesada - a pretty little town, set in impressive surroundings just at the edge of the Cazorla natural park - where we stopped.

It was a super-friendly little place with a nice central park with fountains where we stopped, visited the farmacia for travel-sick pills (anti!) and then ate crisps and had drinks in the shade of the many trees there. Darwin attracts children like little flies, followed by their respective guardians (usually grandparents) who want to talk and know who you are and where you're from and where you're going and what you're eating for lunch, etc! By the time we left, we felt like everyone knew our business and would talk about us for days to come...I guess they don't get that many families dropping by - mainly walkers and ramblers who look too busy and focused to stop and chat - and certainly few bilingual children who are happy to chat in English to each other then swap to Spanish to speak to the little children about Darwin.

Ruy felt much better very quickly so we took our intended route - the minor road between Quesada and Pozo Alcon - passing by Tiscar, another incredibly pretty little village where the Virgin Mary appeared once and where there is now an impressive sanctuary on one of the nearby hillsides. Just past this, there is a little sign to la Cueva de Agua - the water cave - that I'd read about before we left, so we pulled off the road and parked up in a small area where a pathway led downwards amongst divine-smelling pines. Unable to resist a pine forest for a picnic spot, we picked up our lunch bags and set off.

Part way down, there was an entrance to a small tunnel, about one meter high, which was the way through to the Cueva de Agua. It smelt cool and inviting and there was a delicious stream of water running along a channel coming out of the tunnel. Could be a good place to have a picnic too.

It was.

The cave wasn't an underground cavern type, but an opening with natural standing platform towards the top of a steep rocky gorge - at the rising of the river Tiscar - and it was a magical find.

Looking up

Waterfall and deep, deep pool beneath

The cave - where sometimes concerts are performed - now that would be a treat!

We stayed there for a good two hours and in that time, there was only one other group of people there, just leaving as we arrived. We couldn't believe our luck to have this fantastic place to ourselves! We explored and photographed and looked at the shrine halfway up the sheer rock, wondering how it got there; we had our picnic, played in the water - feeling cool and smug, considering the 37 degrees that would have hit us had we been in the sun -  and picked figs from the many trees that grew there and then Cesar and I had a brief siesta.

And that wasn't the end of the day. Oh no, the Cazorla Natural Park is extensive and we only visited the southern tip, but goodness me, it was truly spectacular. In parts, it was like the best bits of Asturias - steep mountain roads, deep gorges, great rocky outcrops and all surrounded by indigenous forests imparting rich, peaty, piney, earthy smells - only, unlike Asturias, a stunning blue sky peeping through the branches at all times.

Eventually, we turned another bend in the road and saw a familiar sight in the distance and sudden, dramatic change in the landscape; ahead of us was Jabalcón - a large mountainous rock that rises out of nowhere - just nearby the area of Granada that wowed us last November when we came to stay in Violet's Cave. We were approached Pozo Alcon - just north of Lake Negratin - and whilst we've never visited it before, over the past twelve months or so, there have been a number of houses for sale here that have caught my eye - so it was with some interest that we approached it - our hearts set on a delicious 'helado' each. I fancied one made from yogurt with berries, Cesar and Romy wanted pistachio, Ruy eventually chose 'Dulce de Leche', which is like caramel only better, and Mateo had his inevitable lemon. Pozo Alcon was feeling tired - all the streets were full of bunting and flags, signs of fiesta - clearly the fiestas had been good but had finished the night before. It was as if even the insects were tiptoeing around, mindful of the after-effects of four days of celebration, and the streets were all but deserted. However, we found our ice-creams and they were particularly good; we also spied one of the houses I'd had my eye on and even managed to raise the owner to show us around. It was rather lovely but lacked outside space. I think we'll have to revisit Pozo Alcon when it's recovered from its mass hangover - to judge it on our visit would be unfair.

We drove on - having promised the children another river-paddling session - and just past a campsite (noted for future reference) we turned off into huge pine forest that lead to a river just south of a small embalse and drove along a sandy road til we came to a bridge over the gorge. A little sadly, we discovered that the river bed was completely dry but it didn't really detract from us enjoying the open space and hunting for wildlife - oh, and eating salsichon and cheese and peanut butter sandwiches as the sun set and the moon rose over the reservoir.

