Lazy days

It was, without doubt, a bit of an odd weekend. Good… unquestionably good… yet still an odd one. Thursday had seen the strange encounter with the mysterious Fox which would, in turn, lead to an even more mysterious event… Friday dawned in beauty and, after a leisurely morning working on a few things, we headed off towards our monthly rendezvous in Great Hucklow.

This time we were early on purpose, giving ourselves enough time to reconnoitre the ground, for which we have plans that, all being well, will be revealed in due course. It seems a little odd to be already pacing out the shape of next April’s weekend workshop when it is only a couple of weeks since the last and our next weekend will shortly be upon us and will see us in and around Avebury. Be that as it may, work has already begun in earnest and we were discussing the possibilities with, I must admit, a fair amount of glee… and anyway, it is never a hardship to spend time in this village, especially in spring.

Business over lunch in the pub, and tea a bit later, brought us some miles closer to our joint destination in Stockport for the monthly Symposium. To close the evening we always share supper… this time, in a rather surreal moment, a wonderful bourgignon, more than ably cooked by our erstwhile Rameses. Then, the long drive home over the hills.

Which left us free on Saturday and Sunday to play out. Except it rained, pretty much all day, a lot… and so, apart from a brief foraging trip at the local supermarket, we pretty much spent the time alternating between working together on the workshop, writing and, apparently, catching up on some much needed sleep… something of an unaccustomed luxury.

Even so, for such a leisurely pace, you couldn’t call it a lazy weekend and somehow or other we managed to get an astonishing amount done. We usually do… even though I sometimes wonder how. It seems as if as soon as the clock is ignored, time itself seems to wander off whistling and looking at the flowers. Or perhaps it is that without the illusion of that circle of constraint marked out on the clock-face like some deadly arena and waving its hands in demanding semaphore at our consciousness, it becomes possible to move through time at a more natural pace, rising and sleeping with the cadence of sun and moon. There is a lot to be said for that rhythm.

Sunday afternoon, however, saw me rummaging in my suitcase. I never pack a ‘posh frock’ for these weekends, living mainly in comfortable attire that doesn’t mind being rammed into a suitcase in a hurry. It was, therefore, rather strange that some impulse had led me to pack skirt, heels and blouse this time…because this time, we had a most unexpected event to attend at a secret location…