Lunch today in our garden with my darling, under an arbor of fragrant, pink tea roses; a white platter on the glass table before us, piled with coral smoked salmon and green capers; ripe summer tomatoes and finely sliced red onion; slender wedges of lemon; parsley from the garden. Tiny brown-spotted quail eggs nestle in a basket lined with a white cloth. A breeze stirs the roses, sends their fragrance across our faces, mingling with the salty odor of salmon and capers. Thin slices of home-made sourdough bread, slathered with butter, slices of smoked salmon and a squeeze of lemon, hint at the sea with each bite. Crispy salad topped with a dressing made from a spoonful of Dijon mustard, a crushed garlic clove, vinegar from the vinegar pot, and spicy green olive oil, follows. Tasha, my dog, my old friend, sits beside us, polite but vigilant, waiting for whatever scraps we leave her.
Puffy clouds drift across a clear sky, while the garden stretches and sighs under the warming sun. The stone wall at the end of the garden, at least as old as our 17th century house, is strewn with pink roses against the red- violet of a bush aptly named "Grace". White climbing roses embrace the thick ropes looped along the wall, while spiky magenta, and white foxglove reach upward, sentinels for tender roses.
Some days are like this. Simple pleasures like preparing a meal, dining in the garden, watching the sun pull all nature towards itself, are suffused with the ineffable. It is peace.
- More Dorset –
- Northward bound—-