Fllying high

Over the Easter holiday we were at a family wedding. We stayed in the loveliest farm cottage overlooking Dartmoor. There were sheep. I have an odd talent for making animal noises (I know, not particularly useful). It rained a lot! So we were reduced to driving along the lane, baa-ing at the sheep, and trying to figure out what they might be saying in reply. GG insisted that my baas were declaring the deliciousness that is a Sunday leg of lamb. The sheep, unsurprisingly, were angry in their tone, or so she says.

Fortunately, there was also a swing set on site. We don’t have a swing at our house, and it is something I’ve often wanted to give the children. I was almost an only child, and I remember many happy (and not so happy) hours sitting on my swing, just being out of the house – the child equivalent of smoking a cigarette whilst pondering the roses. Contemplation, exhilaration, peace and quiet, or just plain switching off for a while. There is no weather that will stop her swinging, if swinging is an option.

Swing

 

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