Moon over La Bolera embalse

We eventually turned the car homeward taking the more direct route home. How sleepy the fresh and mountain air made us all and how well we all slept last night. The natural parks of Jaen still have lots to offer - we really only just scraped the surface of exploring them - so yes, we will be going again!

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Blubbin' in the sun

San Juan, with houses built into and around it - part of the community
On Sunday evening, I walked up the hill to the church near La Mota - La Iglesia de San Juan - where the local residents and many more from Alcala la Real came to see the Cristo de la Salud brought out for a procession around the steep and narrow streets.

We'd been awoken early in the morning by a series of loud explosions. At first I thought it was guns and possibly the start of some important hunting season but as I took Darwin out, there were more loud bangs, with the telltale signs of firework explosions - little white clouds in an otherwise immaculately blue sky. My neighbour informed me that there would be a procession that evening as she manically swept up leaves, bits of paper, dust and anything else that just happened to be on the little pathway down from the park. She sweeps and cleans all day; every day. (She is Manuel's wife - Manuel of the accordian playing - and I am unable to fix her name in my head but it could, for the sake of this tale be 'Inmaculada' as it's a common enough name around here.) Cesar tells me that when he talks to Manuel, Manuel tells him his wife is mad. When I speak to the wife, she tells me that her husband is mad. The other evening, Cesar was out having his late night cigarette (disgusting habit) outside, where he met the son of these two mad folk. He was on his little motorbike and had a plastic bag dangling over the handle. In it was a live crayfish. The son, also called Manuel, was not sober and also very cross because his father had brought home the crayfish earlier and now he, the son, was going to have to take it all the way back to the river to set if free again, otherwise it would die. It was about 2 o'clock in the morning....They are a clean, musical, caring family. Mad as hatters all of them.

Anyhow, I was told that the procession would start at 7.30 so I strolled up the hill for around that time. And of course, I was much too early. Much.

Putting the finishing touches
And the crowds begin to gather

 It must have been well after 9 before the statue was hoisted upon the shoulders of the twenty or so men who then carried it around the area, followed by quite a large, loud band. The trumpeters blast their tunes shrilly; the drums follow an insistent, repetative rhythm and the trombones and saxophones are invariably slightly out of tune. I couldn't help thinking that it's such a shame that the bands never play anything really fun or even pleasant.

And later on that same evening, I came home and did some reading of my favourite blogs, including one written by my friend Andy Simcox whose latest entry included a clip of a brass band playing in his local park. As the weather is always unpredictable in northern England - well, England all over - the band had in its repertoire, 'Singin' in the Rain' and as I listened to this little clip and heard those lovely mellow euphonium sounds; trumpets that played loudly - and softly - introducing subtlety and humour; drums providing something other than insistent repetition; harmony, melody, counterpart....well, I admit it, I wept. For me, listening to this long-established but by no means famous band, brought me an overwhelming nostalgia. I spent most of the years of my youth playing in orchestras and bands and then rediscovered the pleasure in my thirties when I started playing again. There is a joy - a pure joy - in making music together with like-minded people that I find difficult to put into words but that probably means more to me, despite my lack of any real talent, than most other things in the world. There's the pleasure of the little perfect musical phrase - it might be played in any section of the band or the orchestra - and in every rehearsal, you wait for it, anticipation building, until the moment arrives and that particular mix of interval, tone and tempo sets off a delightful set of goosebumps. From Mozart's Requiem to Grainger's Country Gardens , (played here by the Yorkshire Wind Orchestra, of which I was once a grateful member (3rd clarinet, second stand), an orchestra otherwise full of wonderful musicians including many good friends) I have enjoyed many a frisson of delight and you cannot beat a good frisson! Music has always done this to me and one day, I will document my very best frissons because I do like to share.

Anyway, here is a link to the music recorded by Andy in his local park in's more than a million miles away from how bands play here in Spain but it transported me 'home' immediately and provided me with several little frissons throughout! (Love the strong local accent you can hear from time to time.)

