hunting the deer

Summer's gone with calm days
Ungentle now is Biscay Bay
A cold fear claims my heart
God save all sailors from the cruel waves

Some years back there was a sailor who set off on a round the world race but didn't actually go round the world. He just sort of hung around the Atlantic for ages, sending off the occasional false position report relating to his imaginary voyage. I think he ended up killing himself, but I'm not sure about that bit.

Hum. As for my wonderful and adventurous summer holiday, it didn't exactly happen. A week after my falling-off-the-bicycle-while-reaching-for-a-conker incident, I got some quite severe pain in my chest, which was diagnosed as a broken rib. So we had a quiet time at home.

We had a little expedition to Warleigh Weir, one of K's absolute favourite places. But the rain we've been having lately had swollen the river to dangerous levels, and swimming was out of the question. When she saw this, K started crying. Sometimes life doesn't do what it says on the packet. I felt helpless.


...and we went hunting the White Hart of Coppett Hill, up in the Wye Valley. We'd spotted this as we canoed down the river, painted on a rock face high up on the hill, and I wanted to see what it looked like close to.
...didn't make it to the rock; too wheezy. But it was a nice place to walk in, and we saw a couple of real life deer and observed the sociable pooing habits of the local badger population. So it was a good expedition, in that it contained serendipity and unexpected stuff. And it didn't rain until we were back in the car.