Who was the person sitting by the beehives -
With a tub of apple and basil sorbet -
Breathing in the scent of lavender
and summer lilac -
Overcome by geranium envy -
It was me. On a visit to Virginia Woolf's Monk's House this afternoon.
Where I saw the port wine stain on the table that happened after EM Forster burned his trousers on the electric fire.
And completely understood why Virginia squabbled with her cook, once I'd seen how they must have lived in each other's pockets without a moment's privacy in that tiny house. It would have been like living with your mother-in-law in the next room.
It was a lovely afternoon.
The pub served cream teas.
I didn't miss the bus that only runs every two hours.
And the landscape looks exactly like this.