Your words remind me of the joy I felt with my first adult bike at 18, sweeping about the countryside. Dorset. Evenings.
I could not buy a car. I had no freedom then really & too scared to try.
Here we spell them tyres and glad for you they are coming.
My house is very old.
Full on day yesterday at Mill unpacking leather goods . The smell clings.
I needed help with my revulsion. The chamois and deer skins. She helped me and we became giggly despite the sadness.
Once again it is a pretty day and I have found that the tall plants are knapweed, and nearly flowered. The news plays on with out any good news . I am sure there is some, and I am sure it comes from the little things. they do not broadcast that,
I am pleased now with the not linen top described as linen. They gave me half my money back and it becomes a pyjama top. Loose and cool.
Your tales of your area and cold tea are of those words found in a novel. For me.
A surreal film. It has the makings of the sort I like, slow and determined.
The days move forward, we focus on the pleasantness mainly. We worry over the rest.
Now they play Elgar and I must get on with the day. Enjoy your new tires, your expeditions .