At the hut, listening to evening birdsong, the plaintive bleating of sheep about to be shorn and distant traffic. It's a glorious, warm, sunny evening, the amber light spilling through fresh-leafed trees, ferns unfurled, chestnut flowers just starting to fade and elder about to froth forth. Drove down in the MG, top down, smugly aware of all the other irritable, sweltering drivers in their family wagons and repmobiles. There's something wonderfully liberating about driving a car with no roof in the sunshine. It makes motoring fun again rather than just a trip from A to B.
Rickie just texted me back to say they are at Bala. Having a cup of tea on the fire escape steps. There's a train whistle down in the valley and sun slowly slips up the hillside. Stone is warm to the touch, moss shrunken from lack of moisture and uncommon heat.
Next time I am at the hut it will be the tail end of the year, damp and dank and dying. How impossible all that seems on this fine evening, with all of summer's promise lying ahead.