On a long drive yesterday, through valleys so deep and wooded Google maps lost us, we spotted an elderly man, in full hunting kit, complete with deerstalker, walking down a hill, walking pole in one hand, rifle in another. Mildly concerned for his own safety, we wondered to ourselves if he ever actually shot anything, or if the get-up was
an excuse a good reason for escaping a house full of visiting family. There was, no doubt, a nip of single malt from a hip flask to steady a hand, perhaps, and ease the nerves.
Below, a few snowdrops we gathered from a hillside on the same trip. Also picked the first wild garlic of the season which I have been eating with kale from the Stroud farmers market ever since. Delicious.
Milk bottle, for want of a better receptacle, from my Brixton days, I think. Am pretty sure it didn’t come from someone’s doorstep.
Both Stroud and Brixton were rated among the 30 coolest places in England by one of the papers recently. (There’s a paywall on the website – yes, it’s that paper, a copy of which I read most often in a sandwich shop – so I can’t link, unfortunately, to enable you to see if you, too, inhabit such esteemed territories.) Had better make sure the Harris Tweed and Hunters are at the ready. Expect the old man would be able to recommend an outfitters reassuringly oblivious to the hype.
Happy Easter, all.