Past the Roman amphitheatre, and the rolling ploughed fields. Up the hill to the farm, scattering chickens in the courtyard, and spooking the thoroughbreds in the paddock. Through the Palladian parkland, past the walled garden, to the remains of Francis Bacon's sixteenth century manor, that Elizabeth I criticised for 'being too small'. What still stands is a fraction of the original, but the ghost outlines of walls are still visible on the ground. I fell in love with this place the first time I came here. It has a unique atmosphere - a surprising warmth and grace. I've spent hours here, wandering, sitting, thinking. Even if I'm just passing - as I am today - I still feel the need to run up the steps to what would have been the front door. Just look at them - they demand it. Today I heard my first Christmas song in a shop. Paul McCartney - 'Wonderful Christmas Time'. Or as I prefer to call it 'Premature Christmas Time', given that it's November. Probably my fault for being in Hobbycraft. (Can't believe I'm admitting to having been in there. At least I was buying Plaster of Paris (cool). Not cup-cake decorations (lame).)
An old lady asked me to help her today - I had to zip her into her coat, like a toddler. She looked very stained and wild and shambolic. I rather suspect that she didn't actually need help with her zip, but she did need human contact. I'm glad that she chose to ask me - that she thought I might help, and I was given the chance to prove her right. (Did hold my breath as I was doing the zipping. I'm not Jesus.)
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