Thanks Andy!

Saturday, 3 September 2011

A little {moment}

This is a today {moment} - one to which I would like to add a few words, so not in the {this moment} category.
Today, the weather is chillier and somewhat damp - a novelty after the months of hot, sunny, Andalucian Spanish summer.
Today, I wanted my coffee hot - not long, cool, iced and in a glass. (I never thought I'd drink coffee in a glass - having watched, with an element of near-disgust, my husband indulging in this act for many years - but here, it seems right.) But not today.

Today, I reached to the back of the cupboard to where I had stored one of my treasured possessions - out of reach of other hands - to withdraw the most perfect receptacle for a steamy, frothed mug of freshly-brewed coffee. A gift from a very dear, very funny, very possibly unique person who had the knack - nay, the talent - for buying the perfect present. And she bought lots of presents for lots of people. She loves to shop and has a wonderful eye for a bargain - and when we worked together, we would often compare purchases as I too knew the places to go to find special things at special prices. But I admit I wasn't in Susan's league because I don't think she ever really switched out of that 'ooh, so-and-so would love that' and inevitably, so-and-so really did love it when they received it on their birthday or at Christmas.

And one year, I opened a Christmas present from Susan and was immediately enchanted by a gorgeous square box - whose pattern was reflected in the mug contained inside - redolent of chocolate, coffee and cooking, my passions. And the mug was a wonderful weight - not too heavy but not a silly flimsy thing - and my Christmas was perfect. For the following three years or so, this mug was used every single day at work where I followed my one true ritual - I'm not usually a creature of habit - that of my morning coffee. I had a cafetiere into which I put a good heaping of quality coffee (and occasionally, my disorganisation showing through, I had to beg, borrow or steal some if I'd inadvertently allowed myself to run out of my own...) and as that steeped, I'd heat my milk. At first, I had a hand-frother, that required a bit of manual pumping to get a good froth but Hayley, a long-term work colleague and friend, who worked in the next office turned up one day with a little battery-operated machine that frothed silently and quickly - such altruism! And then the wonderful combination of the two steaming liquids - milk first, coffee through the middle - and a little sprinkling of chocolate on the top.

(And as I say that I'm not one for habitual practices, I remember another period in my working life, after I'd found a beautiful china cup and saucer in an antiques shop - pure white, with a fine gold rim and a perfect shape - and I only drank peppermint tea from it and it was my cup and no one else would have touched it. Perhaps I should check myself for other signs of obsession...However, the cup got chipped and hence discarded and since then, I only occasionally drink peppermint tea and hardly ever use a cup and saucer.)

Before I left my job, I moved offices; actually, as part of a big money-saving scheme restructure, I opted to have my home as my work-base though I had two other bases in the town centre. One of these was with my team, who had also been re-housed - in an old, externally rather grand, Victorian building - where they inhabited four rooms on the top floor. Lovely views from the drafty sash windows but unfortunately, the rather sickening smell of a MacDonalds, which was next door at street level. Now, where was I? Ah yes. My mug went to this office, along with my coffee-making paraphernalia. But once, I found Zah providing a guest a cup of tea in MY mug - I ask you - and I confess that I didn't behave very professionally. I insisted the tea was removed from my mug and then personally made the guest another drink in a different mug. Only Zahid could have got away with this sort of behaviour - I would and could forgive this lovely man absolutely anything. However, my mug came home with me the same day. And when we left England, it was safely packed away and only emerged from a box one year later when we went up to Leon to liberate more of our belongings.

Today is the day it came back into its own. And just in time. The damp, cool weather of the morning has dissipated as I have been writing and the sun is now shining as strongly as ever, just reaching my shoulder and urging me to change out of the trousers and jumper I put on first thing. But I have had the perfect start to my day - a delicious coffee in the perfect mug and a plethora of lovely memories.

Thank you Susan; thank you Hayley; sorry Zah!

Friday, 2 September 2011

{this moment}

A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savour and remember.
:: Idea from :SouleMama:

If you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.