The graveyard where the Village dead are buried is about two miles up the hills in a lofty spot overlooking the upper lake and the surrounding hills. This morning the birdsong was glorious with not a trace of the volcanic ash from Iceland. There was a great sense of peace as I picked a path around the headstones, recognising the names and being surprised at how young people were when they died. There was John, the alcoholic, Bart the suicidal schizophrenic, Sally who died of cancer in Scotland, TP, who was blown to bits by an IRA and Helen who died in a car accident in the Netherlands. What do they say? That as long as there’s someone alive who remembers you, then you are not dead at all. So, dear parents and friends, it was comforting to touch base with you again.
The last 10 days or so in the Village have been wonderful. The weather has been glorious and Alex and I had a good relax. The regret is that it’s such a long drive from the Piccadilly Line but the distance is a part of the peace.
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