60 Going On 16

The Edinburgh Boy reflects on the Big Day

Before he was the Edinburgh Boy, my dear old Labrador was - when he was a very young dog - the St Andrews Boy. He lived with his previous owner in the university town and his owner's job meant that the Boy was in daily contact with many of the students. He was rather popular with them, so much so that several regularly took him for walks, including one in particular, who has always had a penchant for black Labradors. (It's a family thing . . . )

So we wondered what the Boy would make of today's big event. Would there be a hint of recognition when his former walker spoke his vows?

 

I am afraid to report that by the time we got to the vows, the Boy was fast asleep, along with five canine chums, who were all comatose in their respective beds after breakfast and a long bracing walk first thing this morning. 

So, my dear friend, the Only Other Blonde in the Village, and I had to settle for looking at frocks and hats and feeling quite transported as Parry's glorious choral music filled every corner of the abbey.

The erstwhile St Andrews Boy slept on and on, stirring only when it was almost all over.

But as far as the Boy is concerned, when it comes to his former walker, his canine lips are sealed. Whatever transpired on those walks along the beach at St Andrews, whatever confidences were shared, will never be for public consumption.

"I don't do woof and tell," he observed as the couple disappeared behind the doors of Buckingham Palace. And then he went back to sleep. 

Bien-être

So, for once in England at Easter, everything was just as it should be - because the sun came out weeks ago and, apart from a brief, wettish interlude, has stayed out ever since. A celestial gift after that long, harsh, ice-bound winter.

My family has been here; friends have visited; dogs have enjoyed long, leisurely walks by the river; hours have been spent outside, making the most of the unexpectedly glorious weather: 

In the garden, a double white lilac planted six years ago burst into bloom for the very first time:

There has been good food, much talk, including a lengthy discussion, with the Dear Daughter, about archteypes; there have been hot cross buns and - cake. I don't really do cake-porn on 60 going on 16 so no photos were taken of the pièce de résistance in its entirety, a lemon drizzle cake from this recipe, adapted for the Aga and definitely not stinting on the lemons, especially for the drizzle. (Not so much lemon drizzle as lemon drench - the scent of the Mediterranean on a plate.) It didn't last long and there's not much left:

The plate is hand-painted Sutherland bone china, possibly 84 years old, if family memories are correct, from the tea service my mother was given as a wedding present in 1927.  Much of it was destroyed in the Blitz and has been painstakingly replaced over the years. That touch of chinoiserie, very 1920s . . . unless someone out there can tell me otherwise. It's pattern number 1113, if that helps.

This evening, when the house was quiet again, the Edinburgh Boy and I walked up the hill to look at the sheep and their Easter lambs:

and to look back down the hill in the soft, spring evening light:

and across the fields to the village:

Home.

Libertango

What can I have been thinking of? There has been too little music, far too little dancing and even less music for dancing here on 60 going on 16. And, yes, I am back to dancing, even if it's only around the kitchen, watched by perplexed dogs.

If you've been visiting for ages, you'll know how much I love both music and dance and sometimes, a fragment of music will have me up on my feet, especially if it's tango. A piece of music like this, the haunting Libertango by Astor Piazzolla.

But imagine, if you will, many, many more feet dancing to Libertango - because this video has received almost five million hits on YouTube. Yes, five million - imagine? It may be because the opening bars provided the soundtrack to a recent car advertisement. I'm not sure what this did for the car manufacturer's profits but I'd like to think that sales of Piazzolla's haunting music soared.

'Well-apparel'd April . . .'

So, despite all my good intentions, I have not managed to write a single post for ages. I've thought of any number of things to write about while walking with the dogs - and then failed to write about them. I couldn't quite work out why this was happening until I realised that it was due, in part, to the fact that I hadn't been taking my camera with me. A magnificent spring and I wasn't bothering to record it. 

And then I realised that I hadn't been taking my camera because I wasn't venturing far, no zipping around this beautiful county as I had in previous years as soon as spring arrived (petrol at crazy prices, energy still not quite what it was, etc etc). Who, I wondered would want to see photos that had more than a ring of familiarity  about them? Which is crackers, of course. Each day, each minute, each moment is different - as is each spring.

This week I gave myself a good talking-to and set out on the familiar track with newly-opened eyes.

It helped to have such delightful companions (this week's guests):

the elderly Westie

the youthful Patterdale Terrier

the splendid Flat-Coat Retriever - a veritable canine Mark Spitz

and his girlfriend the little lurcher-collie cross

and not forgetting the dear Edinburgh Boy.

Looking down, the riverbank is a two-mile carpet of celandines:

and one - yes, just one - small clump of wood anemones, which flower for only a few days

 

Looking up, a last glimpse of skeletal trees before they burst into leaf

The track home reminds me of France but, for once, I don't have my usual springtime itchy feet. This year it's just very good to be here. And to be well.