Two Shelduck sun themselves on the edge of the field.
Trees, slowly donning their verdant summer-green coats, shelter the pair from the keen north wind and its wintery breath.
I walk beneath big Suffolk skies, in search of breakfast.
The tide is out at Pin Mill. The barges high and dry.
Long shadows play across the frontage of Alma Cottage, at the top of the slipway. Home to Arthur Ransome, when he wrote "We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea" and "Secret Water,"inspired by his surroundings. For some years the famous cottage's nameplate was removed, to deter tourists. It is good to see it back in its rightful place, above the door.
I press on up the hill, along the catkin hung lane, through the hamlet of Chelmondiston.
Vivid blue forget-me-nots nod in the verges . Unseen birds trill virtuoso solos, from dense hedgerows. One song ends then, after a considered pause, there comes a haunting reply, soaring and pure . A bicycle bell tings once . "Good Morning," the cyclist calls, as she freewheels by.
I emerge on the main street. Past the Corner House pub lies the village Post Office and General Store . Hollingworth's . Its wares spilling out onto the pavement. All things to all people. Within, a lively debate, concerning the merits of on-line ordering for specialist meat cuts, is underway. I duck committing to either side, by explaining that I am a lifelong vegetarian, load my rucksack with the last two granary loaves and depart.
Breakfast has become brunch, by the time I return to Stargazer, at Woolverstone. Hollingworth's granary bread toasts well.
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