Fields of gold

Getting used to being in my home, as a holiday location, has been diffilcukl but actually easier than I thought.
The sky is low and heavy but the temperature is warm and calm. The old mans back is getting better by the day, but the daughter is in the most frightful pain. She has a dead leg, cant do anything very much, walking ,breathing, writing, everything is a difficult negotiation. BUT we have the best people working on her and all being well by the weekend she will be standing up straight and feeling her foot again.
Not being able to heal her instanty is hard for me as I am Mrs. Fix-It. So it’s a lesson in patience for us all.

I did my work out in piano room. Jim was back-braced up and B was lying on the floor with an ice pack on her spine. As I sweated through my routine both of them watched me. Will they ever be able to work their bodies again? I trust they will..
Then I went for a walk. I am having to look at my environment differently. Get into the groove of living in a part of the country that others come on holiday to.
Down the hill and there was a golden field of wheat, or maybe corn or it could be oats. I’m really bad with my grains I’ll have to nick a stalk and get the old git to tell me what it is. The East End did not prepare me for farming crops.
The view was crystal clear today, even though the clouds were granite grey. Down through my field and left under the gate. I decided to slide onto the grass as opposed to climbing over the style, if I get injured that makes three of us out of commission
Walking through the outdoor persuit centre always makes me think of Canada. The trees are tall and very North American. The only sound was the wind rustling through the trees and chasing through the fields. It sounded like a thousand cicadas I stopped and listened to the oats/corn/wheat chattering in he breeze.
Climbers were climbing. A couple from Germany slowly edged their way up the sheer face, two from the Home Counties were roped together as they guffawed there way up to the summit. A pile of Northern gents with white beards stood, hand on hips, surveying their route, I half expected them to pull out a pint and sing a good old North country folk song. A party of tattooed, nut brown boys, hopped and skipped over the boulders, gave a whole new meaning to getting stoned By the time I got to the top of the hill I had got my heart rate up. Then past the ski slope, which was empty. Not a skier in sight, and then into the Avenue.
I marched up to my tree. I could barely see its trunk. I wove my way through the overgrown branches and my lipstick mark, long gone, was an indicator of how long it had been. I hugged it, kissed it, had a chat, shed a few tears, then waved good bye. I will get back everyday until I go back to work.
All in all its a time of recouping. If I can do anything to get the two broke-back babies back together I will. I am already working out where to go on holiday in the future, but today being in my home is A-OK something I would never have thought I would hear myself.
I’m off now to cook supper in my own kitchen. Now that can only be good….