"[...] I am fighting - and losing - a battle against a longing to return to another time, another place. My head is full of David Copperfield. Barkis flicking at his horse as the cart makes its way, so slowly, along the dusty empty lanes, past the dog roses and the wild marshes, the scent of honeysuckle, and Peggotty emerging from a hedge, shaking off the pollen, the butterflies rising in clouds, Peggotty drawing sandwiches and cakes from her floury apron. And here too, of course, is Enid [Blyton]. Always Enid. In her little village under a lovely, clear blue sky. The jolly policeman calling out good day. The angler, dozing with his cider-filled basket by the bulrush-fringed pond. The ancient oak on the green. Wading through golden meadows, with cornflowers and poppies, foxgloves and scabious, the buttercups and the daisies, tansy and clover and the warm, sunlit aroma of wild thyme. Skylarks on high, the boom of the bittern. What is this? Where does it all come from? [...]"
From Footnotes: A Journey Round Britain in the Company of Great Writers by Peter Fiennes - of which more soon.
Dreamy.
Posted by: Emily | 13 January 2020 at 01:15 PM