Day 10 – The cottage we are staying at was a pub in another life, or so I’ve been told. I look for historic information this morning, but can find nothing. The fog and cold has me beat, so I stay in with my guitar. Afterward, I spin some Leonard Cohen on the 1960’s phonograph. All this music fills the cellulose of the rafters to bond with hornpipes, jigs and shouts for more ale. I dig my favorite pen from my bag. Time for farewells. In the cemetery, Sylvia’s grave is more verdant that I imaged, the love for her a fierce flame. A blush rose has been speared into the soil, a coin half buried – totem or token? I drop my pen into an inverted terracotta pot, an earthen inkwell waiting to scribe a summer of snowdrops and lavender. At the White Lion, I finally get that minced beef pie and those electric orange carrots. Vicki, the bar keep, stokes the coals. We talk briefly about empty nests. “I’ve been to more rock concerts than a teenager!” she enthuses. I settle up using the card that has the photo of Joe and me atop Katahdin. “We are also fans of rock.” Our laughter floats to the ceiling and takes hold. Back at the cottage I do an interview for a publication via Skype and looking back at me is a long-time friend of one of our chicks who flew the coop. We are in a parallel universe where I am teenager and he, adult. I find he is a good one. It is time to sort and pack for Edinburgh. I sing a little melody while gathering. The tune reflects along the diagonal ceiling and seeps into the fertile beams now planted with red roses and flax. Farewell little cottage. Cheers and ta da.
West Yorkshire – Day 10 Cheers and ta da.
